pink pajama mama

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!

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.

Cathy and I took Henry and Annabelle to the French Quarter today to watch the Stella shouting contest that is the climax of the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival. I’ve always wanted to attend, but have never made it, but today was the perfect day–no humidity, no extreme heat–crisp air, a brilliantly sunny day–no clouds, blue sky–incredible day in New Orleans. We looked at the street artists–we liked the mermaids–and had beignets at Cafe Du Monde. We climbed and played and got balloon animals and the babies got their faces painted. Henry was a wolf boy, Annabelle was a butterfly.Stella stood in a retro slip on the balcony of a Pontalba apartment while a group of aspiring Stanleys geared up to shout their hearts out, fall to their knees, while tearing their shirts. Soooo funny I was crying! Most of the contestants were guys who had too much to drink and happened to be walking by the contest. One was a woman dressed as a pirate carrying a chihuahua, one was a woman dressed as a clown. It’s the end of pirate week in New Orleans–only in New Orleans. And this is why I love New Orleans.I couldn’t help but wonder what the kids thought as they watched these grown men act out this scene. I knew it would start cropping up in their play, and sure enough, on the way home, Henry started shouting Stella from his car seat and pretending to tear at his shirt. I can’t stop laughing around here. 

OK, I elect two year old Henry as messiest toddler of the year. This afternoon, he was eating a chocolate ice cream cone which is only allowed in the kitchen. I saw him through the crack of the door toddling down the hall with his cone. I watched him drop it upside down, squat down to pick it up, but then change his mind and get down on all fours where he promptly began eating it like a puppy. I was brushing my teeth, so I continued, realizing I’d just have to clean it up in a minute. When I re-emerge, he says, “Mama, I’m ice skating!” And he is. He’s ice skating through a large patch of melted smooshed ice cream which now covers him from forehead to toes, including between his adorably pudgy toes. He has smeared chocolate ice cream all over the walls as he’s hanging onto the wall and it’s all over his hands.After I clean up him and that mess, I hear a big ruckus in the hallway as I’m putting Annabelle’s hair in a ponytail. Next thing I know, he’s dumped out a paper bag full of books in the hallway and is stumbling into the bathroom with the bag on his head.He is our little hero though. The other morning Annabelle saw a roach down near the front door. She came running back up to me and said, “Mama! Mama!! I saw a real cucuracha!! I feel like I ate butterflies!”Henry was playing quietly by himself, but as soon as he heard her, he was off to the rescue. A few minutes later I heard him shout “I dot it mama!!”  ”You got what?” I replied.”I dot the bug!”I ran down the stairs and sure enough he had killed this giant hard shelled prehistoric creature WITH ANNABELLE’S TINY PINK CROC that must weigh less than an ounce!! I have no idea how he did this. When George gets them, he uses his own giant shoe and smacks it about 10 times. Not Henry, he used a tiny little pink shoe.This of course sent Annabelle into hysterics and I had to spray her shoe with antibacterial spray. Always an adventure around here! 

Henry awakened me asking to nurse “fo one minute.” I said no, he kept asking, so I raised the two-finger tickle monster who said, “Sh!” over and over again until it reached Henry’s tummy and he collapsed in giggles. This went on for a while, and Henry kept asking, so finally Dr. Pinky came out and said, “No nursing! You’re too big! Nursing is for babies.” Henry said, “Dat pinky can’t talk! He doesn’t have a mouth!”Yes, thats why Dr. Pinky can’t talk.  I can’t believe Henry still nurses at his size! He’s 35 pounds! Poor little boo scraped his knees and feet today on the brick driveway running from the hose. He wanted to be held like a baby chimp the rest of the day. We had a magical day. We wenwt to toddler time at the Longue Vue Mansion–what an inspiring garden! I got so many ideas for my yard this summer! I loved the wisteria arbor, the jasmine trellis with digging for worms underneath, the sweet pea tepees… Henry immediately went for the beach balls and after we played a gleeful game of soccer with those, he watered the flowers with a spray bottle, occasionally turning to spray me. After this, he dragged a wagon of logs or “firewood” into the middle of the clearing and laid them all out end to end in a curving design, saying he was building a fire. This was followed by digging for worms. It’s an amazing experience to kneel in the rich dark soil with your son and look at the first real worm he’s ever seen together! The little worm raised its head as if to say “how do you do?”Henry loved this! He was afraid when they started to wiggle with gusto. We moved onto picking and eating sweet peas, which he refused to try, and then to the lemon trees and all the sweet smelling herbs. henry especially loved the bamboo tunnel, the twisted tree, and the story and song about bears and hibernation. We drove to pick up Annabelle, and when she emerged from the classroom, Henry ran to her and threw his arms around her. She then hugged me, and he hugged her again! He kept talking about “my sister.” She was really cute with him too. She tried to cheer him up when he fell by doing a crazy dance and saying his favorite word, “poop.” We came home and they played for a while in the front seats of the car, even stacking the leftover carrots from Annabelle’s lunch on the roof of the car! When I drove to my board meeting later, carrots came rolling down the car!Annabelle had a ball at school and played with the hose and climbed trees afterwards. She loved doing playdough, and her favorite thing in the world is hearing stories. We’re reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and she carries it from room to room begging me to read more. We just finished James and the Giant Peach and the Boxcar Children. She immediately disappears into her own magical world when she’s playing.I really can’t believe how lucky I am to spend my days with them. It’s bittersweet to watch Annabelle pull away from me. She loves school, loves playing with her friends, and is more than happy when I leave and the babysitter comes. This is exactly what I’ve tried to raise her to do, of course, a safe happy independent exploration of the world, but still, I long for those days when I held her warm little body in my arms and it fit so snuggly and perfectly. I told her tonight how when she was in my tummy, I couldn’t wait to meet her, and when I finally held her in my arms, all I could say was “You’re perfect!” over and over again.She is perfect. They both are.   

Annabelle asked me the big question the other day.”Mom, where do babies come from?”"From their mothers,” I replied.”I know, but where do the mothers come from?” she asked.”Oh, well, the ocean and the stars and the mountains all come together and swirl their energy and make a baby.”"Oh,” she said, drawing a picture of herself standing next to a flower, “I thought they came from nurses.”My little sister has always told me that you’re supposed to tell the details to children when they ask these sorts of questions. I remember listening to her tell her own preschooler, Kalvin, when he asked the same question, that there are sperms and eggs and the sperms swim up a river and join the egg and that makes a baby. I can’t imagine my explanation was any more confusing than that. And I will tell her at some point. It just seems that her little world is so sweet and beautiful and filled with wonder. I don’t want to add any gender craziness in there.I don’t know. I make up this parenting thing as I go along, and I must say I’m having a ball! Annabelle and Henry are enchanting, entertaining, smart, and wildly funny.  I really can’t believe I get to spend my days with such stellar people.

I woke up this morning to Annabelle jumping on the bed wearing my baby blue satin bra on her head, the strap tucked under her chin, shouting “I’m a hiker! I’m a hiker!” Henry was soon imitating her saying, “Hiter! Hiter!”A while later, we decided to make monkey bread and it turned out to be a crazy experience. We barely had enough flour, so when the dough turned into batter, I had to add wheat flour. Then I scorched the butter in the saucepan, and when I poured the mixture over the bread, it ended up leaking out of the damn bundt pan all over the stove–the house is still smoking–and when I tried to clean it out of the bottom of the stove, a drop of butter seared my hand and it’s now blistered. It was worth it all, however, when I bit into a piece of monkey bread–it was HEAVENLY!! Melt in your mouth, explosions of cinnamon and sugar and light and fluffy moist bread. Perfect! Try the recipe: http://www.recipezaar.com/Monkey-Bread-from-Scratch-153152.Then I heard a retching sound from Henry on the floor and when I looked at him, he was eating a pink post-it. Why? Why are you eating a pink post-it?  

I came home today to find Henry wearing his Mickey Mouse underwear backwards, a pink playsilk tied around his neck as a cape. “I’m Batman!” he shouted, running down the hall, the cape flying out behind him. We’re working on potty training. I said, “Henry, did you use the potty while I was gone?” “Nope,” he replied as he ran by. “Do you have to go?” “Nope.”About 2 minutes later, he shouts, “Mama! I peepeed in the closet!” Sure enough…A while later, he walked into my bedroom with his popsicle and painted the top of the air purifier with it. I came in just as he started smacking it down on the buttons, a big puddle of red slush smeared all over.Later, I’m frantically trying to cook a nutritious dinner for three starving people after swimming lessons. Annabelle says, “Mom, I know what you can be for Halloween because you’re hair is so crazy. A witch. We could get you a cute hat… “ Thank you. So now I have crazy hair. Only a few minutes before she shouted at me from the bathroom: “Mom? Is it acceptable to have a hair in your poop?”So I guess it’s what Henry told Annabelle yesterday is apropos: “Abelle, I going to pee on you, poop on you, and throw you out vindow!”This while he was jumping up and down on the bed in his spaceman pajamas.