Card Carrying, Baby Carrying Member

Have you ever found yourself a part of a group you didn't even know WAS a group? Going about life, minding your own business, making decisions this way and that way based on convictions, instincts and whims--and suddenly finding that you are a part of a MOVEMENT?

This has happened to me in my parenting world. I am, lo and behold, an Attachment Parent. I am part of a Baby-Wearing Movement.

Who knew?

My wonderful midwives insisted (ok, maybe they strongly suggested) that, postpartum, I stay "in bed for a week, around the bed for a week and near the bed for a week." That math adds up to three pretty mellow weeks of forced body recuperation that comes with the appealing incentive of "do this and you won't pee your pants every time you sneeze for the rest of your life." This prescribed bedrest's main objective is this--to heal mama's body. It's glorious side-effect for Jezebel and me was some serious bonding.

It felt, during that time, that we were in a transition stage; that there was pregnancy and there was birth...and then there was this time in bed-- the two of us--before there was really a baby, external of me, out here in this world. We still shared an energy field so intimate that although the cord had been cut, other connections were still there, just beyond the physical world, but just as real and true. My husband, mom and friends brought me food and drink, my midwife checked in on our health and wellbeing and the time passed as Jezzy and I ate, slept and nourished our beings together in that cacoon of a bed for three weeks.

We emerged, then, and I was happy for it. Happy to move my body, clean my house, enjoy the summer sun. But I noticed that I breathed easier with Jezebel on my body. I noticed that she did, too. She's not much of a crier on my body or off, but she's especially peaceful pushed up against my chest. So that's what we do--I wear her. I work 6 hour days with her strapped to me (we won't talk about how many of those hours are productive working hours). I water the garden with her strapped to me. I do dishes, read books, take walks and hang with friends with my baby girl in one of the three front packs I rotate for both our comforts. Then, when the day is through for her, I put her in her cradle. When the day is through for me, I bring her to my side to sleep. We both breathe easier.

Turns out, I'm an Attachment Parent. I think if I had read about it before it happened to me (and that is how it feels-- like it "happened to me."), I would have been skeptical: Really? Isn't that a little much? I mean, I need my SPACE!

And I do. I do need my space. Sometimes the pack feels heavy. Sometimes I DREAM of a glass of wine at a bar with a friend and no child within 2 miles. But those moments pass and I'm left with an infant who will soon be a baby who will then be a toddler and I just know how fast it all goes by so I'm holding on--holding her close.

And once in a while, when I put her down and she starts to cry I think, "If I didn't do this, if this wasn't our deal, this whole 'attachment parenting' thing, would you be a more cry-y baby? Would you be (gasp!) a HARD baby?" Then I swoop her back up into the sling and pull it tight into me and thank the universe that I just don't have to find out.

Pro-Choice.

Mamahood Uninterrupted was, well, interrupted. Maternity Leave is difficult when the job I left behind is a job that still needs to get done for the health and happiness of the organization I work for and love. So, when a grant deadline looms, "maternity leave" becomes "maternity returns." Foundations, it seems, are unsympathetic to my breastfeeding schedule.

It's a good reminder that "the best laid plans..." I don't really know how that old adage ends, but it's something to the effect of "...ain't happenin' the way you planned 'em, sister." It's a lesson that has a silent challenge that follows: Now, how are you going to react?

And that's the thing with mamahood. I PLANNED to have a child that would never meltdown on aisle 5 because she wasn't getting a treat. I PLANNED on having a kid who would say on her 18th birthday, "Disney? What's Disney?" I PLANNED on having children who would ask for broccoli and tofu. I planned on plastic-, sugar- and tv-free. I planned on bi-lingual and veggie and "strength-based."

How's that going for you, Julie?
About as well as my three month Maternity Leave.


Which is to say, great. It's going great. It's going very differently than I had planned, but what did I know? I did most of the planning before I understood just how wonderful Saturday morning cartoons are when I'm only into my 5th hour of sleep. Before I realized that the power struggles would be as ubiquitous as the sugar treats. Before I realized that sometimes, "NO. Absolutely not. Because I said so and I'm the mom" is the exact and only thing that's going to work.

Because I made those plans before I was a mom. Now, I'm neck deep in Being Mom and, with the exception of plastic crap sending me into 'de-junking the house' tirades, I choose to be at peace with most of the interruptions.

With the grant completed and submitted, I am at peace with that interruption, as well. I brought my one month old into work with me and she slept soundly on my chest while I gathered info, crafted persuasive narrative and chatted with coworkers and friends. It was good to be back. For a little while. Now, I realize I'll have to start going back here and there... slowly re-entering into work long before my originally-planned three months is up; but if mamahood has taught me anything it's that I'm not in control of anything but how I choose to react.

I choose peace. I choose gratitude.
I choose joy.

The "S" Word

Since the very first week of my first pregnancy, I've struggled to keep the "shoulds" out of my momming life. You should be taking fish oil for the baby's brain development. You should not eat this sugar. You should be reading more books about what to expect when you're expecting. As soon as an actual baby was born, the list--had I allowed it to penetrate my life--would have smothered me. There's so much that as moms we could do to ensure the stability, health and wellness of our babes...so much that we (okay, I'll say it once) should do. What I have to remind myself of (daily!) is what I am doing is enough. More than enough. It's, usually, for the most part, almost always, pretty damn good. I think.

Then I pick up a parenting magazine.

Seriously. Are these magazines meant to support mothers? Because I just read one from cover to cover and I find myself Googling creative art projects and homemade granola bar recipes tonight in order to make sure that by the end of the day tomorrow my kids aren't bored, detached, falling behind their peers and headed for therapy sessions. My head is swimming with pre-school curriculum ideas that introduce topics of gravity, sequencing, critical analysis and large motor skill coordination. To think that mere hours ago my big plan was to pack a snack and go to the park.

Then I get bored (detached, falling behind my peers?) and click out of "Perfect Parenting" and check out what my friends on Facebook have to say about Michael Jackson's death today. I'm TIRED.

Who are these parents? ARE they parents? Are they parents of kids who are CURRENTLY five and three and 6 months or are their kids now in college (Ivy League, of course, with no therapists in the wings, sporting organic cotton free trade outfits over their vegetarian diet fed selves and nurturing healthy stable relationships on all fronts, but I digress...). Are the authors of these articles writing about what they SHOULD have done as parents of young kids? Because some of this stuff, if not euphoric recall, is simply fantasy. No mom has the time, energy, patience, will or budget to do this stuff. Or do they?

Maybe some do. Maybe instead of reading these things and thinking I should buy all black and white bold shaped items for my newborn, I should simply put down the magazine and do what is fun, inspiring and healthy by my own measure.

If my kids need to talk about that with their therapist someday, I hope they at least mention that we had a really good time together at the park. (And I think that fall off the swing was a pretty convincing lesson in gravity, after all).

One at a Time

I passed on my maternity clothes today. All the overalls, stretchy waistbands, a-line shirts and oversize Ts went to the home of another preggo mama who, if like me, was thrilled with the three huge trash bags full of new, stretchy wardrobe. As excited as I was, 8 months ago, to see them come, I was just as excited today to see them go. What feels so comfy when sporting the 25 extra pounds of babe in the belly, now looks frumpy and serves only as a reminder of how much weight there is left to lose. So, maternity clothes begone.

Confession: I kept some. Just in case.

Mike often talks about "three." I've always said, "One at a time." What will our future family look like? I don't know, but I was surprised with myself for holding onto some of those clothes because, right now, two feels just absolutely perfectly symmetrically evenly wonderfully right.

I have two hands, one for each when crossing the street.
Most tables at restaurants are made for families of four. And airplane seats and amusement park rides.
There are two parents--the division of labors are nice and clean and neat.
Any more than two would require a mini-van.
And an addition to our house.
Two girls is so sweet. What would a little boy DO with two older sisters? What would WE do with three teenage girls?

It seems totally crazy to me that I'm even contemplating this on the third week of having number two, but I tell you, I held onto some maternity clothes today and by doing so, I forced the issue upon myself... and there it has been, rattling around, uninvited, in my brain all day.

Until tonight, when I crawled into Winona's bed for stories, songs and "Two Minutes" (the time I lie with her, silently as she nestles in-- usually, in reality more like 10 minutes). I held a sleeping Jezebel in my lap while I read books and sang songs. When it came time to snuggle, Winona got whimpery and started to show signs of breaking down into something unpleasant.
"What is it, babe?"
"I need you. I need to snuggle."
Translation: Put down the baby. Hold me.
"Want to sleep in my nest?" (My 'nest' is my cross-legged lap), says a quick-thinking mama, who knows the babe will wake up hungry if put down on the bed.
"YEAH!"
I moved Jezzy up to my chest, where she still fits so well, clearing the way for my little NonaBird to make her nest.
Both girls were sound asleep before the "Two Minutes" were up, but I stayed there for 20 minutes or more, filled with all things good about being a mom.

I could probably get creative, if need be, and find room for another child to sleep somewhere on my body, but tonight I let it all go--minus a few stretchy items of clothing--and dozed for "Two Minutes" with my Two Girls.

Every Journey Needs a Journal

Today is the second day of summer. Yesterday was Father's Day. The day after tomorrow, the younger of my two daughters turns 3 weeks old. My mom left last week and my mother-in-law left this afternoon, leaving my husband, my three year old, my three week old and me alone together in this house that is now--suddenly, magically, deliciously--home to four (plus two dogs, so make that "home to six.")

I've been wanting to spend more time with my family--to just be mom uninterrupted--for awhile. I've also been wanting to keep a journal. Maternity Leave provides me with a finite amount of time and one hell of an exciting journey so the two desires seemed compatible.

A blog seemed like a satisfying medium.

Satisfying, that is, my need for an audience, even if only imagined. I've always had trouble with lock-n-key journals. Where's the fun in telling a story to no one? If a tree falls in the middle of the woods...who would hear me?

But on a Blog, the audience is infinite. I imagine you there, even if none of you actually exist. Stephen King says you, "Writer," have to have a "Reader." Someone's gotta hear your tree fall. Reader, welcome to my journal.