pink pajama mama

Uncle Calvert, Calvy for short, came striding to our family gathering at the park with a huge smile on his moon-like face. His thinning black hair was slicked to one side and he was wearing a t-shirt sporting a pair of naked women’s breasts across his chest, causing all the adults at the party to break into laughter and all the teenage girls to stare in horror. Uncle Calvi’s laugh was deep and hoarse, like a smoker’s. And he always, always smelled like beer. This could have been his drinking habits, or it could have been his occupation.Uncle Calvi has been a bartender at Bully’s in San Diego for more than 40 years.I guess he was considered a hottie in his day. He hooked up with my best friend’s mother when she was a waitress at Bully’s back in the 60’s. My Dad loves to tell the story of Uncle Calvi’s prowess on the football field in high school, how he could have gone pro, but he was too violent.  He bashed in a fellow player’s head one day and was kicked off the team. Or he injured his knee, I get the story confused. In his later years, he dated Wanda, “Wonderful Wanda and her White Cadillac” as my family called her, delighting in the alliteration and Uncle Calvi’s scandalous ways.We visited him in San Diego when I was a teenager. As my parents and my sisters and I sat on his couch, Uncle Calvi slipped out of his sliding glass door to smoke. When he returned, he carried a potted plant. He had a delighted smile on his face as he triumphantly held it above his head, like a football player making a touchdown. “This is My baby,” he said, turning it around so we could admire it. “My marijuana baby,” he chuckled, sending my parents into uproarious and horrified laughter. I think that was probably the one and only time my parents had ever seen cannabis, and even though they’re church-going conservative Mormons, they thought my Uncle Calvi’s eccentricities hilarious. He was with Wonderful Wanda at this point. She laughed her husky smoker’s laugh too, shaking her long wiry dark hair, one hand perched on her hip, red nails on tight white pants.When I was little, I thought Uncle Calvi was cool because he let his daughter, Salina, have a horse and keep chickens. I’ve wanted a horse my whole life, so I was in awe of the beautiful doe-eyed Salina, who was worldly at 14 and ended up cutting her long dark hair into a mohawk a few years later and piercing one ear seven times when she became estranged from the family. But I still remember her mesmerizing sketches of horses and her gentle hands with her baby chicks, and how she brought a blind chick into the kitchen to show her father. She laid the fluffy baby chick on the table and Uncle Calvi used his thick calloused finger to trip the chick over and over again, laughing gleefully at his own cruelty. I still remember the sick feeling in my stomach as I watched. It had never occurred to me that someone might want to hurt something so small and helpless. And yet, violence is fairly routine in my mother’s family of excessive drinkers.I have no idea where Uncle Calvi even is these days. My brothers unknowingly happened to share a tee time with him one day in California not long ago. They vaguely recognized each other, chatted for a few minutes, and that was it. After my grandparents died, my relatives lost touch with each other for the most part. It was for the best–they had become a scary bunch. But sometimes I think about Uncle Calvi with his few wispy black hairs and his big round head and I imagine him lying on his pillow sleeping and I hope he’s found peace and that his dreams are sweet.

The other day, my 72-year-old father told me he wants to get his chest and back waxed. “What? Are you crazy? Do you know how much that will hurt? You look fabulous just the way you are!” I replied.”My hell, Marci, I should be living in a tree eating bamboo!”My Mom took the phone from him and said, “Marci, you should have seen what he looked like when I married him. He was a golden adonis with no hair ANYWHERE on his body!”Oh boy, I was hoping by the age of 72 I would have gotten off of this crazy carousel of vanity swirling around me. At 41, I’m already relieved that I can just be myself with no pretense for trying to look, act, or be sexy. I look around me and see women on the endless and relentless treadmill of botox, plastic surgery, workouts and diets, and I think there’s got to be more important things to spend time and energy on!And yet, I can’t help but be sucked in. I’ve been on one diet after another since my body was pretty much destroyed with my pregnancies. On one hand, I embrace my imperfections. My body shows the after-effects of bringing two beautiful beings into the world. I’m proud of my body, amazed by my body, and yet, I’d like to be toned and thin and be able to eat whatever I want with no exercise. I’d like my breasts to shrink back to a D, my body to shrink back to a size 4.But alas, it’s wishful thinking for now. I’m a mother of two young children–I have to be peppy and cheerful. There’s no room in my life for the grumpiness that comes along with dieting. I can’t prioritize exercise since I want to be with my children. No, the world will just have to live with my mushy mama body, my DD breasts, my muffin top and jiggles.We went out to dinner at a restaurant where the servers are all opera singers whose voices make me weep in the middle of my Penne Arrabiata. I walked into the ladies room there and found an intriguing painting–it looked like an old cameo of a beautiful victorian woman, but she was a skeleton and it said “Tis all vanity.” Indeed.Why do I struggle so with vanity? I am about to turn 41, and I am so thrilled to be able to release vanity. It’s a relief to be comfortable exactly as I am, to not feel like I want to be sexy, dress sexy, act sexy.And yet, I looked at my legs this morning while stretching in my living room and thought “Who’s legs are those? Surely not mine?! Mine are lean and tanned and toned!” This is where my reverse anorexia comes into play. I feel good. I stand behind my yoga teacher when I make it to class and I think I look like her. I’m always shocked when I catch a glance of myself in a mirrored building. What? Who is that chunky matronly woman? And there I go again! Feeling the ever-tugging pull of vanity. I wave at someone and I feel the undersides of my arms move! What the hell is happening to me!! I made my living off my body for years. It has served me well. But what is going on now? Do I have a few more years left in me for bikinis? Or is it time to hang up my strings and go for the tummy control tankini? Or do I just join the hordes of women who just don’t care, who let their muffin tops hang over their suits and say “To hell with it!” There has to be a happy medium. I suppose it all boils down to feeling good in your body–feeling strong and flexible and capable…For example the last time I went water skiing I popped up on one ski on my first try. I felt so strong and fabulous! And now, I’m more flexible then I’ve been in years, able to do headstands and sit in the splits for long periods of time. And it feels REALLY good!! So I guess I just keep going, feeling good even thought I could stand to flatten my belly and tighten up everything. But maybe that’s gravity and age. I no longer skinny dip–I chunky dunk. And maybe, just maybe, one day all the jiggles will melt of their own accord and presto! I’ll be the new improved me!In the meantime, my parents and I have been talking a lot about zombies lately. I did a paper on the theme of zombies in Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys at UCLA and my Mom recently read a book about zombies so we’ve had lot’s of fascinating conversations. My Dad wrote to me the other day after his high school reunion: “If you’re in doubt about zombies being real, you have only to look at my high school reunion group photo! Yikes!” Well, if the quest for vanity never ceases, at least I can keep my sense of humor.

A baby dragon was born in my living room this morning. “Mommy, come see!” Henry said, leading me by the hand in his red Spiderman underwear. He led me to the side of the couch and held out his hand like a showgirl on The Price is Right. “A baby dragon just hatched out of its egg!”

“Oh wow!” I said. “How cute!”

Henry nodded proudly and scooped up the invisible guy. “He’s so small I can hold him in one hand!” he said, walking carefully with his hand cupped in front of him. He shows it to George. “Look Daddy! A baby dragon hatched!” George says “Oh look how little! But I hope he doesn’t breathe fire on you!”

“Dad! Baby dragons only breathe fire when they SNEEZE! They don’t breathe it!” Duh Dad!

This is Henry’s favorite game—Baby. He has a menagerie of babies—baby unicorns, baby T-Rex’s, baby horses, and baby dragons. They are always so small they fit in one hand, and he loves for other people to hold them. He takes very good care of them, walking carefully, cupping his hand around them for long periods in the car, an air of importance around him. He’s very busy, taking care of all his babies.

“You’re such a good daddy,” I say. “What lucky babies!” He nods at me solemnly. They are indeed lucky, as we all are in this household, to be surrounded by magical creatures. For weeks nearly all of them were named Micheal and occasionally one was named Jane. Now that we are reading Harry Potter before bed they all bear the name of Hedwig.

“Do you want me to draw a picture of your dragon?” Annabelle asks. Henry says yes and she’s off to her art area, sketching and coloring in a dragon. “He’s black!” Henry yells from the other room. She switches from green colored pencils to black to accommodate Henry. One of Annabelle greatest loves, right behind swimming, dancing, and theater is  drawing. Her output is shocking. She’ll often make five pictures in one day. And they’re amazing! She draws princesses and witches and woods and oceans and sand. She is proud of the fact that she was born in Salem, home to many witches. She and Henry argue over who is more magical—she of the Salem witch blood or Henry who says he has Voodoo blood in his head because he was born in New Orleans, and wizard blood in his body. The other day he donned his knight helmet and breastplate of “armor” and Annabelle put on a golden cape and a crown and they went out on the lawn and had a fight. They choreographed it so Annabelle would win. She pretended to hit him and kick him and Henry would dramatically fall to the ground and roll. It was brilliantly entertaining. When they’re not having wizard fights, they’re dancing.

Tonight Annabelle put on a slinky shirt that was given to me that I had thrown into the dress-up basket. It fit Annabelle perfectly as a little salsa dress with a flouncy skirt and leotard look. She pulled her hair back in a bun, asked me to turn on a waltz, and proceeded to waltz, tango and cha-cha with Henry around the living room, grabbing his hand and turning in and out. He rolled his eyes but was a great sport, holding her hands and letting her shine. They danced until it was to go out to dinner. We asked Henry if he wanted the risotto fritters and he said, “Yes, I want the critters.” He and Annabelle played on the sand while the sun set while we waited for our food. Everytime a seagull landed on the beach carrying a crab in its beak, Henry chased off the seagull and stood guard over the crab until a grown-up came along and threw the crab back in the water. He said he was the crab “rescuer.”

When we got home tonight, it was time to put the baby dragons to bed. Henry finds the perfect places for them to sleep—tissue boxes, pillow case pockets, Daddy’s Gucci loafers. He covers them with soft tissues and kisses them goodnight.

And then George and I read Harry Potter and snuggle with him and Annabelle as they fall asleep. It’s a beautiful life, dragons and all…

We decided to visit the nonfiction children’s section of the West Tisbury library today just to mix things up. Henry wanted a book on Superman, and it occurs to me that we weren’t able to find it because any books on the caped crusader would have been in fiction, but in any case, we filled our book bags with as many books as we could carry. I love introducing the kids to Picasso and Georgia O’Keefe and Jazz musicians, so when we got home for our cozy read-a-thon ( a read-a-thon is when you pull out blankets and pillows on a covered porch in the rain or in front of the fire and load up on snacks with a stack of books and READ!!! They were my favorite days in Elementary School) I pulled out a book with an amazing cover called “I Am Marc Chagall.” We opened it up and were captivated by the illustrations. The story itself? Let me tell you how interested a 3 year old and a 6 year old are by the Russian revolution. After our read-a-thon, we decided to have a dance party. We watched some professional ballroom dancers for inspiration, and one of the ladies had a costume that started out as a shirt but unrolled into a skirt. Annabelle said “It’s a cape!” and Henry said, “It’s a butt cape!” And it really was a butt cape. Henry then taught me a dance he invented he calls “I-shock.” It’s kind of a slow motion martial arts style dance with the occasional sharp quick karate leap. He’s very particular about the movements and I often do it wrong. But he corrects me, in slow motion, and we keep going. And the rain started to fall and the air turned cold so we brought in all our flowers from the porch and put them on a towel and now our kitchen is more beautiful than ever, covered in lush flowers. And I wish I could slow these days down to slow motion, they’re so perfect…

Today when we left the beach, Henry was hungry and tired and cranky and as he dragged his little feet through the sand, he said, “Mom? You are a pain in the ass!”Out of the mouth of babes! I explained to him that “pain in the ass” is a “grown-up” phrase, meaning only big people can use it. I demonstrated other phrases he could use instead such as “pain in the neck,” but if he really wanted to say something cranky to his Mom, he could say “I love you most beautiful queen of the universe.” This made him laugh through his disgruntled pout, and if he hadn’t dropped his tiny broken brown seashell in the sand, we may have even avoided the late day meltdown of tears, resulting in plopping ourselves down in the powdery sand, right in the middle of the pathway, and foraging through the snack bag for something to make Henry feel better.When we got home later, our 6-year-old neighbor and his Dad popped by for a surprise visit. Dad decided to make himself at home and polish off a bottle of Jack Daniels, while the little boy and Annabelle and Henry got out the thick nubbly art paper and glitter glue. I ran around the house trying to make it look less like the aftereffects of a tornado, and Annabelle came into the kitchen. “Mom? I forgot to say Oh Boy!” she said, holding out one finger covered in glitter glue. “What did you say instead,” I asked. “Oh fuck” she replied.Alrighty then little thumbelina!!My tiny sweet graceful girl has taken to swearing like a sailor, even better, in front of the neighbor child, who will go home with all sorts of new phrases. “I won’t say it again,” she said, and went to find a towel to wipe the glitter off her finger.I guess I knew it was coming. Whenever she was frustrated today she said “fu” like she hears me say, but usually I drag out the “u” sound and tack a “j” sound onto the end, making “fudge.” I guess I’m fooling no one. I told her that children don’t say “fu” and she said ok. Henry immediately picks up anything I say not to say, so he grinned at me and started saying “fu-fu-fu-fu” over and over again. He’s a master of causing trouble, and even better at barely eluding it. He knows he’s not allowed to say “stupid” so he calls people “supid,” his own brilliant way of avoiding a naughty word. He also called our little neighbor “supid”, and when the poor child told me Henry was saying the naughtiest word of all–”stupid”–Henry could deny it with a clear conscience.Should I be scared or impressed by his ingenuity?I don’t like to put a stigma on words the kids say because I don’t want words to carry that extra power that naughtiness gives. Kids are too attracted to forbidden pleasures, so I hope that if I don’t react but just make clear those are grown-up words, they won’t repeat them too often.When I was 20, I drove my rattly VW bus to teach preschool in Salt Lake City and  I had 35 3-year-olds in my class. One boy, I’ll call him Dave, had a blonde mullet and that little cocky posture particular to dirt bikers in Utah. Dave was a master of troublemaking, and one day, he took off his shirt and was running in circles around the classroom. My co-teacher, Penny, told him to put it back on and he shouted “Fuck you!” loud enough for the entire classroom, adults and children alike to come to a standstill with one collective gasp. This great moment of drama was enough to ignite a frenzy of cursing and it took some time and some ignoring to take the power of the word away before everyone settled down.It was with this in mind that I reacted to Annabelle announcing at dinner last night that cleaning the windows of the playhouse was a “pain in the ass.” (I’m sure this is where Henry heard the phrase to repeat to me today.) George and I looked at each other across the table and George, who has a very hard time keeping a straight face around the kids, burst out laughing. This is never a good tactic when you’re trying to disempower something a child says. If you laugh, they will want to repeat whatever they just said or did to make you laugh again. Luckily, I pointed out to Annabelle that “pain in the ass” is not a kid’s phrase and she said “ok Mommy” with a smug delighted smile on her face.And so, as I navigate the waters of parenthood, rowing the river of right and wrong but never wanting to squelch creativity, I find that rather than make a blanket statement that certain words are bad or naughty, I’ll just calmly inform the kids that there are certain things that belong to the realm of grown-ups, and when they grow up, they will be part of their world.And so tonight, when Annabelle fell off her bike and said “Damn it!” I just stayed neutral and she quickly looked at me and corrected herself. “I mean, oh boy!”Out of the mouths of babes!

Today was what we, in Babyworld, would call “a doozy.” I was baking away as usual and Annabelle became entranced by the container flour on the table. She ran to her own little kitchen and pulled out her little pots and pans and started mixing away. I figured it would be messy,  but I was happy she was getting some tactile stimulation–usually she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty. A few minutes I glance behind me and she is covered in flour from head to toe, including two handmarks on her cheeks and her pink princess underwear bulging with flour. She starts giggling maniacally (thank goodness Henry was sleeping and couldn’t join in the hijinks!) and takes off running through the house, delighting in the trail of powdery footprints she’s making all over the hardwood floors. A few seconds later, she’s grabbing handfuls of flour and throwing them against the wall, in her baby stroller, and into Daddy’s shoes. “Daddy’s going to love the powder I put in his shoes!” she shouts as she grabs another handful and flings it against the wall. I’m laughing so hard, there’s no way I can stop her, and so I resign myself to spending the afternoon cleaning it up. How hard can it be I ask myself?Ha! Have you ever tried to sweep up flour on hardwood floors? It just multiplies? And if you add water? It makes paste. Yes, now all the cracks in my gleaming hardwood floor are filled with flour paste. The cucurachas will be pulling out their maracas and having a fiesta tonight! And my whole body aches from the hour I spent on my knees trying to clean it up.This was followed by Henry insisting on wearing Annabelle’s white ruffled turtleneck under his overalls  and walking up to me with his big eyes and enormous cheeks, staring at me for a minute before reaching out one chubby hand to smack me across the face. This followed by Annabelle climbing on me like I’m a jungle gym. This followed by a nature walk to try to redirect some wild energy.We’d already spent the morning getting into costumes and partying at Gym Rompers. Henry refuses to wear a costume so he went as a cowboy in his underwear, wearing his striped longjohn pajamas tucked into Annabelle’s pink cowgirl boots (this is his favorite morning outfit every day) and I just added a red cowboy hat. Annabelle told me that after Halloween would come “Sanksgiving” as I dressed her up like Cinderella in her puffy dress and light-up shoes.No wonder I’m comatose tonight. What a day!

Ah this endless battle–to create, to accomplish, to achieve, to write, dance, sing…and the impossibility of doing any of this when all your energy goes into being a mom, a wife, keeper of home and hearth.  I make this my art, but I feel so much pressure to actually do something more tangibly valuable. Mothers are so undervalued in our culture, underappreciated, underpaid, it takes an iron will to hold steady.I read something today that inspired me: how does the individualist find dignity and purity in a plastic culture and a polluted world? And I think about this and I think, simplicity, nature, in the smell of the earth after it rains,  in watching my three-year-old run through the sprinklers in his pajamas after bedtime as the fog rolls in, in joining Annabelle and Henry’s pots-and-pans marching band, where Henry says there are no clothes allowed, only diapers and rainboots, in the beauty of feeling George quietly take my hand as I sit on the porch surrounded by trees, hearing only the occasional bird as they bed down for the night, in a good bottle of wine, rosy cheeks and lively conversation, in the feel of tiny soft pudgy hands grabbing my cheeks every night and saying “you’re the best mommy in the whole world,” in a trip to the library on a rainy day and the distinct satisfaction of a kind librarian stamping the back of each book, in running my hands along the rough edges of my lavendar granite sink, in feeling the power and stability of walking on the rocks in Menemsha and wishing they could talk and tell me their stories, we do love a good story around here, in the sound of the sea bell clanging its mournful song…

My mother would make a brilliant scientific study–this is a 72-year-old woman in perfect health who has pretty much lived on candy and dessert her entire life. You may think I jest, but let me give you an example. She came to help me out when I had my second baby. My first baby had just turned two and never tasted candy. The first thing my Mom did when she got in the car was give my toddler a bag of gummy sharks. When my husband told her Annabelle didn’t even have the right amount of molars to chew such a thing, coupled with the fact that we didn’t give her candy, my Mom was awestruck. “Wow, you’re really serious about this candy thing,” she said.Yup. As long as I have control over what goes in my children’s mouths, it will not be candy. My mom, however raised us on candy. We were the envy of the neighborhood children with our kitchen full of candy jars. Dirty kids with long stringy hair would come to our sliding glass door, shield their eyes form the glare with their hands over their eyebrows, and try to catch a glimpse of our candy jars. It was a bit creepy.Cavities were par for the course when we visited the dentist, but no dental visit was complete without a beeline straight to the drive-thru for a milkshake. On the same visit to help me with the baby, my husband asked my Mom what she might want from the store. “Oh, just some little cookies,” she said, not missing a beat on the rocking chair. She had come to help with my toddler, but ended up holding my newborn in the rocking chair for hour upon hour being waited on hand and foot by me. It was like having three children.All these years have finally taken a toll on my Mom and her stomach is just not what it used to be. For years we have all marveled at her “iron stomach.” This is a woman who could sit in the back seat reading a book and munching on cookies as we drove the winding roads of the Redwood forests while the rest of us turned green and hung our heads out the window. This is a woman who wore a red bouffant wig and black go-go boots and piled her six children into her orange VW bus every Sunday for church. This is a woman who, at 72 years old, still has peaches and cream skin, big brown eyes, thick black lashes, and looks at least 15 years younger. This is a woman who told me that my 10-month-old baby girl was too pale and I should put a little blush on her cheeks.This is a woman who has finally met her match–an aging stomach. She recently got a blood test and was floored to find out she had food intolerances to almonds and wheat and flour and gluten. She spoke to me over the phone in amazement. “You wouldn’t believe it–everything has flour in it!?!”I told her that if she went to a health food store she could find gluten-free cookies.  She said,, “Yes, but they’re too expensive! Can you believe, even those little cookies, what are they called? The little round ones–vanilla wafers! Even they have flour in them!”Yes Mom, I would immediately assume with any food intolerances vanilla wafers would be the first to go.And so I hear she is shrinking smaller and smaller. She was already getting smaller from walking on her treadmill. She started doing pilates last year and said this is the first time in her life she has muscle tone. “Wow, this exercise thing really works!” she told me in amazement one day.Yes, so that’s my Mother. It took her 72 years to figure out that exercise is a positive thing and cookies are not. Will I miss all the cookie jars filled with gummy sharks around her house? Will I miss the jar containing 2 year-old yogurt-covered pretzels? (They still taste good!) Will I miss her constant experimenting with which salty food tastes best with Junior Mints? Almonds or peanuts or cashews? Will I miss her long distance calls to my friends to tell them her latest Junior Mint discovery?Now I’m waiting for her to realize that real foods have a shelf life. She doesn’t cook anymore so when I went through her spices to find some cinnamon, I was shocked to see an old jar labeled with masking tape that said “mole.” “Mom? What is this?” I asked her. “Oh, Lupe gave that to me.”"Grandma Lupe? Mom, Grandma Lupe died more than 20 years ago! Spices don’t last that long!”"Of course they do! Spices don’t wear out!”"Mom, I get rid of my spices if they’re more than a year old.”She grabbed it out my hand. “I like these spices, she gave them to me.” And she put them back in her cupboard where they sit to this day.I am consistently awestruck by my Mother and her amazing diet. She loves it when I come to visit because she says it’s the only time she eats vegetables. I called her today to see how she was doing. She was in the car with my father going to get a Diet Pepsi and then a frappucino. For some reason, her blood test didn’t tell her she was intolerant to soda pop and coffee milkshakes.By gummy shark or frappucino, that sugar will find its way into her system. I think she’s lived on preservatives and sugar for so long her system has been permanently preserved. And if that’s the case, all the better for us to keep her around forever, gummy sharks and all.

Letter to Times Picayune

As my daughter just entered Kindergarten in New Orleans, I recently took a tour of several schools in the area. I was appalled! Most of the schools I toured were upscale private schools, the best education New Orleans has to offer, and yet unhealthy environments for young children. The kindergartens were full of plastic clutter, sugary foods, and media. The teachers showed me the “worksheets” the children would be doing for homework during the year. Worksheets? Computers? Homework? For 5 year olds? Freeplay time in each classroom was minimal at best, and even the playgrounds were devoid of developmentally appropriate natural play apparatus—no trees to climb, no logs to balance on, no flowers to smell, no gardens to cultivate, no water to splash in.

According to the Unicef Innocenti Report on child well-being in the richest countries, the U.S. ranks as one of the lowest on education. I found this report shocking as I thought we would rank highest. It turns out Sweden and the Netherlands are actually the highest, and it turns out their education system is vastly different from our own. It is typical there to teach children letters and reading beginning at the age of 7. In the U.S. we expect children to know their letters BEFORE entering kindergarten (that’s 4 years old!) and to be able to read somewhat by the end. And our literacy rates are sadly lacking behind many other countries!

Why is this? Child development experts in America and around the world have come together to form different organizations to address this issue, such as the Alliance for Children in the U.S. The Alliance for Children has found that young children thrive the strongest and learn the most when they have a lot more free playtime, time to explore a natural environment, and a lot less pressure to “perform” in school.

I remember my kindergarten days. We were in class from 9-11 and that included a long recess. It was our first exposure to school, and kindergarten served as that magical transitional place from home to school. Kindergarten was fun. There were no electronics in the classroom, no tv, nothing that would encourage us to be sedentary. According to child development experts, young children learn best through their body movement and senses, neither of which a screen can provide. We baked, played dress-up, pulled each other in the wagon, and painted rocks. It was a magical time that instilled a vibrant curiosity and a lifelong love of learning. According to educational experts, testing kindergartners and giving them homework can be detrimental to their health—mentally, emotionally, physiologically, and of course have a negative impact on their future in school. Kindergartners typically go to school in NOLA from 8-3:30pm! Between school and meals, extra curricular activities and early bedtimes, when do they get the chance to just play? To explore in nature like we did as children? Shouldn’t we be taking cues from the countries with the strongest educational system and highest literacy rates, and let children have this once-in-a-lifetime chance to just relax and be children?

I completed my Master of Education at Harvard in 2002, and there I learned about the model school run by Leo Tolstoy in the 1800’s, Yasnaya Polyana. His emphasis on a nature-based curriculum and holistic style of education led me to the Waldorf educational methodology, and I was lucky enough to find one here—the Waldorf School of New Orleans. It is the closest to what I was hoping to find when I embarked on my search for the perfect kindergarten. The classrooms are breathtakingly beautiful using soothing colors and beautiful all-natural toys like silks, wool, and wood. There is no plastic, clutter, or garish colors. The simple open-ended toys are displayed in an inviting way, not just thrown into a plastic bin. The playground is all grass with a wooden house with a tree stump for a table, a jungle gym, and different garden beds for the different classrooms to tend to. The classrooms always smell like something delicious—they bake a lot and serve warm healthy snacks to the children. Instead of saltines or vanilla wafers for snacks, Waldorf children get warm oatmeal with cinnamon, raisins and honey, rice, or vegetable soup with freshly baked bread—baked by the children! The lunch tables are wooden with tiny hand-carved wooden chairs. There are tablecloths and centerpieces, and a stunning nature table full of flowers and acorns, rocks and fairies, reflecting the season. The Waldorf philosophy begins teaching letters in first grade, so kindergarten is a magical time of fairy tales and gardening, baking and finger knitting, beautiful wooden block building and enchanting silk puppet shows. The individual interests of the children are allowed to bloom and unfold on their own time, creating an environment of confidence and creativity, innovation and innocence.

And I knew I had found the right place for our family–a place where I knew my child was allowed to be a child, to live in her naturally dreamy early childhood state and to not be pushed into stressful academic situations before being developmentally prepared for it.

My hope is that more kindergartens in New Orleans will pay attention to the worldwide best practice research and slow down their curricula to a developmentally appropriate pace. My hope is that every 5 year old will be able to experience the wonder and magic of early childhood, stress-free, for optimal development and the best quality of life.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was hungry to connect with other mothers so I read every magazine and article on pregnancy and parenting I could find. What I took away from this information is that parenting is hard, grueling, exhausting, and scary. This left me unprepared for the complete undescribable joy I felt when Baby Annabelle arrived. When I held that baby in my arms, even before knowing if it was a girl or boy, I was so overwhelmed with love and awe all I could say was “You’re perfect!” over and over again. I couldn’t believe the complete and absolute miracle of giving birth, that this little human body was formed inside my own body, and now I would get to spend the rest of my days being a mother. I had wanted to have a drug-free birthing experience. I figured this was the most powerful thing I would ever experience as a woman and I wanted to be fully present. I also realized that I was being transformed into a parent, it was a ritual by fire. But I came out with a deep understanding of what I was willing to do for this child. Due to complications, I did end up having an epidural, but at that point, I no longer cared. I realized someone else was captain of my ship now, it was no longer about me. And the complete ecstasy I felt when I held this tiny naked being in my arms was overwhelming! I’d never felt such love, such pure boundless joy. Love for her, love for the whole world… just love washing over me in huge waves. I don’t know if it was the oxytocin from breastfeeding or the after effects of the epidural, but I felt high for months after giving birth.

And sleep? What’s that? Who cares! I have a baby!! Coherent sentences?? What are those? Who cares? I have a baby! Getting out my sweats and ugg boots, a good look at all times, nope, I was warm, comfy, and carefree. Vomit away baby! I’m here for you! To be completely honest, in my deepest most secret heart, I didn’t find parenting to be hard or grueling or any of those things the magazines warned me about. The ecastasy just wouldn’t stop. I wondered why none of the books or magazines talked about post-partum euphoria. I kept the baby right next to me all the time and lived my bliss. She never cried, I never cried, and I have no idea if we ever slept. We were truly floating along in our very own ocean of love. When she was hungry, I fed her, when she was wet I changed her, when she wanted to play we played, when she wanted tranquility, I gave her that too.

The day she was born, the nurse told me to let her cry, that she needed to learn to “self-soothe.” This went against every instinct I have. I told her, “This baby lived inside my body for the past year, there’s no way I’m going to let her cry. She doesn’t need to self-soothe, she has me to soothe her!” A few days later, the town pediatrician told me I should give the baby a pacifier and let her cry for at least five minutes before feeding her. Okey Dokey Attila the Hun. That’s just what I’m going to do, stick a piece of plastic in my baby’s mouth and let her cry even though I have the ability to comfort her. Never! Whether she’s 2 days old or 60 years old, I’m not the type of parent who can let her child cry. It’s stressful for me, besides teaching her that she’s not important enough to me to meet her needs. What would that do for her self-worth? I actually studied “attachment parenting” at Harvard. We learned that when a baby cries and no one responds, the baby can become ‘disassociative.” This means the baby will stop crying because she knows nobody will respond anyway, and it’s a very dangerous place for a baby to be. Learning at an early age that you can’t trust your caregivers can have dangerous repercussions for the rest of baby’s life. Remember that baby is learning more from Day one than we, as adults, can comprehend. Her neural connections are on turbo speed right now, and will be for the next five years. If her needs are not met, this can cause her neural pathways to connect in a “disorganized” ways paving the way for anti-social and possibly dangerous behavior in her teen and adult years. In addition to the cognitive damage that can be done, baby is releasing stress hormones when she cries. This means that all her energy is going into crying instead of optimal development. I know many of us have been taught the “cry it out” method of parenting. “They’re strengthening their lungs! Their learning they can’t always get their own way! If you pick that baby up, you’ll spoil her, she’ll become clingy.” Maybe, but according to research, there is no truth in these words.

Quite the opposite is true! Attachment research tells us that babies who’s needs are met actually grow up feeling very safe and secure, so they’re actually MORE independent and self-reliant when they get older. They feel safe enough to explore away from their caregiver, knowing they can trust and depend on their caregiver should the need arise. This is a wonderful foundation to give your child. I meet many parents who are confused about how to raise their child to be the healthiest. They want them to be self-reliant, independent, confident, kind and successful. According to best practice research, your best chance at this is through attachment parenting. And best of all, it goes with your instinct! No more stress and anxiousness as you listen to your beautiful bundle of joy wail. Pick that baby up, put her in a sling, and go about your business. You can shower—bring baby in, put her in a safe place, then play peek-a-boo with the shower curtain. Baby will love it! You can exercise—put baby in her stroller or strap her to your chest and relish the fact that you’re getting an even better workout with the extra weight.

Some things will have to be put on the back burner for a while with a new baby. You may not feel comfortable leaving your baby, especially if you’re nursing on demand and baby doesn’t take a bottle. I have one word for this dilemma—surrender! Surrender into this time! Cherish every moment, because it won’t last forever. Soon enough you’ll be back drinking margaritas by the sea with your girlfriends, but for now, just revel in being Mom. Revel in those tiny clothes as you fold 30 socks no bigger than your hand, and remember what an honor it is to care for another human being. Surrender to the sacred beauty of parenthood. When Baby waked you in the night to eat or be comforted, don’t resent her, cherish these moments. Drink them in. It is such an honor to have this little being turn to you for food, for comfort. Sing her a soft lullaby and know that this precious time will end. Sooner than you want to realize, baby will be all grown-up, and out of the house. Take this time and let her know you’re there for you. She can trust you to comfort her when she’s sad or angry. She can depend on you for her needs, that she is safe and secure and perfect, just as she is.

Surrender into the beautiful dialectic that is parenting—pouring all your love over the beautiful head of your baby, supporting and nurturing them as she grows, all the while knowing that someday you’ll be letting her go. Nothing can change the wisdom that comes from the transformative ritual of birth—you were a woman, but now you are a mother, now and forever. Nothing can take that away. It is a badge of honor, so be proud to walk in the footsteps of all the thousands of women before you who have chosen this path. And remember that parenting is a sacrifice, a beautiful deeply meaningful sacrifice. In today’s time, we don’t get to experience too many deeply transformative rituals anymore, and we don’t get to really sacrifice very often, so drink this experience in.