All photos taken by me. Happy Mother's Day from the desert!
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
Yes! I am Mom Enough!
According to the internet, Time magazine has put a question to every single mother in America: Are you mom enough? I'd like to take a moment to address that question.
When I planned my first natural birth, I was mom enough. When I instead had an emergency cesarean birth, I was mom enough. When doctors tried to tell me how to birth my second baby, I was mom enough. When I had a VBAC at home, I was mom enough.
When I planned to breastfeed my baby because I knew it was best for her, I was mom enough. When I had an enormous amount of trouble breastfeeding after my cesarean birth, I was mom enough.
When I was told in the hospital to pour formula on my nipples to help my baby latch, I was mom enough. When it took two hours just to GET her to latch on, I was mom enough. When I got in trouble with the nurses because I let her sleep too long without nursing her, I was mom enough. When I let her sleep on top of my chest, I was mom enough.
When breastfeeding didn’t get any easier once I went home, I was mom enough. When all I did for three weeks was breastfeed my daughter, I was mom enough. When I finally couldn’t take anymore and I pumped a bottle of breastmilk so her dad could feed her, I was mom enough.
When I started to supplement with formula, I was mom enough. When my daughter wanted to hold her own bottle at 4 months old, I was mom enough. When I started solid food too early (4 months) I was mom enough. When I tried and tried and tried to get my kid to eat something, ANYTHING, I was mom enough.
When my first daughter weaned at 7 months and never wanted the breast again, I was mom enough.
When nursing my second daughter was a breeze, I was mom enough. When I nursed her all the time, whenever she wanted, I was mom enough. When I nursed her in public, I was mom enough. When I kept nursing her past a year, I was mom enough.
When my 20 month old daughter still asks for "babas" and I breastfeed her, I am mom enough. When I night weaned that 20-month-old because I needed. To. Sleeeeeep. I was mom enough.
When I get a cold and stay in bed as much as I can, I’m mom enough. When my extremely introverted personality just can’t handle the PTO, I am mom enough. When I take my girls to the park almost every single day, I am mom enough. When I let them watch TV, I am mom enough.
When I tried a horrible pocket sling with Dani and hated it, I was mom enough. When I carried her in her infant carrier or pushed her in a stroller, I was mom enough. When I researched wraps during my second pregnancy, I was mom enough. When I used a wrap, sling, or baby carrier through most of my second daughter’s first month of life, I was mom enough. When I still put my 20-month-old in a wrap, I am mom enough. When I put them in swings and bouncers, I was mom enough.
When I made a big hubbub about what kind of carseat we would get for our first, I was mom enough. When I THOUGHT I was doing the right thing, and turned my daughter forward-facing at 1 year and 20 pounds, I was mom enough. When I learned how horribly dangerous that was, I vowed to keep my second child rear facing as long as humanly possible and to keep my first daughter in a five-point harness and then a booster seat as long as possible, I was mom enough.
When I wouldn’t even consider cloth diapers with my first child, I was mom enough. When I did decide to cloth diaper my second child, I was mom enough. When I can't shut up to other moms about how cool cloth diapers are, even if they don't really want to hear it, I am mom enough.
When I would go outside to smoke cigarettes, I was mom enough. When I finally gave up smoking after 15 years, I was mom enough.
When I make carbanara, pesto meatballs with spaghetti squash, feta and kale casserole, and spinach salads for dinner, I am mom enough. When I cook pancakes for dinner, I am mom enough. When I take my kids to McDonald’s for dinner, I am mom enough.
When I actually get to sleep in, I am mom enough.
When I play with my kids, I am mom enough. When I spend an entire day focused on my beautiful babies playing with them and loving them and napping with them, I am mom enough. When I spend the day blogging or crafting or reading, I am mom enough. When I actually find the balance between all that stuff, I am SUPER MOM!
I could go on and on and on. And I encourage everyone reading this right now to give some more examples in the comments! My point is this:
I am the only mom my kids have. I’m all they have ever known. And hopefully I will be around to be all they ever know for a very, very long time. They’re definition of perfection is me -- with all my mistakes, and my impatient moments, and my horrible mistakes (did I say that already) -- I am their perfect mom. And as long as I always keep striving to become a better mom, I will always be mom enough for them.
And when the mom guilt comes, when I feel so insecure I think ANYbody would be a better parent to these wonderful kids than I, when I need a little help remembering that I am mom enough.... I’m going to look at my kids. I’m going to look at my happy, healthy, well-adjusted, sometimes little farking hellions, strong, smart, and beautiful kids. Not at the cover of Time magazine.
I am mom enough. And so are you. Peace.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Wordless Wednesday: What Kawasaki Disease Looks Like
This is my daughter on her first day of kindergarten, August of 2011. I never thought of her as being particularly muscular, but she was always extremely active and very strong. She definitely has the body of an athlete, to me.
This is my daughter in the middle of her second Kawasaki Disease, April of 2012, just 8 short months after the first picture was taken. This is only the 9th day of her sickness. 10 days before this, she felt fine and she looked like the first picture. What strikes me most remarkable is the loss of muscle in her legs.
She had just beaten her dad at foosball. It was a good day.
By the way, I SUCK at Wordless Wednesdays! If you are here looking for information on KD, please check out Desperately Seeking Kawasaki and the KD page on my blog.
This is my daughter in the middle of her second Kawasaki Disease, April of 2012, just 8 short months after the first picture was taken. This is only the 9th day of her sickness. 10 days before this, she felt fine and she looked like the first picture. What strikes me most remarkable is the loss of muscle in her legs.
By the way, I SUCK at Wordless Wednesdays! If you are here looking for information on KD, please check out Desperately Seeking Kawasaki and the KD page on my blog.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Desperately Seeking Kawasaki Disease
I haven’t written anything in a while because I’ve been dealing with a very sick kid. My daughter just recently went through her second bout of Kawasaki Syndrome. Yes, that’s right, my daughter has had Kawasaki Syndrome more than once. I’m going to be mentioning that a lot because when terrified parents put “can my child get Kawasaki Syndrome twice” into a search engine, I want them to actually find something that may HELP.
I think I need to back up just a bit, though. Considering only 19 out of 100,000 American kids will contract Kawasaki Disease, there aren’t too many people out there thinking about their kids getting Kawasaki Disease more than once. Most people haven’t even heard of Kawasaki Disease. Insert motorcycle joke here.
If it wasn’t so terrifying when it’s happening to your own child, it would be a pretty interesting research project. For one thing, it is an extremely young disease. Dr. Tomisaku Kawasaki, a Japanese pediatrician, gave this disease its namesake and definition in 1967.
Kawasaki Disease is a self-limited vasculitis that causes inflammation in the small and medium blood vessels of the body. It most often occurs in children under five years old, but let me just address that “most often” phrase right now. Don’t listen to it. Not when it comes to Kawasaki Disease. It has been my experience, that the very nature of this disease calls for the rare and uncommon to apply to your child.
Kawasaki Disease comes with a list of really weird symptoms including (but not limited to!) persistent fever for 5 days, chapped and cracked lips, swollen and/or strawberry tongue, swollen lymph nodes in the neck, swollen hands and feet, red palms and soles, and blood shot eyes. The biggest cause for concern with Kawasaki Syndrome is the effect it has on the cardiovascular system. According to the Kawasaki Disease Foundation, "Kawasaki disease is the leading cause of acquired heart disease in children."
The age of Kawasaki Disease can be both a blessing and a curse. Much is still unknown about this disease, which is a big reason why it’s so scary. There is no diagnostic test for Kawasaki Syndrome. You can’t just draw some blood and run some labs; doctors must instead rely on observational symptoms and a thorough history, most often given by the parent.
There is also no diagnostic tool to tell us when the child is cured. I learned this first hand when my daughter was not only diagnosed with a recurrence of Kawasaki Syndrome and A-typical Kawasaki Syndrome, but also Refractory Kawasaki Syndrome. That’s basically a fancy way of saying the disease sometimes doesn’t go away with the standard medical treatment of intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG).
But the fact that Kawasaki Syndrome is such a new disease brings with it hope for more information to come. We can only learn more, which is a big reason why I was finally convinced to start writing about it. This second Kawasaki scare was one of the most stressful periods of my life, but it also brought out in me strength I wasn’t sure I had. I’ve finally been bitten by the “cause” bug, I guess. I want to learn as much as I can. I want to share that information with as many other parents as I can. I want to help other parents during their struggle with Kawasaki Syndrome. I want to help other children, just as brave and strong as Dani, to fight this disease.
I’m going to be dedicating some personal blog space to this. Not only to Kawasaki Syndrome in particular, but I also want to talk about how to navigate the medical system. This is so important to ALL parents of sick children, but it has special meaning to parents dealing with Kawasaki Syndrome, because the diagnosis and treatment fall so heavily on the parents’ shoulders!
I’ve also started a Facebook page dedicated to Kawasaki Syndrome. Desperately Seeking Kawasaki will be a place parents and caregivers can find information, but also a place to vent frustrations and find support from other parents who know what they are going through. But I can’t do it alone! I need other parents and their individual, vital information. The only way a page like this will be successful is with the sharing of ideas and information.
The only way to beat Kawasaki Disease is to work together. Have you been affected by Kawasaki Syndrome? Do you know someone who has been affected? Please click over to Desperately Seeking Kawasaki, share it with those you think could help, and join me on my Kawasaki Disease Awareness journey.
I think I need to back up just a bit, though. Considering only 19 out of 100,000 American kids will contract Kawasaki Disease, there aren’t too many people out there thinking about their kids getting Kawasaki Disease more than once. Most people haven’t even heard of Kawasaki Disease. Insert motorcycle joke here.
If it wasn’t so terrifying when it’s happening to your own child, it would be a pretty interesting research project. For one thing, it is an extremely young disease. Dr. Tomisaku Kawasaki, a Japanese pediatrician, gave this disease its namesake and definition in 1967.
Kawasaki Disease is a self-limited vasculitis that causes inflammation in the small and medium blood vessels of the body. It most often occurs in children under five years old, but let me just address that “most often” phrase right now. Don’t listen to it. Not when it comes to Kawasaki Disease. It has been my experience, that the very nature of this disease calls for the rare and uncommon to apply to your child.
Kawasaki Disease comes with a list of really weird symptoms including (but not limited to!) persistent fever for 5 days, chapped and cracked lips, swollen and/or strawberry tongue, swollen lymph nodes in the neck, swollen hands and feet, red palms and soles, and blood shot eyes. The biggest cause for concern with Kawasaki Syndrome is the effect it has on the cardiovascular system. According to the Kawasaki Disease Foundation, "Kawasaki disease is the leading cause of acquired heart disease in children."
The age of Kawasaki Disease can be both a blessing and a curse. Much is still unknown about this disease, which is a big reason why it’s so scary. There is no diagnostic test for Kawasaki Syndrome. You can’t just draw some blood and run some labs; doctors must instead rely on observational symptoms and a thorough history, most often given by the parent.
There is also no diagnostic tool to tell us when the child is cured. I learned this first hand when my daughter was not only diagnosed with a recurrence of Kawasaki Syndrome and A-typical Kawasaki Syndrome, but also Refractory Kawasaki Syndrome. That’s basically a fancy way of saying the disease sometimes doesn’t go away with the standard medical treatment of intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG).
But the fact that Kawasaki Syndrome is such a new disease brings with it hope for more information to come. We can only learn more, which is a big reason why I was finally convinced to start writing about it. This second Kawasaki scare was one of the most stressful periods of my life, but it also brought out in me strength I wasn’t sure I had. I’ve finally been bitten by the “cause” bug, I guess. I want to learn as much as I can. I want to share that information with as many other parents as I can. I want to help other parents during their struggle with Kawasaki Syndrome. I want to help other children, just as brave and strong as Dani, to fight this disease.
I’m going to be dedicating some personal blog space to this. Not only to Kawasaki Syndrome in particular, but I also want to talk about how to navigate the medical system. This is so important to ALL parents of sick children, but it has special meaning to parents dealing with Kawasaki Syndrome, because the diagnosis and treatment fall so heavily on the parents’ shoulders!
I’ve also started a Facebook page dedicated to Kawasaki Syndrome. Desperately Seeking Kawasaki will be a place parents and caregivers can find information, but also a place to vent frustrations and find support from other parents who know what they are going through. But I can’t do it alone! I need other parents and their individual, vital information. The only way a page like this will be successful is with the sharing of ideas and information.
The only way to beat Kawasaki Disease is to work together. Have you been affected by Kawasaki Syndrome? Do you know someone who has been affected? Please click over to Desperately Seeking Kawasaki, share it with those you think could help, and join me on my Kawasaki Disease Awareness journey.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Making a Zen Garden - This Time it's Personal
I have decided a Zen garden is a good idea because 1) I like Zen; 2) I like gardens; 3) I have been collecting rocks since I was a child and my 5-year-old has adopted the hobby -- hence, we have a lot of rocks lying about; 4) I live in the desert and have access to copious amounts of free sand; and 5) I saw this tutorial on how to make a Zen garden on a budget on Pinterest, and it is a new goal in my life to do every single craft I see on Pinterest.
Mostly though, I’m just trying to figure out how to meditate. I’ve been trying to shut myself up for years. And years and years and years. Most of the time I fail miserably. So instead of just repeating the same process over and over again, I’m trying to look at meditation from a more personal perspective. Instead of trying to meditate how other people tell me I should meditate, I started thinking about how I would teach myself to meditate.
I started to ponder over the times when I would be able to zone out, so to speak. It always seemed to accompany some other action like watching the same TV show or movie over and over again, vacuuming, crafting, singing or humming in the shower. The times that I zone out always include movement, sound, patterns, and/or vibrations. I’ve been trying to meditate by sitting perfectly still with my eyes closed and my head clear. I think I’m beginning to see the problem. At least one of my problems, anyway.
Zen gardens are simple in design, rich with history, and contain an intricate web of possibilities. Most consist of nothing more than rocks and sand. One meaning of the Zen garden is to resemble an aerial view of islands floating in the ocean. The Zen rake creates an endless array of waves in the sand. I am particularly drawn to the natural transformation of using one element - Earth - to represent another element - Water.
A Zen garden allows me to bring movement into my meditation practice. The act of raking the sand waves around the rocks brings purpose to my body, which allows my mind the freedom to wind down. The key to the success of my Zen garden, I believe, is to make it as personal as possible - to give it meaning. After all, that sand is supposed to be me - my mind, my body, my spirit, my soul. The rocks are supposed to represent my life - those ever-present islands, anchored about.
So here is my attempt to make a personalized Zen garden. I started by thinking about EVERYthing in my life as a different rock - what it would look like, what it would feel like, what emotions it would evoke.
Here is my husband:
My husband is most definitely my rock. His incredibly logical, black and white mind balances my overly sensitive and intuition-heavy brain waves. I’ve often called him the yin to my yang. He embodies the classic strength that brings me a feeling of safety when he is near. He is hard, strong, stable, and unchanging.
But turn the rock over and you see this:
My husband is also scarred. He carries the physical scars of a car accident that left his legs mangled and his life scattered into little pieces on the road he was planning to take. He carries the emotional scars of a hard childhood marred with common, yet no less jarring problems. He carries the moral scars of a religion that he has come to realize failed him in every possible way. While I desire the stable, smooth side, it is the scarred side I find most beautiful.
Here are my two beautiful daughters:
I mined this geode myself out of a rock bed just feet away from the Mississippi River. I then strapped it and a backpack full of other geodes onto my back, and hiked it out of the woods. It was hard work, let me tell you. Every time I look at this geode, I remember how hard it was to acquire, and it makes me smile every time.
Two halves of a whole; not twins - the two parts aren’t identical, my girls are about 4 years apart. But they have many similarities, were actually formed out of one piece, and were brought forth from their resting place in space by the same pair of hands.
From the outside, a geode looks like any old rock - hard, strong, set. But if you look inside the geode, you find a beautiful and fragile world of crystal and light, surrounding a hollow place in the middle. This hollow space can range in size, depending on the condition and age of the geode. I’m coming to see that the void may be even more beautiful than its jeweled casing.
If I fill the void in my geodes with mud, I will no longer be able to see the beauty that lies within. If I fill the void in my geodes with water, the beauty of the entire rock is cleansed, freshened, and enhanced. And the water is able to rid itself when it’s use is done, by evaporating back into the atmosphere to continue its purpose in another state.
Here is how I see the memories of my mother:
This jar of rocks also came from the muddy waters of the Midwest. They were hand-picked and sent with love to my mom, shortly before her death, by a dear friend. Each rock differs from the next in shape, size, and color. Each one will feel a little different when I pick it up and hold it in my hand. Each one, taken individually, contain the potential to hurt, to damage, or to scar in a painful way. But when brought together, they compliment each other beautifully and make a wonderful, cohesive package. They fit together to make a larger, stronger, more stable, and more beautifully powerful structure. They can also be contained, if I choose to contain them.
Here’s my collection of daily chores:
Those four big rocks on the left are all dishes. Man, do I hate dishes. At best, these just look like big dumb rocks put here for no particular reason whatsoever. At worst, these are huge boulders that, if one doesn’t watch carefully, can wreak havoc with the peace of the day.
But with a different view:
Here is the school pick up/drop off at my daughter’s elementary school:
So close, and yet so far away. We watch the sun rise over this mountain range on our way to school every morning. From far away, the Organ Mountains look like a painting of perfection from the beauty inside the human mind. Up close, it’s a big fucking mountain that exhausts me to my core every single time I try to climb it. Sometimes we must decide when to hike up the mountain and when to avoid the mountain altogether. But that’s a blog for a different day...
The Sand
The sand is me. How did I want to portray myself in sand? I could have walked about a block and a half from my house and scooped up a bunch of yellow, desert sand for my garden. Instead, I decided to be patient and wait until a trip to White Sands National Monument (only about half an hour from my house) would yield a bucket of pure white, fluffy sand that is so fine and soft it hardly sticks to the skin.
The rake represents the control I have over my own life. In this particular instance, it helps me to see the difference between a sea of water and a sea of sand. A sea of water is uncontrollable; the rake is rendered useless. It can be calm, peaceful, tranquil, but it can also be chaotic, violent, and damaging. I can definitely see myself in that metaphor.
My Zen garden allows me to see myself, instead, as a sea of sand. With my trusty rake in hand, I can control the waves of my own ocean. Right now, I’m using a fork I found right in my own kitchen. The tools we need in life are sometimes right under our noses.
I can decide whether to softly wind my waves around my islands or whether to lead the waves to the islands edge. I can decide if I want to make a bee-line right to my island, or whether I want to leisurely spiral to my islands. I can decide if my sand waves stop short of the island altogether, or even, occasionally topple over my islands, burying them in a dusty white comforter.
By making my Zen garden a personal experience, I’m making it more of a life tool. When I tend to my garden, I’m not just moving sand around. I’m manipulating the energy of my life. I’m learning about myself and the people I love most in the world. I’m coming just one step closer, to learning what the hell meditation really is.
My Zen Garden!
I added in my birth art sculpture. It means a lot to me and I thought this was a better use for it than sitting in a drawer, collecting dust.
Then she put every single rock in at once. Always experimenting, that one.
Do you know what your personal Zen garden would look like?
Mostly though, I’m just trying to figure out how to meditate. I’ve been trying to shut myself up for years. And years and years and years. Most of the time I fail miserably. So instead of just repeating the same process over and over again, I’m trying to look at meditation from a more personal perspective. Instead of trying to meditate how other people tell me I should meditate, I started thinking about how I would teach myself to meditate.
I started to ponder over the times when I would be able to zone out, so to speak. It always seemed to accompany some other action like watching the same TV show or movie over and over again, vacuuming, crafting, singing or humming in the shower. The times that I zone out always include movement, sound, patterns, and/or vibrations. I’ve been trying to meditate by sitting perfectly still with my eyes closed and my head clear. I think I’m beginning to see the problem. At least one of my problems, anyway.
Zen gardens are simple in design, rich with history, and contain an intricate web of possibilities. Most consist of nothing more than rocks and sand. One meaning of the Zen garden is to resemble an aerial view of islands floating in the ocean. The Zen rake creates an endless array of waves in the sand. I am particularly drawn to the natural transformation of using one element - Earth - to represent another element - Water.
A Zen garden allows me to bring movement into my meditation practice. The act of raking the sand waves around the rocks brings purpose to my body, which allows my mind the freedom to wind down. The key to the success of my Zen garden, I believe, is to make it as personal as possible - to give it meaning. After all, that sand is supposed to be me - my mind, my body, my spirit, my soul. The rocks are supposed to represent my life - those ever-present islands, anchored about.
So here is my attempt to make a personalized Zen garden. I started by thinking about EVERYthing in my life as a different rock - what it would look like, what it would feel like, what emotions it would evoke.
Here is my husband:
But turn the rock over and you see this:
My husband is also scarred. He carries the physical scars of a car accident that left his legs mangled and his life scattered into little pieces on the road he was planning to take. He carries the emotional scars of a hard childhood marred with common, yet no less jarring problems. He carries the moral scars of a religion that he has come to realize failed him in every possible way. While I desire the stable, smooth side, it is the scarred side I find most beautiful.
Here are my two beautiful daughters:
I mined this geode myself out of a rock bed just feet away from the Mississippi River. I then strapped it and a backpack full of other geodes onto my back, and hiked it out of the woods. It was hard work, let me tell you. Every time I look at this geode, I remember how hard it was to acquire, and it makes me smile every time.
Two halves of a whole; not twins - the two parts aren’t identical, my girls are about 4 years apart. But they have many similarities, were actually formed out of one piece, and were brought forth from their resting place in space by the same pair of hands.
From the outside, a geode looks like any old rock - hard, strong, set. But if you look inside the geode, you find a beautiful and fragile world of crystal and light, surrounding a hollow place in the middle. This hollow space can range in size, depending on the condition and age of the geode. I’m coming to see that the void may be even more beautiful than its jeweled casing.
“Thirty spokes will converge in the hub of a wheel; but the use of the cart will depend on the part of the hub that is void.
With a wall all around a clay bowl is molded; but the use of the bowl will depend on the part of the bowl that is void.
Cut out the windows and doors in the house as you build; but the use of the house will depend on the space in the walls that is void.
So advantage is had from whatever is there; but usefulness rises from whatever is not.”
-- Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching (No. 11)
If I fill the void in my geodes with mud, I will no longer be able to see the beauty that lies within. If I fill the void in my geodes with water, the beauty of the entire rock is cleansed, freshened, and enhanced. And the water is able to rid itself when it’s use is done, by evaporating back into the atmosphere to continue its purpose in another state.
Here is how I see the memories of my mother:
This jar of rocks also came from the muddy waters of the Midwest. They were hand-picked and sent with love to my mom, shortly before her death, by a dear friend. Each rock differs from the next in shape, size, and color. Each one will feel a little different when I pick it up and hold it in my hand. Each one, taken individually, contain the potential to hurt, to damage, or to scar in a painful way. But when brought together, they compliment each other beautifully and make a wonderful, cohesive package. They fit together to make a larger, stronger, more stable, and more beautifully powerful structure. They can also be contained, if I choose to contain them.
Here’s my collection of daily chores:
Those four big rocks on the left are all dishes. Man, do I hate dishes. At best, these just look like big dumb rocks put here for no particular reason whatsoever. At worst, these are huge boulders that, if one doesn’t watch carefully, can wreak havoc with the peace of the day.
But with a different view:
They can become an amusement park of fun and learning, a constant reminder of the importance of hard work, and a lesson in the value of monotony, rhythm, and the patterns of life.
Here is the school pick up/drop off at my daughter’s elementary school:
So close, and yet so far away. We watch the sun rise over this mountain range on our way to school every morning. From far away, the Organ Mountains look like a painting of perfection from the beauty inside the human mind. Up close, it’s a big fucking mountain that exhausts me to my core every single time I try to climb it. Sometimes we must decide when to hike up the mountain and when to avoid the mountain altogether. But that’s a blog for a different day...
The Sand
The sand is me. How did I want to portray myself in sand? I could have walked about a block and a half from my house and scooped up a bunch of yellow, desert sand for my garden. Instead, I decided to be patient and wait until a trip to White Sands National Monument (only about half an hour from my house) would yield a bucket of pure white, fluffy sand that is so fine and soft it hardly sticks to the skin.
The rake represents the control I have over my own life. In this particular instance, it helps me to see the difference between a sea of water and a sea of sand. A sea of water is uncontrollable; the rake is rendered useless. It can be calm, peaceful, tranquil, but it can also be chaotic, violent, and damaging. I can definitely see myself in that metaphor.
My Zen garden allows me to see myself, instead, as a sea of sand. With my trusty rake in hand, I can control the waves of my own ocean. Right now, I’m using a fork I found right in my own kitchen. The tools we need in life are sometimes right under our noses.
I can decide whether to softly wind my waves around my islands or whether to lead the waves to the islands edge. I can decide if I want to make a bee-line right to my island, or whether I want to leisurely spiral to my islands. I can decide if my sand waves stop short of the island altogether, or even, occasionally topple over my islands, burying them in a dusty white comforter.
By making my Zen garden a personal experience, I’m making it more of a life tool. When I tend to my garden, I’m not just moving sand around. I’m manipulating the energy of my life. I’m learning about myself and the people I love most in the world. I’m coming just one step closer, to learning what the hell meditation really is.
My Zen Garden!
I added in my birth art sculpture. It means a lot to me and I thought this was a better use for it than sitting in a drawer, collecting dust.
Everyone is loving it. Both my husband and my 5 year old have been using it. My daughter likes to take all the rocks out and just rake the sand.
Then she put every single rock in at once. Always experimenting, that one.
Do you know what your personal Zen garden would look like?
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Zen and the Art of Renaming a Blog
Do not adjust your television sets; you have, in fact, reached Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance. I’ve just renamed it The Grey Seeker. I’ve been feeling a bit stifled lately. I have wanted to start a blog for years, but only found the courage and will to do so when I started writing about parenting stuff. I love writing on subjects like homebirth, breastfeeding, and cloth diapers. I still want to talk about those things because they’re still a big part of my life.
But I also need to talk about other fascinations in my life -- history and philosophy, politics and society, spirituality and trees, lions, tigers, and bears. We have an owl that likes to sit on our flagpole at dusk and hoots at his or her mate, perched in another tree in the neighborhood. I HAVE to write about that. I get so excited about my latest cooking and crafting adventures, but I can’t talk about cooking and crafting on a blog named Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance. It just doesn’t work in my mind; it doesn’t compute. The result is a semi-abandoned, yet truly loved (by me) blog.
It's more than that, though. I'm spending more time coming up with catchy titles and themes than I am writing about what is on my mind and in my heart. I'mstealing from paying homage to works of art I admire, instead of showing people who I really am. I'm hiding, and I don't want to hide anymore.
It’s time for a change. Not something to replace Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance, but something to include it and more. The Grey Seeker. A place where I can talk about cloth diapers. A place where I can talk about my zen garden. A place where I can talk about whatever I want and, as always, try to find the balance, the Zen, the Grey of life.
And I’m not going to change it again in another six months. Really. I’m not.
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Oh, who am I kidding? I've already changed it again twice in the past hour. I guess what I'm trying to say here is: Under Construction Till Further Notice. And possibly forever.
But I also need to talk about other fascinations in my life -- history and philosophy, politics and society, spirituality and trees, lions, tigers, and bears. We have an owl that likes to sit on our flagpole at dusk and hoots at his or her mate, perched in another tree in the neighborhood. I HAVE to write about that. I get so excited about my latest cooking and crafting adventures, but I can’t talk about cooking and crafting on a blog named Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance. It just doesn’t work in my mind; it doesn’t compute. The result is a semi-abandoned, yet truly loved (by me) blog.
It's more than that, though. I'm spending more time coming up with catchy titles and themes than I am writing about what is on my mind and in my heart. I'm
It’s time for a change. Not something to replace Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance, but something to include it and more. The Grey Seeker. A place where I can talk about cloth diapers. A place where I can talk about my zen garden. A place where I can talk about whatever I want and, as always, try to find the balance, the Zen, the Grey of life.
And I’m not going to change it again in another six months. Really. I’m not.
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Oh, who am I kidding? I've already changed it again twice in the past hour. I guess what I'm trying to say here is: Under Construction Till Further Notice. And possibly forever.
Friday, December 16, 2011
The Twilight Saga's Bella Swan: Poster Mom for Natural Birth
I have a confession. I'm a big fan of all the cute little pics that have not-so-recently popped up all over Facebook. You know, stuff like this:
This is a big reason I get on Facebook. To chill out and laugh at frivolous stuff.
One of the latest popular themes is twi-hating. Pithy pictures making fun of the Twilight Saga and it's cast of sparkling and shedding characters have taken over my news feed. I commented on a few; in one I actually promised I wouldn't go all crazy and write a blog dedicated to Twilight.
Whoops.
I don’t know why I find myself filled with a desire to defend these adequate, at best, movies (and books). Nothing about me screams twi-hard. I am not a 14 year old girl. I am not Stephanie Meyer’s bff. I do not have a collectors edition, sparkly-skinned Edward Cullen doll in the back of my closet. (Ahem.)
Maybe it’s because I always feel the need to defend those being bullied. Maybe it’s because I read these books as I watched my mom wither away of cancer; the light, sometimes frivolous Twilight stories were a much needed break for my overworked and emotionally exhausted brain, and in turn it holds some strange, sentimental place in my heart.
It started out as me making fun of other people making fun of Twilight. Take this for example:
Yes, thank goodness for all the scholarly people of the world who illuminate us on the difference between serious, real-life vampires and silly, made-up, sparkly ones.
Along the same lines....
Um, no Mr. mean, ugly, scary man, you are definitely not sparkling. You also don't look like someone teenage girls want tomastu... er, want to dream about, either. In other words, trying to put Twilight into the horror genre is like trying to book The Backstreet Boys for Ozzfest. If you're looking for sexy, scary vampires, go straight to Netflix and make a left at The Lost Boys.
Then we move along to the many Harry Potter-themed insults. Things like:
Now, I will freely admit that I haven't seen or read a single Harry Potter anything. Nothing personal against wizards, I just haven't gotten around to it. But I do live on planet Earth - coincidentally the same place all the twi-haters live - so let me give this a go.
There's this group of adults who are slightly obsessed with a set of books and movies, generally aimed at an age group much younger, that are all about a bunch of fantasy characters that could never actually exist in real life. These people like to make fun of this other group of people who are slightly obsessed with a set of books and movies, generally aimed at an age group much younger, that are all about a bunch of fantasy characters that could never actually exist in real life. I believe an introduction is in order - dungeon... meet dragon. This may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
But then things got a little more serious...
People started comparing Twilight to Star Wars.
Twilight.
To Star Wars.
Has the world gone insane? Has serious film study been banned from colleges world wide? Has all common sense been replaced with bantha fodder? Trying to call it a horror movie is one thing, but come on now. Twilight? A science fiction movie?
You don't put the cast of Glee into a room with Hannibal Lector. And you certainly don't try to put a teeny bop, romance saga anywhere in the same vicinity as one of the best science fiction movies ever made, let alone in the same genre! Pst... Star Wars fans, you are kind of making fun of yourselves by trying to.
And then I saw about a hundred variations of this one:
This is what has been bugging me the most with all the twi-hating. People aren’t picking apart the plot, scene decoration, make-up, or editing (I'd be right with them there). People are picking on Bella. What a horrible excuse for a female lead character, she is. What a horrible excuse for a role model.
Well, I have news for you... Bella is much stronger than Mr. Takei and the twi-haters give her credit for. Bella Swan is not the weak, stupid, pathetic little fawn she has been made out to be. Bella Swan is, in fact, a poster mom for Natural Birth. Now stick with me here, I’ll lay it out for you:
1. Bella makes her own informed choice.
The minute Bella and Edward discover she is pregnant, Edward’s thoughts turn to abortion. Not only that, but almost every other person close to Bella tries to talk her into terminating the pregnancy as well. Now I’m certainly not trying to turn this into some kind of abortion debate, especially considering my prochoice stance. But it is interesting to note that Bella is mentally and emotionally strong enough to thwart the opinions of all those around her, and make up her own mind about what to do concerning her body and her fetus. She listens to all the information given to her, and then makes her own decision. Hmmmm, sounds a little like informed consent to me.
2. Bella gets support and acquires a doula.
Bella finds herself in a position many young women know all too well: young, without her parents, and unexpectedly pregnant. Does she curl up into a ball and ignore it? Does she try to hide it from everyone around her, give birth in a bathroom stall, and then throw the child in the trash (a storyline I've seen multiple times in tv and movies)? No, she makes an informed choice, and then immediately seeks out support.
Rosalie Cullen, Bella's sister-in-law, plays the text-book role of doula during Bella's pregnancy and birth. She supports her decisions, gives her advice and encouragement, and steps in when her client is being ganged up on by friends, family, and care-givers. Yeah, she has to be tackled by a werewolf during the birth because she tries to kill her client, but come on.... She is a vampire. And even doulas get hungry.
3. Bella chooses a homebirth.
True, giving birth to a half human/half vampire baby by emergency c-section that must be performed by super-strong vampire teeth is probably one of those overly-detailed birth plans that hospitals frown upon, but I'm still giving Bella props for choosing the more natural route. We homebirthers need all the numbers we can get.
4. Bella risks her own life for the life of her unborn child.
This is another example that many women can relate to. Pregnancy for many mothers is a dangerous endeavor. But if high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, uterine tearing, and pre-eclampsia are scary, it's nothing compared to a vampire child that is literally sucking the life out of you from the inside out. Right?
5. Bella survives the dreaded baby-name ridicule.
Her vampire husband and in-laws don't support her. Her werewolf best friend is disgusted by her. Her doula is trying to bite her. Her unborn child is literally consuming her from the inside out. And through all of it, she still has the creative gumption to come up with 'Renesme.' Go girl.
So what was I getting at anyway?
Bella is human. (Er.... was human.) Sometimes she's happy and sometimes she's sad. Sometimes she stumbles, and sometimes she falls. She gets depressed and curls up in a little ball. She flies halfway around the world to save someone she loves. Sometimes she needs to be rescued. Sometimes she finds the strength to stand up to a bunch of invincible vampires and werewolves, all for the love of a tiny, helpless little ball of half human/half vampire joy. She survives what is probably the most traumatic c-section ever caught on film.
Bella is a mother. And from the description above, she reminds me of quite a few mothers I know and admire.
So to answer your question, Mr. Takei, I really hope my two daughters aren't so hard up for role models that they have to peruse teen fantasy/romance (or what you would call "sci-fi") books and movies for characters to emulate. But if they do find themselves making a comparison, I think they could do a lot worse than Bella Swan.
***This post was originally written under my previous blog name, Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance.***
This is a big reason I get on Facebook. To chill out and laugh at frivolous stuff.
One of the latest popular themes is twi-hating. Pithy pictures making fun of the Twilight Saga and it's cast of sparkling and shedding characters have taken over my news feed. I commented on a few; in one I actually promised I wouldn't go all crazy and write a blog dedicated to Twilight.
Whoops.
I don’t know why I find myself filled with a desire to defend these adequate, at best, movies (and books). Nothing about me screams twi-hard. I am not a 14 year old girl. I am not Stephanie Meyer’s bff. I do not have a collectors edition, sparkly-skinned Edward Cullen doll in the back of my closet. (Ahem.)
Maybe it’s because I always feel the need to defend those being bullied. Maybe it’s because I read these books as I watched my mom wither away of cancer; the light, sometimes frivolous Twilight stories were a much needed break for my overworked and emotionally exhausted brain, and in turn it holds some strange, sentimental place in my heart.
It started out as me making fun of other people making fun of Twilight. Take this for example:
Along the same lines....
Um, no Mr. mean, ugly, scary man, you are definitely not sparkling. You also don't look like someone teenage girls want to
Then we move along to the many Harry Potter-themed insults. Things like:
Now, I will freely admit that I haven't seen or read a single Harry Potter anything. Nothing personal against wizards, I just haven't gotten around to it. But I do live on planet Earth - coincidentally the same place all the twi-haters live - so let me give this a go.
There's this group of adults who are slightly obsessed with a set of books and movies, generally aimed at an age group much younger, that are all about a bunch of fantasy characters that could never actually exist in real life. These people like to make fun of this other group of people who are slightly obsessed with a set of books and movies, generally aimed at an age group much younger, that are all about a bunch of fantasy characters that could never actually exist in real life. I believe an introduction is in order - dungeon... meet dragon. This may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
But then things got a little more serious...
People started comparing Twilight to Star Wars.
Twilight.
To Star Wars.
Has the world gone insane? Has serious film study been banned from colleges world wide? Has all common sense been replaced with bantha fodder? Trying to call it a horror movie is one thing, but come on now. Twilight? A science fiction movie?
You don't put the cast of Glee into a room with Hannibal Lector. And you certainly don't try to put a teeny bop, romance saga anywhere in the same vicinity as one of the best science fiction movies ever made, let alone in the same genre! Pst... Star Wars fans, you are kind of making fun of yourselves by trying to.
And then I saw about a hundred variations of this one:
Now, I'm not usually one to take something frivolous and strip it of all that is funny. But then I saw George Takei (of all people) post this and he said, "
This is what has been bugging me the most with all the twi-hating. People aren’t picking apart the plot, scene decoration, make-up, or editing (I'd be right with them there). People are picking on Bella. What a horrible excuse for a female lead character, she is. What a horrible excuse for a role model.
Well, I have news for you... Bella is much stronger than Mr. Takei and the twi-haters give her credit for. Bella Swan is not the weak, stupid, pathetic little fawn she has been made out to be. Bella Swan is, in fact, a poster mom for Natural Birth. Now stick with me here, I’ll lay it out for you:
1. Bella makes her own informed choice.
The minute Bella and Edward discover she is pregnant, Edward’s thoughts turn to abortion. Not only that, but almost every other person close to Bella tries to talk her into terminating the pregnancy as well. Now I’m certainly not trying to turn this into some kind of abortion debate, especially considering my prochoice stance. But it is interesting to note that Bella is mentally and emotionally strong enough to thwart the opinions of all those around her, and make up her own mind about what to do concerning her body and her fetus. She listens to all the information given to her, and then makes her own decision. Hmmmm, sounds a little like informed consent to me.
2. Bella gets support and acquires a doula.
Bella finds herself in a position many young women know all too well: young, without her parents, and unexpectedly pregnant. Does she curl up into a ball and ignore it? Does she try to hide it from everyone around her, give birth in a bathroom stall, and then throw the child in the trash (a storyline I've seen multiple times in tv and movies)? No, she makes an informed choice, and then immediately seeks out support.
Rosalie Cullen, Bella's sister-in-law, plays the text-book role of doula during Bella's pregnancy and birth. She supports her decisions, gives her advice and encouragement, and steps in when her client is being ganged up on by friends, family, and care-givers. Yeah, she has to be tackled by a werewolf during the birth because she tries to kill her client, but come on.... She is a vampire. And even doulas get hungry.
3. Bella chooses a homebirth.
True, giving birth to a half human/half vampire baby by emergency c-section that must be performed by super-strong vampire teeth is probably one of those overly-detailed birth plans that hospitals frown upon, but I'm still giving Bella props for choosing the more natural route. We homebirthers need all the numbers we can get.
4. Bella risks her own life for the life of her unborn child.
This is another example that many women can relate to. Pregnancy for many mothers is a dangerous endeavor. But if high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, uterine tearing, and pre-eclampsia are scary, it's nothing compared to a vampire child that is literally sucking the life out of you from the inside out. Right?
5. Bella survives the dreaded baby-name ridicule.
Her vampire husband and in-laws don't support her. Her werewolf best friend is disgusted by her. Her doula is trying to bite her. Her unborn child is literally consuming her from the inside out. And through all of it, she still has the creative gumption to come up with 'Renesme.' Go girl.
So what was I getting at anyway?
Bella is human. (Er.... was human.) Sometimes she's happy and sometimes she's sad. Sometimes she stumbles, and sometimes she falls. She gets depressed and curls up in a little ball. She flies halfway around the world to save someone she loves. Sometimes she needs to be rescued. Sometimes she finds the strength to stand up to a bunch of invincible vampires and werewolves, all for the love of a tiny, helpless little ball of half human/half vampire joy. She survives what is probably the most traumatic c-section ever caught on film.
Bella is a mother. And from the description above, she reminds me of quite a few mothers I know and admire.
So to answer your question, Mr. Takei, I really hope my two daughters aren't so hard up for role models that they have to peruse teen fantasy/romance (or what you would call "sci-fi") books and movies for characters to emulate. But if they do find themselves making a comparison, I think they could do a lot worse than Bella Swan.
*****
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| This is not me. |
Friday, November 4, 2011
Zen and the Art of Thinking Like a Toddler
I have this picture in my head. A picture of what “thinking like an adult” looks like. This picture is colored by many influences, both internal and external. Often, I don’t like the picture I see in my head, yet I still feel strangely compelled to make it my reality. When that happens, influences affecting me might include my own OCD, other people’s harsh opinions, or mainstream advertising.
Unfortunately, this affects the way I mother my one-year-old. When I’m “thinking like an adult,” I find mothering Scarlett to be exhausting and stressful. She’s not following the rules. She’s not listening to me. She’s not doing what she should be doing, according to... somebody.
I have this other picture in my head. It is a picture filled with laughter, and fun, and unintentional learning. It is a picture filled with Zen. This picture most often takes shape when I find myself "thinking like a toddler." No rules. No borders. No 'Your Baby Can Read' commercials.
She has her whole life to learn how to do it “right.” At one, I want to let her explore what she wants to explore, however she wants to explore it. It sounds simple, but it is extremely hard for me. Story time is an illustrative example of how I can suck all possible fun out of a situation by thinking like an adult.
This is an embarrassing, yet probable look at a less than satisfying story time:
Scarlett shows an interest in a book.
I say something like, “Want to read some books?”
I grab three or four, pick up my toddler, and head for the couch. We sit down together and read the first book, cover to cover, in 8 seconds flat. I see this as a success, put that book aside, and grab the next one. Scarlett ignores my attempt to move story time along by reaching back for the first book, happily babbling gibberish that can most certainly be translated as, “hey, I wasn’t done with that.”
My adult brain is already bored of Duck is Dirty and I have some strong desire to move on to Dog is Thirsty. Or rather, you would think the desire was strong because I then try way too hard to get her to accept MY way. In reality, I really don't care which one we read, since I have read each one a million times before and will read each one a million times again. I just want her to do it MY way. Because I said so.
But even though I can use the sweetest, calmest, most enticing voice possible to explain why we should move on to Dog is Thirsty, it cannot hide the hilariously imbocilic stubborness I am exhibiting by arguing with my one-year-old over colorful cardboard.
Scarlett expresses her frustration the only way she knows how and starts screaming. “Resistance is futile,” her furrowed brow seems to say. I give in, we’ll read Duck is Dirty. Again. How unproductive this toddler is.
This time though, we only get halfway through the book, and Scarlett wants to start turning the pages backwards toward the beginning. My brain - the brain that tries to turn OCD into CDO - does not function well with this new turn of events. This is not the way books are meant to be read. Must go FOWARD! Must.... Finish..... Book!
So ensues the second argument of this funfilled story time, as I try to explain to my one-year-old daughter why it does not make sense to start Duck is Dirty in the middle and read backwards to the front. Duck simply cannot start dirty and then get clean, that is utter nonsense.
Conclusion of story time: Well wasn’t that fun. I should just get it over with and make Scarlett an “I’m with Stupid” onesie.
Thankfully for both of us, these instances only occur sporadically. When they do, it usually coincides with my feeling tired, sick, anxious, or stressed in some way.
On a good day, I’ll take the time to put on my Zen cap. This cap magically oozes Zen through my scalp, leaching all the OCD from the exhaustingly anxious crooks and crannies of my brain. Creativity and thoughtfulness regain control, and I try to consider story time with the brain of my 13-month-old.
Story Time Stuffed with Zen
Scarlett shows an interest in a book.
I say something like, “Wanna read some books?”
I sit down on the floor a few feet away from her and wait for her to pick out a book. Then I laugh at her adorableness as she toddles toward me with one of our favorites. She hands me Duck is Dirty, then makes a perfect about face and backs into my lap. This is a 10 1/2 on the 1-10 cute scale.
We read Duck is Dirty and she smiles at the way my voice rises and falls with dramatic inflection. She turns the pages herself, which cuts me off on almost every page. I try not to notice. As “the end” is coming out of my lips, Scarlett points to the bookshelf, signaling she is ready for another.
At my prompting, she’s up and back with Dog is Thirsty. Once she’s back in my lap, she decides to put that book aside, and picks up Duck is Dirty again. She must have missed something in the first reading.
We now read the book front to middle to front. Then we read it back to front to middle. Then she takes one of the middle pages in between her chubby, little toddler fingers and flails the book around 2 inches from my face. It doesn’t hit me though.
Then she closes the book and hands it to me. When I try to read it, she takes it out of my hands. Then she closes it and hands it to me again. When I put it down, she picks it up and hands it to me again. She is very proud of herself. Then she decides to see how the book tastes. She has tasted it so many times, there is a Scarlett-shaped outline of a mouth decorating the spine of the book.
This is repeated with three or four more books. She is playing. We are playing. She is learning. We are learning. She is meticulously studying each and every one of these books with all five of her adorable senses. I am meticulously soaking up the joy pouring out of each and every crook and crannie of her smiling face.
We are having fun.
Conclusion: Holy crap, we just spent an entire hour reading five books 9 times each and now it’s time for nap. Hot diggity dog. Story time is so friggin’ Zen.
I am Zen; I am Not Perfect
We all have our limits. Not reading the book 10 times in a row teaches her sometimes we are gonna do what Momma wants to do. Cause Momma’s needs are important too. And 9 times of Duck is Dirty is my limit, for fuck’s sake.
***This post was originally written under my previous blog name, Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance.***
Unfortunately, this affects the way I mother my one-year-old. When I’m “thinking like an adult,” I find mothering Scarlett to be exhausting and stressful. She’s not following the rules. She’s not listening to me. She’s not doing what she should be doing, according to... somebody.
I have this other picture in my head. It is a picture filled with laughter, and fun, and unintentional learning. It is a picture filled with Zen. This picture most often takes shape when I find myself "thinking like a toddler." No rules. No borders. No 'Your Baby Can Read' commercials.
She has her whole life to learn how to do it “right.” At one, I want to let her explore what she wants to explore, however she wants to explore it. It sounds simple, but it is extremely hard for me. Story time is an illustrative example of how I can suck all possible fun out of a situation by thinking like an adult.
This is an embarrassing, yet probable look at a less than satisfying story time:
Scarlett shows an interest in a book.
I say something like, “Want to read some books?”
I grab three or four, pick up my toddler, and head for the couch. We sit down together and read the first book, cover to cover, in 8 seconds flat. I see this as a success, put that book aside, and grab the next one. Scarlett ignores my attempt to move story time along by reaching back for the first book, happily babbling gibberish that can most certainly be translated as, “hey, I wasn’t done with that.”
My adult brain is already bored of Duck is Dirty and I have some strong desire to move on to Dog is Thirsty. Or rather, you would think the desire was strong because I then try way too hard to get her to accept MY way. In reality, I really don't care which one we read, since I have read each one a million times before and will read each one a million times again. I just want her to do it MY way. Because I said so.
But even though I can use the sweetest, calmest, most enticing voice possible to explain why we should move on to Dog is Thirsty, it cannot hide the hilariously imbocilic stubborness I am exhibiting by arguing with my one-year-old over colorful cardboard.
Scarlett expresses her frustration the only way she knows how and starts screaming. “Resistance is futile,” her furrowed brow seems to say. I give in, we’ll read Duck is Dirty. Again. How unproductive this toddler is.
This time though, we only get halfway through the book, and Scarlett wants to start turning the pages backwards toward the beginning. My brain - the brain that tries to turn OCD into CDO - does not function well with this new turn of events. This is not the way books are meant to be read. Must go FOWARD! Must.... Finish..... Book!
So ensues the second argument of this funfilled story time, as I try to explain to my one-year-old daughter why it does not make sense to start Duck is Dirty in the middle and read backwards to the front. Duck simply cannot start dirty and then get clean, that is utter nonsense.
Conclusion of story time: Well wasn’t that fun. I should just get it over with and make Scarlett an “I’m with Stupid” onesie.
Thankfully for both of us, these instances only occur sporadically. When they do, it usually coincides with my feeling tired, sick, anxious, or stressed in some way.
On a good day, I’ll take the time to put on my Zen cap. This cap magically oozes Zen through my scalp, leaching all the OCD from the exhaustingly anxious crooks and crannies of my brain. Creativity and thoughtfulness regain control, and I try to consider story time with the brain of my 13-month-old.
Story Time Stuffed with Zen
Scarlett shows an interest in a book.
I say something like, “Wanna read some books?”
I sit down on the floor a few feet away from her and wait for her to pick out a book. Then I laugh at her adorableness as she toddles toward me with one of our favorites. She hands me Duck is Dirty, then makes a perfect about face and backs into my lap. This is a 10 1/2 on the 1-10 cute scale.
We read Duck is Dirty and she smiles at the way my voice rises and falls with dramatic inflection. She turns the pages herself, which cuts me off on almost every page. I try not to notice. As “the end” is coming out of my lips, Scarlett points to the bookshelf, signaling she is ready for another.
At my prompting, she’s up and back with Dog is Thirsty. Once she’s back in my lap, she decides to put that book aside, and picks up Duck is Dirty again. She must have missed something in the first reading.
We now read the book front to middle to front. Then we read it back to front to middle. Then she takes one of the middle pages in between her chubby, little toddler fingers and flails the book around 2 inches from my face. It doesn’t hit me though.
Then she closes the book and hands it to me. When I try to read it, she takes it out of my hands. Then she closes it and hands it to me again. When I put it down, she picks it up and hands it to me again. She is very proud of herself. Then she decides to see how the book tastes. She has tasted it so many times, there is a Scarlett-shaped outline of a mouth decorating the spine of the book.
This is repeated with three or four more books. She is playing. We are playing. She is learning. We are learning. She is meticulously studying each and every one of these books with all five of her adorable senses. I am meticulously soaking up the joy pouring out of each and every crook and crannie of her smiling face.
We are having fun.
Conclusion: Holy crap, we just spent an entire hour reading five books 9 times each and now it’s time for nap. Hot diggity dog. Story time is so friggin’ Zen.
I am Zen; I am Not Perfect
We all have our limits. Not reading the book 10 times in a row teaches her sometimes we are gonna do what Momma wants to do. Cause Momma’s needs are important too. And 9 times of Duck is Dirty is my limit, for fuck’s sake.
***This post was originally written under my previous blog name, Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance.***
Monday, September 12, 2011
A "Spy Kids 4: All The Time In The World" Viewing Reveals I Am Officially a Car Seat ‘Nazi’
A word of caution: spoiler alert.
This weekend, we decided it was time for a treat. So the whole family headed to the movie theater to see the fourth installment of Robert Rodriguez’s Spy Kids series. I never would have thought that this of all movies would send me into an attachment parenting tailspin. From my blog, to Facebook groups, to research projects, I have become so immersed in the natural parenting culture, I can't seem to get it out of my head. I think I may have a problem....
Pregnancy and Labor
We jump right into the momma madness with full-term pregnant spy, Marrissa Wilson (Jessica Alba), clad in head to toe, skin-tight leather and 5 inch platforms. With neither puffy face nor swollen ankles, hot momma Marrissa jumps off an extremely tall building and flings herself down a zip line towards the bad guy. This is right after she announces she is in labor.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Seriously? Are they trying to be funny?”
Well, yes, of course, they were trying to be funny. But when you have spent the past year submersed in birth and birth stories, this over the top look at labor was puzzling to say the least.
Things got better in the next scene when Marrissa starts to chase Mr. Bad Clock Guy. Rodriguez doesn’t show her running full speed through the street, catapulting over the hood of a car, and somersaulting into a warehouse. Rather, she waddles through the street, heaves herself up onto the hood of the car and precariously scoots herself to the other side, and then staggers breathlessly into the warehouse.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Ok, that was pretty funny. Especially the car bit.”
The Birth
So Rodriguez has established the fantasy/tongue in cheek comedy tone with the crazy hot pregnant lady in labor kicking some serious ass. Then he makes what can only be described as a strategic move with the birth of the baby. After Marissa is wheeled through the hospital hall on a paramedic stretcher, her husband excitedly tells his two other children that they will have a new baby in 10, 9, 8.....
And that’s it. In the next scene the baby is like a year old. Rodriguez skips the whole birth. No what kind of drugs did she get? No did she go au natural or get cut open? He bypassed the whole thing, leaving no leverage for homebirthers and epidural lovers to shake white knuckled fists at each other through their computers.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“This man is a genius.”
Formula in a Sippy Cup
Yeah... I’m not even going to touch this one. Nothing to see here. Keep it moving ladies. Keep. It. Moving.
Crotch Dangler
Strollers? Super spy mom doesn’t need no stinking strollers. She straps her spy baby to her chest and is hands free to kick some serious spy ass. Unfortunately, it’s a Baby Bjorn-type soft structured carrier that puts most of the weight of the baby on her pelvis as she literally dangles from her crotch.
What I couldn’t help but think:
Sigh. “Robert, what are you doing to me? You were doing so well with the ten second mystery birth, now with the formula AND the crotch dangling?”
Front facing babywearing will almost always cause a tremor among AP fault lines. You have people like Dr. Kikilionis, who feel that front facing can cause sensory overload when the child is unable to make eye contact with the nurturer for cues. Others argue that when a child is primarily held between the legs and pressed up against the very hard, adult breast bone, it negatively affects the c-curvature of their tiny, little spines and can also cause damage to the pelvis.
Other mommas will no doubt chime in with counterpoints such as an uncomfortable baby is going to let you know they are uncomfortable. Many babies authentically do not like to face inward, and isn’t front facing better than not babywearing at all? There are, in fact, ways to front face - like the Buddha hold - that makes forward facing easier on the spine.
Personally, I have used wraps, pouch slings, and mei tais and have never found a need or want to forward face. Although I have to admit that I do think my baby would let me know if she wasn’t comfortable facing forward, just like she lets me know when she is uncomfortable facing in.
Car Seat
When retired spy turned stay-at-home mom gets a call to arms, she scoops up her bundle of joy and heads for her SUV. Once she puts spy baby into her car seat, computer techno arms come out of no where to perform the tedious task of securing the seat's five-point harness.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“That is friggin’ awesome.”
But sadly, my awe was short lived. And, here is where I have to go a little (more) neurotic. The first thing I obviously notice is the fact that she is forward facing already. This is a child who, at the end of the movie, takes her first steps. I don’t know how much she weighs, but I’m guessing she could still benefit from extended rear facing.
But the worst part was yet to come. Once the mechanical arms snapped baby spy into the five-point harness, the straps lay dangling loosely off her chest, and the camera cut away.
I gasped, instinctively.
This wasn’t just a slightly misread pinch test. If I buckled my one year old into her seat that loosely, she would be wriggling out of the straps, crawling under the driver’s seat, and eating stale cheerios off the floor before we even got one block from the house.
Are you seriously telling me that someone can go to all the trouble to create a machine that buckles a child into a car seat, and they can’t be bothered to actually read the simple manual to said car seat? And that’s not even addressing the whole extended rear facing issue.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Holy crap, I really have become a car seat Nazi.”
Gender Neutrality
Rodriguez saves a little face when spy mom sends two rockets to save her step-kids -- one pink and one blue. Going against the cliche, the girl crosses to the blue rocket and the boy (without any kind of homophobic apprehension) runs to the pink rocket.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Nice touch. Doesn’t make up for those damn straps though.”
Zenclamier: I really don’t like using the term Nazi to refer to any activists including car seat safety promoters. Nazis killed thousands and thousands of people in torturous devices. Sometimes car seat safety activists get a little over zealous in an effort to, ummm, save lives. I really don’t think the term applies. But you have to admit, it was a pretty catchy title. After all, you are reading this. And I am ‘Officially a Really Crazy Car Seat Safety Advocate’ just didn’t have the same ring to it.
***This post was originally written under my previous blog name, Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance.***
This weekend, we decided it was time for a treat. So the whole family headed to the movie theater to see the fourth installment of Robert Rodriguez’s Spy Kids series. I never would have thought that this of all movies would send me into an attachment parenting tailspin. From my blog, to Facebook groups, to research projects, I have become so immersed in the natural parenting culture, I can't seem to get it out of my head. I think I may have a problem....
Pregnancy and Labor
We jump right into the momma madness with full-term pregnant spy, Marrissa Wilson (Jessica Alba), clad in head to toe, skin-tight leather and 5 inch platforms. With neither puffy face nor swollen ankles, hot momma Marrissa jumps off an extremely tall building and flings herself down a zip line towards the bad guy. This is right after she announces she is in labor.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Seriously? Are they trying to be funny?”
Well, yes, of course, they were trying to be funny. But when you have spent the past year submersed in birth and birth stories, this over the top look at labor was puzzling to say the least.
Things got better in the next scene when Marrissa starts to chase Mr. Bad Clock Guy. Rodriguez doesn’t show her running full speed through the street, catapulting over the hood of a car, and somersaulting into a warehouse. Rather, she waddles through the street, heaves herself up onto the hood of the car and precariously scoots herself to the other side, and then staggers breathlessly into the warehouse.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Ok, that was pretty funny. Especially the car bit.”
The Birth
So Rodriguez has established the fantasy/tongue in cheek comedy tone with the crazy hot pregnant lady in labor kicking some serious ass. Then he makes what can only be described as a strategic move with the birth of the baby. After Marissa is wheeled through the hospital hall on a paramedic stretcher, her husband excitedly tells his two other children that they will have a new baby in 10, 9, 8.....
And that’s it. In the next scene the baby is like a year old. Rodriguez skips the whole birth. No what kind of drugs did she get? No did she go au natural or get cut open? He bypassed the whole thing, leaving no leverage for homebirthers and epidural lovers to shake white knuckled fists at each other through their computers.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“This man is a genius.”
Formula in a Sippy Cup
Yeah... I’m not even going to touch this one. Nothing to see here. Keep it moving ladies. Keep. It. Moving.
Crotch Dangler
Strollers? Super spy mom doesn’t need no stinking strollers. She straps her spy baby to her chest and is hands free to kick some serious spy ass. Unfortunately, it’s a Baby Bjorn-type soft structured carrier that puts most of the weight of the baby on her pelvis as she literally dangles from her crotch.
What I couldn’t help but think:
Sigh. “Robert, what are you doing to me? You were doing so well with the ten second mystery birth, now with the formula AND the crotch dangling?”
Front facing babywearing will almost always cause a tremor among AP fault lines. You have people like Dr. Kikilionis, who feel that front facing can cause sensory overload when the child is unable to make eye contact with the nurturer for cues. Others argue that when a child is primarily held between the legs and pressed up against the very hard, adult breast bone, it negatively affects the c-curvature of their tiny, little spines and can also cause damage to the pelvis.
Other mommas will no doubt chime in with counterpoints such as an uncomfortable baby is going to let you know they are uncomfortable. Many babies authentically do not like to face inward, and isn’t front facing better than not babywearing at all? There are, in fact, ways to front face - like the Buddha hold - that makes forward facing easier on the spine.
Personally, I have used wraps, pouch slings, and mei tais and have never found a need or want to forward face. Although I have to admit that I do think my baby would let me know if she wasn’t comfortable facing forward, just like she lets me know when she is uncomfortable facing in.
Car Seat
When retired spy turned stay-at-home mom gets a call to arms, she scoops up her bundle of joy and heads for her SUV. Once she puts spy baby into her car seat, computer techno arms come out of no where to perform the tedious task of securing the seat's five-point harness.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“That is friggin’ awesome.”
But sadly, my awe was short lived. And, here is where I have to go a little (more) neurotic. The first thing I obviously notice is the fact that she is forward facing already. This is a child who, at the end of the movie, takes her first steps. I don’t know how much she weighs, but I’m guessing she could still benefit from extended rear facing.
But the worst part was yet to come. Once the mechanical arms snapped baby spy into the five-point harness, the straps lay dangling loosely off her chest, and the camera cut away.
I gasped, instinctively.
This wasn’t just a slightly misread pinch test. If I buckled my one year old into her seat that loosely, she would be wriggling out of the straps, crawling under the driver’s seat, and eating stale cheerios off the floor before we even got one block from the house.
Are you seriously telling me that someone can go to all the trouble to create a machine that buckles a child into a car seat, and they can’t be bothered to actually read the simple manual to said car seat? And that’s not even addressing the whole extended rear facing issue.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Holy crap, I really have become a car seat Nazi.”
Gender Neutrality
Rodriguez saves a little face when spy mom sends two rockets to save her step-kids -- one pink and one blue. Going against the cliche, the girl crosses to the blue rocket and the boy (without any kind of homophobic apprehension) runs to the pink rocket.
What I couldn’t help but think:
“Nice touch. Doesn’t make up for those damn straps though.”
Zenclamier: I really don’t like using the term Nazi to refer to any activists including car seat safety promoters. Nazis killed thousands and thousands of people in torturous devices. Sometimes car seat safety activists get a little over zealous in an effort to, ummm, save lives. I really don’t think the term applies. But you have to admit, it was a pretty catchy title. After all, you are reading this. And I am ‘Officially a Really Crazy Car Seat Safety Advocate’ just didn’t have the same ring to it.
***This post was originally written under my previous blog name, Zen and the Art of Cloth Diaper Maintenance.***
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