Nap Strike Humor

After trying for 30 minutes and failing to get Mabel to take her afternoon nap, we got back up. It took two hours to get her down this morning so I needed to get the chicken in the oven and a few other things before spending that kinda time on it again. She fussed while I prepped dinner, whined while I loaded the dishwasher, cried while I switched the laundry, and yelled while I took a shower. An hour of complaining. Okay, let’s go nap. Get upstairs, nurse for a bit, switch sides, yada yada yada.. Then she rolls over and starts talking to the ceiling fan in her sweetest ever voice.

I spent a minute envisioning punching her with my boob or something (Thwap!) but finally settled for “Mabel! It is time to go to sleep!” Which ended up sounding far more exasperated than stern, and in my normal level of speaking, but serious nonetheless.

She went completely still. Pushed her face under my boob and whispered for a minute (conferring with…?), then popped back on to nurse and was asleep in 30 seconds.

Seriously, who’s living under my boob?

Sleep is Like An Orgasm (or, Finding Empathy)

Usually, when I watch my daughter try to fall asleep, it is with utter confusion. It’s obvious she’s tired, it’s clear that she wants to be asleep, and yet, there she is, awake. It’s unbelievable to me, the sleep deprived mom. How can she want something so badly and not be able to just give into it, just go to sleep?

I jump through all her hoops; I hold my body just so while we side lie nurse, I pace the floor in just the right rythym, I sway her in my arms just right – not too fast, not too slow, and move my own body just the way she likes. I didn’t make these hoops up, they are time tested and proven, the product of many nights’ trial and error. And yet, sometimes, they just don’t work. I haven’t empathetically understood her inability to just go to sleep…until tonight.

Tonight a new epiphany struck my tired mind. (How tired? Keep reading…) Mabel flopped from one position to another, trying to find the perfect spot and when she couldn’t get comfortable enough to find sleep, she whined and then cried in frustration. Watching my daughter try, actually work to, fall asleep, it struck me – it’s like an orgasm.

Now don’t freak out, I’m not attributing sexuality to my infant daughter. I am attributing sexuality to myself (which, to be frank, is an equally absurd idea lately, I might choose sleep over an orgasm). I have found a way to wrap my head around this physical inability she sometimes seems to have to fall asleep.

Think about it. Even if all the right buttons are pushed, sometimes it just doesn’t happen, even if you hold your leg just so. Right? Sometimes you could just cry from the frustation of it. Right?

Okay, it’s weird. But tonight, when my back and knees were loudly complaining at the extended nursebounceswaytwist combo we had going, the humorous parallel bought me enough bemused patience that I was able to get Mabel to sleep, gently and lovingly.

Find your own thing, your own way to understand what it is the tiny, nonenglish speaking, mass of doughy rolls and toothless mystery, is going through. Whatever you choose – humor, zen, actual research – you’re going to need some kind of perspective and empathy to get you through a bazillion nap and bed times with sanity intact.

What is your strangest coping strategy for nighttime parenting?

Waking Moment

Mabel wanted to take a nap an hour after we got up. I didn’t want to nap. I wanted to drink my hot vanilla coffee and get started in the garden before the storms hit this afternoon. Mabel is very convincing, so up to the dark and air conditioned bedroom we went. We laid down to nurse but she wasn’t falling asleep, which was irritating considering how far away my vanilla coffee was. We bounced and walked but it didn’t work, and my thoughts kept roaming to the garden. Finally, we lay down again, under a comforter thanks to the ac, and she pressed her baby buddha body against my curves in a way that demanded my attention. I focused my eyes on her and my thoughts turned to how her posture seemed to say that she sometimes wished we could still occupy the same exact space the way we did before she was born. I hummed her favorite song and snuggled her as tight as I could. I forgot about the coffee and the garden and focused on matching my breath to hers. She fell asleep. Neither of us moved. When she woke up her eyes opened to mine and she smiled, leaned forward, and planted a drooly kiss right on my lips. The coffee was just as good cold and the garden didn’t grow legs and run away. That hour and a half in bed cost me nothing but earned me the sweetest waking moment with my baby.

Nap Oasis

My daughter requires that I lay with her for naps. She’s 8.5 months old and stirs awake between sleep cycles. If I am here beside her she will stir, her gaze will find me, and sometimes she’ll drift back to sleep. More often than that, she will stir with closed eyes and open mouth, rooting for the comfort of the breast to ease her back to sleep. If I am not here beside her when she stirs and hovers momentarily in the land between asleep and awake, she will awaken fully and cry out for me; her nap will end prematurely, leaving her sleep deprived and cranky.

And so, two or three times a day I stop what I am doing and take my daughter to bed. We share a bed in the master bedroom, a comfortable queen. The room is kept dark and cool no matter the time of day or the weather outside. It is our shared oasis.

We snuggle together as she nurses to sleep. I stroke her back and she studies my face – sometimes with her eyes and sometimes with a hand, tiny fingers stroking and poking. Many days she needs a few minutes to settle and so we play first; we talk to the ceiling fan, practice blowing raspberries, explore new sounds as she learns them, and giggle through a few tickles. When she is tired, she begins to hum while she nurses, her hands and feet slow, and she sleeps.

When she is fully asleep, I gently pull my nipple from her slack mouth and roll away. This is progress. She used to require that I stay tight to her, that she be latched on. She is slowly learning how to nap without me. Without tears, without training, without a fight to force independence she’s not ready for, she is learning.

I used to resent the time I spent laying in bed during daylight hours. I used to lay here and think about the housework or errands. I would will my daughter to nap quickly so I could get back to doing something more productive.

I realized, however, that these hours were beginning to be a delight. I’ve read more books in the last few months than I did in the decade before. I connect with other moms in online groups and forums. I slow down and blog. Everyday my daughter forces me to leave the to do list, the mess, the hustle and bustle of the day and spend a little time with her, and then with myself. I am grateful to her for this. I will miss these oasis moments when she is past the age of needing me so close.

Soon she will wake from her nap. She’ll rub her face and open her eyes. She’ll stare at the ceiling fan and blink herself awake. Sometimes she talks quietly to herself as she wakes up. Eventually, when she’s ready, she’ll turn and smile at me. She’ll find me where she left me, exactly where she expects me to be, and she’ll smile joyfully.

Cartoon Me

What mothers mean: “Today I went to the grocery store. I pushed around the cart with one hand, managing to avoid every obstacle in the course, because my other hand was helping the baby, in a carrier strapped to the front of me, nurse. I also kept track of how much I was spending on my calculator and managed to mark off the shopping list while I went. I did this while fielding calls from my husband. And dancing, because dancing keeps the baby happy.”

I know this is true now because that is exactly what I did today, I went grocery shopping.

I also drove home, ate lunch, started a pot of spaghetti sauce, and laid down so the baby could take a nap.

Translation?

I drove home singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider in escalating amounts of volume to be heard over the screaming baby in the back, before remembering the sleep song is now, randomly, Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus. Once I made the switch, the baby fell asleep.

I ate lunch standing up and dancing (a generous word for the waving around of arms and legs that amuses baby long enough for me to bite, chew, and swallow 20 times), while putting away groceries.

I tossed once-again-crying-and-tired baby on my back so I could start the sauce, tossing ingredients around like the Swedish Chef, simultaneously singing (You Are My Sunshine) and dancing (never stop dancing).

The sauce set to simmer, I scurried upstairs with baby, laid down with her in my bed and popped a boob in her mouth, while singing the Jesus sleep song. With baby asleep, but me not quite free to go as she requires nursing between sleep cycles, I alternated sneaking downstairs to stir the sauce and laying upstairs beside her perusing the great, sanity saving, interwebs.

So. What’d I do today? Eh, went grocery shopping.

Cartoon moms aren’t actually cartoons, they’re portraits.

Mabel Loves My Breasts

Mabel loves my breasts. Not the way you might enjoy a typical glass of milk. Not even in the same way you might really, really enjoy a tall, cold, perfectly refreshing glass of milk with a thick slice of rich chocolate cake. No, Mabel loves my breasts like they have names; like they have names that she knows, names that she knows because they told her. I think Mabel has a relationship with my breasts, she thinks they’re alive, she LOVES them.

Now that she’s 8 months old, she doesn’t just cozy up and nurse. She strokes the exposed skin with an open palm, showing a gentleness I’d wish she’d allow my hair. She stares at my breasts, covered or not, and babbles in their sweet and special language. She’ll pull away while nursing and murmur something softly right against my nipple, she’ll giggle and bury her face in them. At night she lays next to me, both of us on our sides, and nurses to sleep – but only if her hand is allowed to stroke and rest on my other breast. It’s serious, she’s in love.

Watching Mabel love on my breasts has started me thinking about love of self in general. Unlike Mabel, I don’t love my breasts, I don’t look at them with awe and admiration. I haven’t even thought to look on them, the sustainer and ultimate comforter of my firstborn, with gratitude. I see their shape and call it wrong, I see their size and label them as lacking.

My body makes me uncomfortable and so I choose not to think of it, or think of it negatively, instead of coming to terms with all that I am, instead of accepting gracefully and gratefully the raw beauty that is my Self.

I’d like to fix this. I’d like to change the way I see myself before I teach the next generation to look at herself through hate colored lenses. And not just my physical self, but all of me. I’d like to begin to accept myself as is. I’d like to feel more like the person reflected in Mabel’s eyes.

What about you? Have you found the secret to self-love and acceptance?

A Different Kind of Life

I’m sitting in the running car outside of my own house, listening to an awful radio station because it’s what comes in. My groceries need to be refrigerated so I have the AC on. The ribs I had planned for dinner needed to go in 30 minutes ago in order to be ready on time (and not mess with our bedtime routine) so I’ve come up with a new dinner plan that has nothing to do with the ribs that have been marinating since 9 a.m.

My daughter is asleep in the back seat. If I try to move her she’ll wake up. If she wakes up too early from what will be her last nap of the day there’s a very good chance my generally happy life will suddenly royally suck. So, here we sit. Her, sleeping. Me, protecting the sanity of a household.

Two things occur to me while I sit and wait listening to truly horrific music. One is that I’m really grateful to own a smart phone in moments like these. The second is that motherhood has made me an entirely different person than I used to be.

My house looks a bit like it recently played host to an infant fraternity. I admit I have forgotten to cook a vegetable with dinner more than I’ve remembered lately. My eyebrows are threatening a facial take over and, more often than not, my leaving-the-house outfits are comprised of whatever sort-of-matches, fits, and has the least amount of food or spit up on it. When I see friends who don’t have young kids we have these awkward pauses that were never there before while we figure out where we still connect. I used to throw dinner parties that started at 8 p.m., now I rarely accept an invitation that starts later than 2 p.m.

I’m different, life is different. I say things and do things (and wear things!) I swore I never would.

It’s an adjustment. Sometimes it’s a really, really hard adjustment, but it’s okay. It’s more than okay. It’s fantastic. It’s a gift. It’s a finding of self I never imagined. This little girl has changed me, it’s true, and I couldn’t be happier with where we’re headed.

I am, however, going to invest in a few CDs for the car.

What Not To Say

You know what I hate being asked?

“Why is your anxiety so bad today?”, or “What’s causing your anxiety?”, or “Why is today so hard?”

If I knew the answers to any of those questions I’d probably be a lot better off than having to tell someone, “I’m sorry, my anxiety is really bad today.” or “I’m not doing very well today.” It’s the downside of being so self-aware. I understand that when my anxiety is particularly bad or my mood is swinging particularly low, it means I’m probably being difficult in my relationships. Because my mental health is not anyone’s fault, I don’t like to punish people when I’m having a bad day. So I say “I’m sorry” when I realize that’s happening, and then I get the questions. Suddenly I feel like, not only am I being disruptive in my relationships, but I need to know and be able to put into words the reasons why I feel the way I do, why I act the way I do. I suppose I’m fortunate for the times people ask the questions. At least that tends to mean they believe me. It’s even harder to apologize to someone for something I can’t control and have them think I shouldn’t be using my mental health issues as an “excuse”.

You know what I hate to hear?

“You should take fish oil.” or, “You should make sure you’re getting some exercise everyday.” or, “You should cut back on your (insert person’s pet toxin of choice).”

I might smile and nod while you tell me these things. I might offer that I exercise as often as I’m able, that I take the recommended supplements. I might outline the many ways in which my eating habits are above and beyond the average. I might even understand that you’re trying to help me because you care. I might remember to appreciate that.

But what I feel is responsible. I feel as though if I could just exercise more, find the winning supplement combination, be just a little more exacting with my diet… if I could just do the One Right Thing than all of this would go away. I’d be cured; no more anxiety, no more mania or depression. Just me and the perfect blend of fish oil, exercise, and whole grains.

I feel the blame you are assigning with your words. I feel the fault of my mental illness being laid at my feet; I am helpless to prevent myself from shouldering the load. If I only I could do more, try more, research more. If only I worked harder, I could be well.

I know that these are not the things you mean for me to feel. I know that you mean well. When I am at my best I am able to trust your intentions. And so…

You know what I like to hear instead?

“I’m sorry, is there anything I can do?”

Nine times out of ten the answer will be no. No, there is nothing you can do that will take away this anxiety. There is nothing you can do that is going to convince me in this moment that all is right with the world. There is nothing you can do to restore peace to a very troubled soul.

Except…

Except for the one thing that you just did, which is to tell me, through your question, that you acknowledge that I am being truthful about my state of mind and heart, and that you are willing to support me in the moment of my distress; that you do not assign blame but you are willing to share the burden. I won’t need anything from you, except to know that you are there when it is hard as readily as you are there when it is easy.

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Fearing the Foolish

I wish I’d spent more of my life looking foolish. As silly as it sounds, in a life filled with glaringly bad decisions, this is my one regret. I wish I hadn’t been so afraid to spend a little time looking foolish.

Sometimes I lay awake in bed at night and watch my daughter sleep, snuggled up close to me in perfect contentment. I think about all the things I want to teach her, about this whole big world and the little pieces of it I’ve seen. I don’t just want her to have more opportunities than I had, I want her to be a better person than I have ever been able to be.

I don’t want her to be afraid. More than anything I don’t want my fears to become hers.

I paused to wonder the other day what my life might look like if I hadn’t been so afraid all of the time – afraid to fail, afraid of not being in control (and actually showing it!), afraid of feeling uncomfortable and, most of all, afraid to look foolish. There are so many things I didn’t do, journeys I didn’t go on, because I was afraid of one of these things. I’ve spent so much time worried about what other people were thinking about me, concerned about how I looked to the passersby, perfecting and presenting this canned image of myself, that I’ve missed more chances than I’ve taken.

I didn’t spend a semester of high school at sea, despite my love of sailing, because I was afraid of getting seasick going through the Panama Canal. I skipped my high school graduation because I was afraid of walking across the stage in front of all of those people. I’ve never learned to ski or snowboard, although I love the idea of it, because I worry about falling and failing and looking foolish in front of whomever takes the time to teach me. I haven’t allowed myself to be taught any number of things, in fact, because I was afraid I wouldn’t look good learning how to do them and I wouldn’t master them quickly enough to impress those around me.

I haven’t played games at parties because I didn’t know how to play them. I haven’t taken fitness classes, worn bright colors, sung at an open mic, traveled by myself, taken big and bold chances, and so, so much more, all because I’ve been afraid. I’ve missed opportunities to work with a band or begin one of my own because I was afraid of what I would sound like while learning something new. I closed a profitable company because I was afraid it would fail. I’ve turned down business offers because I was afraid to try. I have lost chances to meet people, gain knowledge, learn skills, and live a truly full life.

More than addiction, more than failed adventures, more than any instance in which I said “yes”, I am haunted by the regret of all of the times that, out of fear, I said “no”. This sort of half-lived life is not what I want for Mabel.

And so I am learning to say “yes” when I want to say “no”, because that little girl is going to grow up with her eyes fully on me and she’ll do what I do more than what I say. I’d rather her see me try a hundred things and fail at all of them than let her watch me sit and do nothing at all.

For her to be better than I’ve ever been, I have to be better than I thought I could be.

Even if that means looking foolish.

The “Christian” Reaction

I have been saddened, confused, and often disgusted by the Christian reaction to the struggle for equality taking place in our nation. I say “the Christian reaction”, though I know many Christians who strongly support equality, because those who protest the rights of others seem to be those that the world hears. I say “the Christian reaction” because, with some exceptions, our churches and our leaders still pride themselves on their staunch stance of disapproval and their willingness to say “the unpopular thing.” In so many churches the ability to rise above ideas like tolerance is worn like a badge of honor, and those of us who enjoy the world with a softer and milder approach are thought to have fallen victim to approval seeking behavior, lacking in the strength to stand against popular opinion.

What arrogance is it that these people never stop to ask themselves if it may be they who are wrong.

It saddens me that there is a world of people convinced that they are hated because of who they choose to love. Many would say “I hate the sin, not the sinner.” Having been on the sinner side of the equation I can assure you, hate feels like hate no matter what part of me it’s directed at.

It saddens me that an entire population of people is being made to feel as though God is only accessible to them if they are willing to set aside a piece of themselves to reach Him, a theology without precedent in Christ. Let me be clear, if your only interest in my soul is outlining the sin within it; if you feel like you need to tell me, “God loves you but not your sin”, or you want to sit with me and share the scriptures that tell me where I’m in the wrong without a solid foundation of mutual love and respect between us, you are not adequately showing me a loving and accessible God.

I am confused by a church that taught me for years that the most important role we Christians play in this life is to bring the love of Christ to an unbelieving world, that souls claimed for God is our greatest success, and then alienates an entire population of the world with talk of hate and division.

I am confused by a church that demands freedom from state and government influence and intrusion, but meddles in government affairs with lobbying and protests and boycotts and public statements of position on topics not at all the affair of the church.

Speaking of affairs, I am confused by a church that does not protest the laws of divorce as an attack on marriage. Call me simpleminded but isn’t the ending of a marriage more of an attack on the institution than a wedding?

I am confused as to why Christians feel they own the idea of marriage – I’d be willing to bet that people were getting married many, many years before there was a Christian theology to practice and preach at those of us who are doing it wrong. I am confused by how a wedding of people who are strangers can undermine your own marriage, how any declaration of love can impact the institution of marriage as a whole.

And, finally, I am disgusted: by the hypocrisy and the doubletalk running rampant within so much of the church; that so much attention is focused outward when so much needs work on the inside. I am disgusted by the lies these Christians tell themselves, by the scripture tossing that is used to defend a bigoted and hateful position. I am appalled that the modern day Christian uses their Bible to rob others of civil liberties in the same way that those who went before them oppressed women and enslaved minorities.

I am disgusted that, no matter how many times it’s said, these Christians cannot understand (or do not care) that they are hurting people; their behavior and protests and angry letters and Facebook statuses and viral memes are all causing actual pain to actual people who have done nothing to deserve the onslaught that is the Christian attack.

The truth is you cannot convince a population of people how wonderful and loving God is by actively protesting their civil liberties and meddling disapprovingly in their very personal and very real matters of the heart. The truth is that showing people a wonderful and loving God is the only Christian public service that really matters at all.

The only hope I can offer is that there exists a different kind of Christian from the one described above. There is a body of believers that, together, builds a church of the spirit focused on communion. There is a movement of love quietly sweeping the nation. It is my belief that the power of love is greater than that of hate. It is my fervent prayer that someday soon the voice of this movement will drown out that of a church too far gone from the model of Christ.