Agent of Chaos

My favorite drawing by Donovan so far. Pure Abstract Expressionism.

It was 1:45 pm, fifteen minutes past Donovan's nap time and he was just climbing into the crib (he can't yet climb out though -- a little vestige of containment for which I am grateful). He started jumping up and down, refusing to lay down on his pillow. I then attempted a totally ineffective persuasion:

"Here, lay down on your pillow; I just washed it today and it's all nice and clean."

As if he cares about clean laundry! He's 2 years, 7 months old and he is the perfect mess machine. I couldn't do it better if I tried. As witness to his age and development, I marvel how he has absolutely no sense of order and it makes me wonder how as a species, humans ever became civilized. Imagine if the world were run by 2.5 year olds! It would be a utter chaos.    

Today I got tired of his new Thomas Trackmaster and Wooden Railway sets in the middle of the living room rug, so took them apart and stacked them all neatly in the big cardboard box I designated to store these trains. He watched me from the couch. When I was finished, he came over and picked up the box and turned it upside down. I sputtered and rushed to grab the box and stop the madness before all my neatening was for naught. Oh the hamster wheel of it all. Clean, mess, repeat.

Flossing and Meditating

I flossed and meditated tonight. Two small things I started doing this week (ok, twice) that bring me back to myself and help normalize me. These first two months as I try to find my way with Estelle and Donovan take so much from me. Some days, I have so, so little time for myself that I am almost totally disconnected from my inner life.

Tonight my gums throbbed pleasantly as I sat in lotus position on the carpet in the office. I only sat for a few minutes but in that time I was just me, myself and I, a respite from the demands of 10-week old baby and a 2.5 year old toddler.

Why Moms Get Fat

I know why moms get fat. It's pretty much a cliche that women gain weight with pregnancy--maybe too much--and then can't lose the pounds afterward and thus remain heavy, never to regain their once-slim figure. I used to think derisively of moms on TV or in magazines or ones I knew who got heavy after having kids. "Weakness." I thought.

But suddenly I understand how this happens. How the pounds creep onto you when you're home with kids and before you know it, you're way overweight.

Ok, I'm not way overweight. But eight weeks after Estelle's birth, I feel as though I've plateaued. I'm not dropping baby weight anymore, even thought I'm breastfeeding. And the realization has hit me that if I were to continue at the rate I've been consuming chocolate, cookies, treats, and desserts, surely I'll be fat before long. I'm caught up in the grip of a massive sugar possession. Needing sweets throughout the day to cope with tantrums; feedings; changing diapers; getting kicked and hit at the changing table; wiping up stuff all the time, rushing to get a load of laundry done; vacuuming and dusting here and there, but the house seeming dirty all the time anyway; one crying, then the other crying, then both crying AT THE SAME TIME. It's the all day obligation to others' needs and no time for yourself that drives one to seek some little pleasure, a little taste of joy.

Forty-two and Pregnant. Five days from my due date...

I am 42 years old and pregnant with my second child. I am having my children late in life and while there is nothing wrong with this, I still feel some self consciousness about it. Sometimes I feel special because I was able to get pregnant at this "advanced maternal age" but other times I wonder if people question why I waited this long or judge me as odd.

I have a recurring insecurity about being "odd". I suspect it's fueled by a general lack of confidence about myself. We attended a family picnic today in Rittenhouse Square, which stirred up my insecurities. I left feeling glad to have spent time with loved ones, most of whom I don't see often, but as is usual when I see my aunts, uncles and cousins, I also experienced inexplicable shame and embarrassment.

I could go on and on analyzing my psyche in this post (I am a rather self-conscious person after all) but there is something larger than my usual insecurities to address: I am 5 days away from my baby's due date! And I feel a little strange today. Not terribly nauseous, but queasy. After the picnic, while Donovan took his nap, I laid down with Peter for a nap, but I ended up reading the JLo interview in Vanity Fair and then getting up.

I went downstairs for water and some Tums. The thought of food is pretty unappealing right now; my appetite has diminished in late pregnancy and I think I should be eating more than I do. Standing in the kitchen, I thought that maybe my water was breaking. But there was no gush of fluid and I felt no contractions. I felt nervous in those moments when I wasn't sure what was happening. I am apprehensive about my impending labor. I had a long, difficult labor before Donovan's birth and I don't want fear to take control when labor begins at the birth of this baby. Fear makes one clamp up, shut down, resist. Maybe that's why labor with my first baby was so difficult and painful. I want to stay open and trusting so that the labor process can unfold easily and comfortably. This is my affirmation. Easy, comfortable birth.

Surrendering to Stay-at-Home Parenthood

Sometimes I marvel that I'm doing this: spending the majority of the hours in my day, caring for my little boy, Donovan. I was never the "good with kids" type, babysat maybe 5 times in my life, and was generally disinterested in kid stuff. It IS, however, different with your own kids, as I've often heard.

I have my insecure days when I question my ability as a mother and think every other parent I know is doing a better job, but most of the time I believe in my heart that I'm doing a good job as a mother to Donovan: spending everyday with him (except Tuesday), showing him the world, helping him learn to talk, engaging him in physical and learning activities, and feeding him healthy, whole foods for the most part (OK, he does eat Whole Foods boxed mac & cheese every week, but I don't want to be a total food Nazi.)

I recently read Iris Krasnow's book, "Surrendering To Motherhood" for inspiration. I related to her struggle to be a present and engaged stay-at-home parent, although I didn't have the killer career as a celebrity journalist that she found so difficult to leave to be a stay-at-home parent. My last job before leaving the workplace to give birth to Donovan mostly sucked. I was a technical/knowledge base writer for a tiny software company housed in a dismal, dingy office space which required a 45 minute drive from -- and back to -- my home. I felt isolated in my role there, having no collaborative team, no training, and little or no feedback on the articles I published. The lack of connection with anyone among the small company of mostly computer goobers made for a dull day and I grew increasingly bored with the job. I was glad to leave.

And yet I still struggle with being at-home everyday. I often crave freedom from responsibility and feel the desire to be somewhere else because this is the hardest job I've ever had -- suppressing my desires and whims because I have to take care of my little boy. But so far I think I'm doing the best work of my career.

Do One Thing Better Than My Parents: Pay Attention!

Thoughts of my parents often pop into my head now that I'm a parent myself. Sometimes I feel a greater connection to them, realizing the worries and insecurities they must have felt while raising my sister, brother, and me -- feelings I now experience with my nearly 2-year-old son. But probably more often, I look back and see their shortcomings and wonder, "What were they doing?"

My parents took good physical and material care of my sister, brother and me. We had a lovely, clean home, pleasant bedrooms, and just enough clothes, toys, and other stuff to make us happy. They were careful not to spoil us. We were fed a healthy diet -- maybe a little meat-heavy, but processed food was pretty rare and junk food, candy, and soda were "special occasion" items, not something we were allowed with any regularity.

But when I look back on my childhood, there is something glaringly missing from the family portrait: a genuine interest in us as developing individuals. My parents weren't interested in playing with us, helping us with our schoolwork, or knowing about the activities that occupied our days. They just weren't paying that much attention to us because they were preoccupied with the drama of their own unhappy relationship.

By the time I was 13 my parents divorced and then their interest really waned, as attentions were splintered off into building new relationships that had nothing to do with their children.

I feel sorry for myself sometimes and get angry at my parents when something triggers a memory of their disinterest and selfishness, or how their support and guidance might have
helped me avoid much of the aimless wandering of my 20's and 30's, the self sabotages, the low self-esteem that led me to sell out on myself in so many ways: socially, sexually, and professionally.

But then I redirect my thought pattern and remind myself that I can't blame my mother and father for my present shortcomings and many of the mistakes that I've made in my life. I have to own them now that I'm well, well into adulthood. Sitting stuck in bitterness toward my parents is totally unproductive and irresponsible.

However, identifying the things I needed but didn't get nearly enough of: support, attention, and direction, IS productive in trying to move forward and implement change in myself. It's also my personal quest and correction as a parent: to pay more attention to my son.

My Day Off From Being a Parent, Sort of...

Today has been my "day off" from being a parent. I dropped my 22-month old son, Donovan off at daycare around 9:45 am and will pick him up around 5:30. Having a day to myself is a wonderful treat, even though I harbor some guilt about leaving him in daycare when I don't even have to go to a job.

Adding to my guilt is that today, like last week, Donovan cried and cried when we arrived at the little daycare house on Girard Avenue and kept gesturing for me to pick him up and take him back outside. He doesn't speak many words yet, or in sentences, but I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. Again, I was completely torn: do I quickly walk out the door and trust that he will settle into the environment or give up and bring him back home?

Like last week I hugged and hugged him and finally walked out the door. I checked on him a half hour later by text, and the owner responded that he was fine, sitting in circle time. I guess I didn't do wrong by leaving, but then I don't think there is a "right" answer to this situation. I want this to work for Donovan and me. The free time and space is good for me and the socialization and expansion of his world is good for him.

It's just very hard to see him so distraught and to walk out the door. And at my worst moments the question, "Am I a selfish parent?" still nags at me.

So what did I do with 8 hours of me time?

• First I got a latte at the coffee shop next door to the daycare and sent Peter a text to tell him that Donovan cried again when I dropped him off at daycare.
• I walked home.
• I finished my latte while flipping through a couple catalogs. Then Jeannine, our tax preparer called and gave me a cautionary talk about our tenuous income-to-mortgage-ratio and the possibility that we may be overspending on our planned house renovation. The conversation moved into the topic of what ails Philly and the corrupt, rich thugs who keep the Delaware riverfront from evolving into a clean and public green space to be enjoyed by all. That topic gets me worked up and angry.
• When we hung up an hour later, I rushed off to Whole Foods to do the the grocery shopping. Not exactly my ideal day-off activity, but I was able to shop at my own pace with no pressure to hurry because somebody could act up in the cart seat at any moment. Unfortunately, I hit WF right at the busy lunch time -- dread -- but I refused to get worked up about the hunt for parking or the crowd of pushy, hungry, lunch customers. I even enjoyed a conversation with a Whole Foods employee about infused vinegars and making great salads.
• Back home, I unpacked groceries at a leisurely pace. I organized and swept the kitchen and did a partial fridge-cleaning.
• Chores out of the way, I ate a delicious mango. And an apple. And I planned dinner prep.
• Then I went upstairs to do some writing, after putting it off all day! But first, I browsed some garden websites looking for creepers, or ground covers, that would add some green patches to our evolving front yard garden.
• And finally, I wrote this blog post.

That was how I spent my precious time off. Now it's time to pick him up.

Composting: An Experiment

I started composting my kitchen scraps again. This time I'm determined to see my garbage become lovely, nutrient-rich compost soil. My previous composting effort that I attempted a few years ago resulted in a tub of stinking, anaerobic slime. I continually dumped kitchen waste into a large Rubbermaid tub, but rarely got around to rotating and aerating the compost. Plus I didn't balance the composition with enough leaves and carbon material. Even after many months, the foodstuff still hadn't broken down much at all! When we moved from apartment, my husband unobtrusively dispersed the failed compost in small amounts under the leaves along the backyard fence. Left to it's own devices in nature, the slime undoubtedly became nice compost.

This time I decided I needed an easy way to aerate the compost, so I spent $129 on a tumbler. I also bought a lovely white ceramic compost jar ($34) for our kitchen counter. These accessories are not necessary, as people have been composting since Neolithic times, but we live in the city and have a tiny backyard; it wouldn't be a good idea to start an open compost pile back there for a couple reasons. To further support my composting success (buy! buy! buy!) I also bought the book, "Let It Rot: The Gardener's Guide to Composting," by Stu Campbell.

My big question about composting in a container is this: how does the nice rich soil happen if you're regularly adding new kitchen scraps? The older material will be in various states of decomposition, so logically I must have to stop adding material at some point and let the whole batch decompose completely. Therefore, unless you have a second tumbler or container, you have to stop composting (and just throw out your kitchen scraps) until the first batch is done. Dilemma! According to Stu Campbell, this is true: it's best to add all your compost source materials at once and then, let it rot.

Hmm. Here's my plan: I've decided to add kitchen scraps to the tumbler, combined with leaves, and rotate it regularly until it's full. Then I'll keep tumbling it until the magic happens, whereupon one day I will open the tumbler to discover dark, sweet swelling, garden-ready soil. How long will this take? Well, I added my first batch of kitchen scraps and leaves on February 26, 2011 and the tumbler is not yet full, so we shall see..!

PS:
As for what to do with kitchen scraps while my batch of compost is transforming itself -- I haven't figured that part out. I'm not buying a second tumbler, but I may buy an inexpensive plastic tub and commit to aerating and balancing the composition until I can move it into the tumbler.

Baking Cereal Batons

Was it the apron?

I baked "Cereal Baton" cookies this afternoon for my 20-month old son, Donovan while he napped. These surprising tasty baby cookies are made with whole wheat flour, butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, baking soda, and wheat germ -- the wheat germ is both in the dough and rolled on the outside. The recipe comes from my favorite cookbook for babies and toddlers, "Le Petite Appetite." My good friend Stacy makes them often for her teeny daughter, Mayavan and I thought it was time I made some healthier snacks for Donovan instead of giving him the super-sweet Earth's Best Alphabet cookies.

Naptime for me is a precious, usually 2-hour, chunk of time that I have all to myself! Having a child is amazing and wonderful but -- wow! -- You don't get much time to yourself. This is the hardest part of parenting for me: the lack of "me" time. Anyway, sometimes I frantically jump from one activity to another during Donovan's nap, trying to get as many tasks done as possible, exhausted by the time he wakes up and other times, I indecisively start and stop a bunch of projects and feel like I've wasted the naptime.

Today, I decided to give over the entire naptime to making Cereal Batons. Nothing else. Just one baking project. And I'll tell you, I enjoyed the process so much more than when I try to multitask. I even put on my apron, which punctuated my commitment to baking these cookies. (Peter and I have matching monogrammed aprons, which a friend gave us as a wedding present -- partly as a goof, I suspect.)

Donovan going for another baton

Working through the recipe, I was careful and focused. I didn't overwork the dough. In the end, I'd say I turned out a handsome batch of batons. Best of all, Donovan ate about four of them and later, kept pointing to their container wanting more. That's success! I think the apron had a lot to do with it.

Pennsylvania Field in Winter

On MLK Day, the temperature never rose above 28 degrees and the sky was mostly gray. I shivered just thinking about going outside, but it was exactly the kind of colorless winter day where I might capture the stark, rural Pennsylvania landscape that Andrew Wyeth evokes so beautifully in his paintings. So I layered up drove just outside the city and I felt like a hearty soul for getting out there.

Not far from the gritty, northwestern part of Philadelphia,
Henry Avenue winds west and suddenly there's this farm.

My field boots didn't keep my feet warm, ankle
deep in snow, but I traipsed field-side for a few
hundred feet, then ran back to the warm car.

Dried thistles on spindly branches poked out of the snow,

tiny ornaments in a stark landscape.

A cow lowed in the distance, a melancholy sound and I felt sorry
for the farm animals on that frigid winter day.

There was so little color in the winter landscape
that I noticed the muted gold of the afternoon sky.

Other Parents' Comments

A very cold winter day has turned to a bitter cold winter night. These are some of the shortest days of the year, so for a few minutes this afternoon, I sat in a sunbeam on our hardwood floor absorbing the rays of sunlight.

The house was quiet and I was alone with Gunther, our cat while Donovan napped. I started to read a chapter of Pema Chodron's "When Things Fall Apart." The chapter is about how "this moment is the perfect teacher" and right off, she states how so-called negative feelings like anger, embarrassment, irritation, and resentment point to the place where we are "stuck."

It was the apt thing to read after this morning's playgroup where a father made an irritating comment about Donovan. This dad has a little boy who is almost 3 years old, so he's in a different development strata than Donovan, who is 19 months. Our kids were playing around a little plastic sliding board and his son was running rowdy with two other 3-year-olds. Donovan was hesitating to go down the slide (he had a scary incident this autumn on a giant inflatable) and the older boys were trying to push past him. A mom intervened on Donovan's behalf and that's when this father said "Donovan's a thick little guy, isn't he?"

I'm not even sure what I said, but inside I was like,"WTF?" Donovan is tall for he age and solid, but "thick" just isn't a flattering word and I wondered where this father was coming from. Maybe I am an oversensitive mom, but the crazy thing is that this dad made an unlikeable comment about Donovan before!

We actually met this father and son once or twice during the summer at the Fishtown Rec Center. He's a nice enough guy, older than me and seemingly mellow. At that time, Donovan had only been walking for 2 or 3 months and his legs were somewhat bowlegged. I was told this was common among babies who just start walking. After observing Donovan walking around the gym set, he said, "he walks like a cowboy." "Yeah," I laughed, "he's still a little bowlegged." However, it bothered me a little. It was very mean but it wasn't very nice either.

I realize that this man's comment about Donovan today bothered me less than the first time. My vanity, projected on my son, made me susceptible to this man's judgement; I momentarily got stuck in the negative goo but I stepped out of it pretty quickly and didn't think about it again until hours later when I read Pema Chodron's book. Almost in the moment, I think I understood that the unflattering word was the product of another parent's critical mind, not mine and I'm free to discard it immediately.

New Year's Eve 2011

I almost went to bed without writing but it feels symbolic that I write something on the first day of this brand new year.

The year was heralded with fireworks and firecrackers on our street and off in the distance of the city while Peter and I were stretched out watching a rented DVD of HBO's Bored to Death. Not exactly festive were we, but we wished each other "Happy New Year" and smiled. Ah, family life. We are completely devoted to the routine and schedule of raising this little boy named Donovan. And we are happy, but sometimes I do wish for a little taste of freedom and excitement and parties and people. At least we made it til midnight.

A half hour after midnight we got into bed and the fireworks on our street continued. A throng of teenagers ran down the street yelling to one another. As I lay in bed, colored light flashed on my wall, shaped like the outline of my window. For a few minutes, I felt transported out of Fishtown to a charmed room above the streets of some European city during carnival or an exotic place where people live and celebrate life fully.