Write-On Yoga Mama

Good Grief

2015-07-15T21:55:00.001-04:00

Me holding a tattered copy of my handwritten vows
on my wedding day.

I haven’t focused much on the grief I feel over losing my life partner. The extent and pure shock of his betrayals made me feel more like that partnership never actually existed. Why mourn the loss of someone who so clearly had such little respect for me? I’m better off now that I know.

I never experienced the pull some women have to stay with their partners in hopes that he’ll change. There is no yearning to go back, no unrequited love. But now that I’m working my way through some of the knee-jerk anger that has dominated my emotions, I do admit there is grief.

A lot of the grief is for the loss of the marriage I thought I had. There were ups and downs and it was damn hard, but we always got through the tough times. Whenever we hit an impasse that seemed to have no solution, a creative path forward would somehow appear. I thought we were in it together, sticking to the whole monogamous lifetime commitment thing and supporting each other as we navigated through life.

But apparently we weren’t. One of us didn’t want to come home at night. One of us wasn’t happy about our rate of wealth accumulation. One of us wished I was a more “dynamic person.” One of us wanted out.

So here I am.

I don’t know when it happened, but my life partner changed. I saw him enter a new phase of life, as he was so often prone to doing. I stuck with him through countless job changes, cross-country and even international moves, various fashion phases, advanced degrees, vehicle exchanges, and wildly fluctuating travel plans. Despite his many changes, the one thing he always stuck with was me.

I know it wasn’t about me. But that’s not how it feels. I’m the house that was no longer luxurious enough, the car he suddenly realized was too old, his childhood cat that got traded for a new CD.

I should have seen it all coming—both the way things ended and the inevitable hurt feelings that remain. But I didn’t. I was too busy holding on to my original vows and the good I thought I could see in him and in us.

Sit, Stay, Heal

2015-07-10T21:40:00.000-04:00

Now that my marriage is over (well, technically it’s not over until at least November), I’m getting intimately acquainted with the flip side of this rah rah independence thing. There’s this absolute, unsettling loneliness that takes hold after your life crumbles and an urgent need to connect with somebody—anybody.

Connection and community have the power to heal, for sure. But we have to forge connections mindfully, slowly, and with great intention or we risk missing out on the lesson our loneliness contains.

The poet Hafez articulates this so well when he writes:

Don’t surrender your loneliness so quickly. Let it cut you more deep. Let it ferment and season you as few humans or even divine ingredients can.

Practice is learning to stay and not react, in asana and in life. I’ve done a lot of flip-flopping trying to navigate and hold the tension between the reality of loneliness and craving for connection. It hasn’t been pretty, but I’ve done ok considering.

What I’ve learned so far is that there are no shortcuts. It hurts like hell. And I’m getting tough as nails…in a good way.

Independence Day

2015-07-03T22:11:00.000-04:00

I’ve never thought of myself as an independent woman, except in the juvenile, rebellious, “I want to do what I want to do and I don’t want to do what YOU tell me to do” sort of way. I always thought I could be independent if I needed to, but who needs that when you have a comfortable dual income existence and a man at the ready to open the pickle jar?

I discovered the hard way that independence is a thing. It’s a thing you need especially when life doesn’t turn out the way you think it will.

And it’s a powerful thing.

The best way I know to describe that thing is the way I felt the day nobody was available to help me get this piece of furniture I found on sale from Home Depot to my second-floor condo’s back porch. After every avenue had been exhausted, I called my mom to sit with the kids and then marched over to Home Depot, rented the biggest pickup truck I’ve ever seen, and drove that sucker down South Beach Parkway to my home. Together, my mom and I carried the sofa up the stairs with my 15-month-old strapped to my chest. I took a break to nurse the baby, and then drove the truck back.

The glass of wine I sipped on the sofa that night was divine. I had earned every drop.

I don’t think I ever would have experienced the full feeling of independence if the rug hadn’t been ripped out from under me last fall. I never would have so clearly understood the importance of earning an income in addition to caring for my children. I wouldn’t have tasted the satisfaction of having my own financial goals that line up with my values. I wouldn’t have experienced the thrill of a good credit score, an auto loan in my name, and the possibility of owning my own house in the near future.

Just as importantly, I’m discovering the joy of standing on my own two feet. I have reason to expect that I can be happy as a single mother. I can take my kids to the beach by myself and have a good time. I can put the kids to bed and then enjoy my own time to write, read, and sleep. I can have meaningful relationships with or without a life partner.

Some days I’m still not so sure. But I have to believe that this is what’s in store for me as an independent woman.

6 Ways to Cope with Chronic Stress

2015-06-29T22:28:00.001-04:00

Divorce sucks. It’s expensive, emotionally draining, and full of unknowns. I’m rounding the corner on 8 months of drama, and boy do I feel it.

Last week I reached a breaking point. After 8 hours of medical appointments for my 4 year old, a broken clothes dryer, wrapping up the busiest time of year for my job, dealing with last minute complications to closing preparations for our family’s previous primary residence, and coming face-to-face with the repercussions of my in-laws trying to sort out what actually happened to my marriage (you know there are 2 sides to that story), stress got the better of me.

When stress wins out, adrenaline courses through my veins. My head spins, and my hands shake. Lying horizontal in my bed is about the only thing I can do.

But last week instead of lying horizontal, I decided to google “how to cope with chronic stress divorce.” I came across a Psychology Today article that proposed a method for measuring the degree of stress involved in your divorce. I promptly assessed my situation and was not shocked to find that my particular blend of divorce drama lands me in the highest, off the charts, “go to the doctor now!” category.

There’s nothing I can do to make the divorce drama go away. I’m in a tough, transitional period. But if I’m going to make it through in one piece, I have to learn to curb my response to the situation. So, based on the article, Tara Brach, and my personal experience, here are my top 6 ways to cope with the particular brand of chronic stress brought on by divorce.

Cut yourself some slack. Stop beating yourself up for not being up to par emotionally, mentally, and physically. Give yourself a gold star for getting out of bed, showing up to work, and/or feeding your kids.
Offer full presence. In order to get “there,” you have to be here. Be with the anger. Be with the grief and fear. Lie in bed and cry if you can. Accept your responsibilities. Sometimes those responsibilities, especially children, are the only things that will keep you putting one foot in front of the other to move through and forward to peace.
Seek out sensory experience. Aggressively integrate pleasant, sensory experiences like music, essential oils, nature immersion, and massage into your daily life. If you don’t nourish your senses, pretty soon all you will feel is stress. Feeding our senses is a concrete way to build strength and remember what we’re connected to so we can be with the stress and fear.
Move your body. Stress puts us in fight or flight mode, which involves copious amounts of stress hormones just waiting to help us fight or run. Given that divorce rarely involves the need for a physical expenditure of energy (no matter how much you wish you could throw a punch at your ex), the best way to dispel that pent up energy is through exercise. I did this last week when I hit my breaking point, and it made a huge dent in dissipating both the physical and mental tension brought on by stress.
Sleep. Put the phone down. Go to sleep. Sleep deprivation impairs judgement, attention, alertness, concentration, reasoning, and problem solving. It also aggravates symptoms of depression. If you aren’t getting a full night’s sleep, you aren’t playing life with a full deck of cards.
Deal with one day at a time. You don’t have to refinance the car, sell the house, get a new job, and buy a new house all at once. These things take time and daily action. Maybe today you just need to cut up a watermelon for your kid’s school picnic and make a phone call to get that clothes dryer fixed. You can refinance the car tomorrow.

A Father’s Worth

2015-06-25T21:28:00.001-04:00

Last Sunday was my first Father’s Day as a single mom. I went to my Unitarian Universalist (UU) church knowing it might be a hard service to sit through. But so far I’ve found the church to be inclusive of people from all backgrounds, so I went with a semi-optimistic attitude about walking away with something that might resonate with me.

I made it through the first 20 minutes or so of Father’s Day cliches…and then they lost me. They asked all the fathers to stand to be recognized and then announced there would be a second collection from all the men standing. Children proceeded to canvas the sanctuary asking for money—an obvious play on the societal expectation that fathers are to provide for their children.

I tried to go with it and keep my sense of humor. I really did. But eventually I couldn’t help but turn to my mom and say, “Is this what we expect of our fathers?”

If I was a father, I think I would have felt incredibly devalued, even though it was just a joke.

The joke was followed by a meditation in which we were encouraged to reflect upon our favorite memories from living with our father. I love my father, but we had a pretty rocky relationship as I was growing up, so this wasn’t the easiest exercise for me. And I wondered, what will my boys do on Father’s Day when they’re old enough to sit in the sanctuary and understand the day? Hopefully they’ll have some sort of relationship with their father, but they probably won’t ever remember living with him.

The actual sermon focused on our tendency to either elevate or demonize fathers rather than seeing them as humans. But it too came from a place of privilege, of assuming that the listener grew up with a biological father figure in the household. As a single mom on the receiving end of copious drive-by advice, it has become quite clear to me that society assumes a father figure is a necessary part of growing into a well-adjusted adult. According to my therapist, there are even scientific studies that validate this assumption.

But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who have 2 moms? What about those of us who are adopted and never had a chance to meet our biological father? What about those of us who grew up seeing our dads every other weekend according to a custody arrangement or twice per year between sea duty assignments? Are we really worse off? And should we just skip church on Father’s Day?

Here’s what I think: my boys are no worse off for the lack of stereotypical male contributions to a household, like fart jokes and wrestling. Men don’t come with supernatural powers. They come with social, economic, and political privilege, for example, higher earning potential. But their maleness on its own does not confer the kindness, resilience, patience, and strength it takes to be a good parent.

I think male influence is important to the extent that it’s helpful to be able to look up to someone else who you can identify with. For example, as a woman, I enjoy action movies with female characters because I can better identify with the female characters than the male ones. I can imagine myself as Laura Croft Tomb Raider a heck of a lot easier than I can imagine myself as Indiana Jones. So it will probably be helpful for my boys to grow up seeing other men in various roles in their lives.

But even more importantly, I believe my boys need good human beings in their lives. They need to grow up being exposed to an array of good people with various personalities, races, genders, ages, abilities, etc.

I started going to this UU church because after what I’ve been through, I have an incredible urgency to ensure that I’m raising my boys to be good human beings. I want them to be honest, kind, loyal, excited about life, and true to themselves. I want them to have the qualities that every good father figure—and anyone involved in a child’s life—should have.

Blessed are they who have a good, loving father figure in their lives. But just as blessed are they who have a dedicated single mom surrounded by loving friends and family. Blessed are they who have a family structure that does not involve a man.

Blessed are they who are surrounded and uplifted by good human beings—uncles, grandmas, step parents, adoptive parents, and ethical, kind, loyal fathers who give so much more than money to their children.

Let It Rip: Anger and Letting Go after Extreme Betrayal

2015-06-17T21:34:00.000-04:00

It’s been about 7 months since my life blew up, and anger has been a close companion through it all. For a long while I was convinced that the high road was invented by bad people to get good people like me off their case after they screw me over. I still kind of believe that today.

In the first month, well-meaning friends kept telling me to not engage in the drama and to not give in to my anger. But honey, when you’re done wrong by your life parter of more than 11 years, shit is going to hit the fan. No amount of Tara Brach podcasts can deflect that bad blood.

In the process of trying to move through the trauma, I’ve learned a lot about how to work with anger. I’ve given into it in ways I’m not proud of, but it’s all been part of my process, which has gone something like this:

1. Get angry. You have to go into the anger in order to move through it. I vented to friends and family. I gave my soon-to-be ex-husband a venomous scolding. I cried…and cried and cried. I rode the elliptical like a hamster on steroids. Most importantly, I gave myself permission to just be angry as hell.

2. Feel the anger. At first, anger is intoxicating. I felt powerful, validated, and justified in my actions. But there’s a flip side to it. By the end of just one angry conversation with my ex, I felt the stress hormones coursing through my veins and went to bed shaky and drained. It didn’t take too many experiences to realize that the anger, however justified, was burning me up.

3. Let go for you, not for him. After a few months, I realized I had to let go of my anger for my own health and wellbeing. It had nothing to do with the high road or letting my ex off the hook. I had to start feeling something other than anger in order to live a life worth living for me and my boys. I have not perfected this step. Sometimes I still give into the recurring waves of anger. But I feel best when I can allow the anger to swell within me, and breathe my way through it like a labor contraction. Here it comes, and there it goes.

4. Harness the anger. Anger remains in plentiful supply as I work my way through betrayal and divorce. In addition to letting it move through me, I’ve learned to turn it into productive action. The quality of my anger shifted a couple weeks ago after I stopped nagging my ex about financial hang ups and instead turned it over to my lawyer and served divorce papers. It was a concrete step towards moving to resolution of all the outstanding complications. And it made me feel at least somewhat in control of what has been an out-of-control situation.

Lately I’ve been focusing on allowing anger to move through me without letting it drive my direction as I build a new life. I refuse to let anger control my personality and sour my daily life with my boys. I’m committed to using the energy that comes from anger to fuel my strength and resolve as a single mom. And I’m not going to use it to catapult me into premature action just to prove my worth to the world through an advanced degree or a more powerful career. I’m going to keep motoring on as a fierce mother of 2 young boys who need me now more than ever before.

The Gig is Up

2015-06-14T21:32:00.000-04:00

I was right. I had this sneaking suspicion that my days of play dates, museums, playgrounds, crafts, and carefully researched preschools was coming to an end. My therapist told me to relax and stop living in a place of unfounded, non-reality-based anxiety. I have a husband who loves me and who isn’t going to leave me tomorrow just because I express the need to make some changes to rebalance my personal and professional life.

A couple weeks later my husband didn’t come home. I cried that night—hysterical sobs—in the bed where we birthed our youngest son just 10 months earlier. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know if he was hurt or cheating or something else. All I knew was that my life would be very different in the morning. And my babies would wake up in a few hours just like every other morning, no matter what was transpiring.

It took about a month for the truth to show its ugly face, and when it did, I knew I had to go for my own safety and dignity. And so, I became a single mom at 34 years old with a 3 year old and an 11 month old. I know, it sounds bad. Whatever you can imagine, it’s worse.

The hardest part about being a single mom is not the insane, sustained energy level of living alone with 2 young boys. It’s not the fact that Daddy is never coming home ever again. It’s not even the loss of all hope of sleeping in until my 1 year old is a teenager, which is what I was sure must be the hardest part at 5:52AM last Saturday morning.

The hardest part is not being enough. There was never enough of me to go around before, and now…holy crap.

Every time my boys cry, I blame myself. I don’t have enough patience, enough serenity, enough perseverance. I blame myself for not being able to put my divorce drama aside long enough to give my boys the dedicated time and attention I used to be able to pull off. I blame myself for not having the emotional capacity to feel sustained joy from spending time with my children like I did as a married mom.

I’m not enough, and I need more help than anyone could possibly give me. Family and friends can’t replace the hole left by the loss of a life partner, even if he was a really shitty partner. And no matter how much of myself I manage to give, I cannot fill the void when my now 4 year old repeats, “I really miss Daddy.”

This is the hardest part—adjusting to our new reality and trying desperately to hold on to the flashes of joy that pierce through the overwhelming weightiness of what is now everyday life.

Guilty Pleasures

2014-07-05T21:00:00.000-04:00

I talk a lot about how hard motherhood can be and what a spiritual discipline it is for me. But lately I've been feeling guilty. Actually, I've been feeling really happy and... um... enjoying myself. I care for my 2 boys and work a part-time job from home. Still, last week I managed to sunbathe at noon, work out almost every day, lunch with a friend, and stroll the aisles at Target. I'm in an insanely good mood from the amount of sunlight and warmth I've snuck into my days through eating popsicles on the back porch with my toddler and turning him lose on his orange bike at the elementary school track while baby Leo and I walk laps.

Lately I've been thinking, this gig has to be up soon. This is too easy. This is too fun.

This is how life is right now. This is how I thrive--with manageable doses of meaningful work, simple pleasures, and plenty of margin to welcome the unexpected. How, then, have I come to view this pace as not enough, self-indulgent, and even lazy?

What kind of respectable person has time for on-the-fly play dates and the freedom to sunbathe at noon on a Tuesday?

Is it possible that this pace of life has some sort of merit? When I think about the difficulties that the rest of the world is struggling with--hunger, war, basic survival--I think I have no right to live the way I live. But at the same time, I feel presence and empathy more readily. When I'm not consumed with my own basic survival, I'm a better mom and more conscious traveler upon this earth.

I've also been watching my kids and how innocent and free they are when they're consumed with play and exploration. Isn't that the goal we're all trying to achieve? To get back to that pure innocence and enjoyment of life?

I don't know the answer right now, but I feel like I'm stumbling onto something with my current pace of life. Yes, I feel guilty, but I also feel hopeful that this life might give way to something more meaningful and impactful than I could ever have imagined.

A Mother's Day Act of Courage

2014-05-11T21:03:00.001-04:00

This is for the moms. You know who you are.

You ate half a bag of chocolate chips last night after the kids went to bed.

You worked out so hard last Monday that you couldn't stand up and walk to the childcare center to pick up your 5 month old.

You haven't had a solid night's sleep in 2 years. You haven't had sweets in 2 weeks.

You lost your mind when you lost your mom, but you go on, determined to find your beautiful, messy way.

You pushed a baby out with nothing to numb the pain but water and breath.

You're a physician. You can fit 2 fingers between the gap in your abdomen muscles, and it kills you.

Your second baby is due Saturday, and today you wore your bikini to let your belly soak up the sun and play in the splash pool with your toddler. You hate your thighs.

This is for the 50-year-old mom who looks back at pictures of her 30-something year old postpartum body and says "Damn, I looked good, and I didn't even know it."

This is for my husband, my neighbors, and even Facebook. Judge me, envy me, approve of me, ridicule me, turn your head...whatever.

This is for the moms, and this is for me.

And I have this vision. What if all the moms dared to bare their bellies? What if instead of going to websites with pictures of strangers baring their postpartum bodies, we could see each other happy and comfortable in our own skin at whatever stage of motherhood in which we find ourselves.

I know, there's modesty. There's cultural norms. But today there was the sun, and a cookout on my back porch, and an invitation to don my bikini. And so, I got inspired. I got comfortable. I got bold. Care to join me?

Hard Day

2014-01-29T21:51:00.000-05:00

Today is a hard day. There's nothing in particular that's extra difficult. I think I'm just in a funk from sleep deprivation and the piggyback illnesses that finally left our house. What's hard, and what scares me, is that I want to be anywhere but here.

After fighting so hard to fandangle a way to stay at home with my kids, here I am wallowing around in an icky gooey puddle of malaise, boredom, and exhaustion.

These are the days I said I don't want to miss.

Lately, I'm missing the days. My unmet needs for adult socialization, intellectual stimulation, and me time are clouding my time with my kids. Instead of doing something about those unmet needs, I'm overly relying on the television to fill the void between my kids' desire for attention and my capacity to give it.

I don't think that I need a big change to regain my presence and balance. The days are unusually mundane and isolating when it's 19 degrees outside and your newborn has bronchiolitis, which he caught from your toddler, who now has a stomach virus.

But I do need a serious time out.

It's time to refocus. It's time to remember how lucky I am to make faces with my newborn for an entire hour in the middle of the work day. It's time to savor the privilege of bearing witness to my toddler's unbridled enthusiasm for trains, fascination with counting, and innate concern for his baby brother.

It's also time to cut myself some slack for that missed workout, that extra hour of television, and that extra glass of red wine. The best advice I received leading up to the birth of my second child is to be kind to yourself. Being a full-time mother, however much I genuinely want to do it, is not easy.

In the past few days I've found some solace in this post I saw floating around on Facebook. Specifically, this part:

How was my day? Today has been a lifetime. It was the best of times and the worst of times. There were moments when my heart was so full I thought I might explode, and there were other moments when my senses were under such intense assault that I was CERTAIN I’d explode. I was both lonely and absolutely desperate to be alone. I was saturated — just BOMBARDED with touch and then the second I put down this baby I yearned to smell her sweet skin again. I was simultaneously bored out of my skull and completely overwhelmed with so much to do. Today was too much and not enough. It was loud and silent. It was brutal and beautiful. I was at my very best today and then, just a moment later, at my very worst. At 3:30 today I decided that we should adopt four more children, and then at 3:35 I decided that we should give up the kids we already have for adoption. Husband — when your day is completely and totally dependent upon the moods and needs and schedules of tiny, messy, beautiful rug rats your day is ALL OF THE THINGS and NONE OF THE THINGS, sometimes within the same three minute period. But I’m not complaining. This is not a complaint, so don’t try to FIX IT. I wouldn’t have my day Any.Other.Way. I’m just saying — it’s a hell of a hard thing to explain — an entire day with lots of babies.

How do you find your way back to the still waters beneath the waves of parenthood and daily life?

Adjusting Attachment Parenting for 2

2014-01-17T14:16:00.000-05:00

Both boys are home sick today. It's the first day since Leo was born that I've been the primary caretaker for both boys all day long. So far, so good. I've actually enjoyed the morning, and now both boys are taking an afternoon nap--at the same time! Just call me super mom.

One of the hardest adjustments for me as a mother of 2 has been watching my relationship with Cameron evolve. I tend toward attachment parenting, and it's not so easy with 2 attachees. In the good old days as an only child, Cameron enjoyed nursing, bed sharing, baby wearing, and copious amounts of one-on-one time with me. Now he sleeps in his own bed (can I get a hallelujah?!), holds hands and walks like a big boy, and goes to preschool plus lunch and nap for 6 hours every week day. I deem all of these things necessary in order to maintain my career on a part-time basis and establish a quality bond with my new nursling.

Let's talk about that new nursling. Leo has enjoyed at least a good 2 hours in his Ergo carrier today already, and I lost track of how many times he's nursed. But he also cried by himself this morning. He shows an obvious need for a nap around 8:30 or 9 in the morning, and when Cameron is home it's too noisy for Leo to fall asleep. So I do my best to settle him, and then put him down in his co-sleeper with the door shut to allow him to fall all the way asleep. He doesn't get the luxury of falling asleep for every nap on my lap like his big brother did. If we did that, either he would never fall all the way asleep or Cameron would self destruct downstairs while I tend to Leo upstairs behind closed doors. Cameron is a 2-year-old boy. He doesn't sit quietly.

Mommy guilt is alive and well in my psyche. I miss my one-on-one time with Cameron. I cringe when baby Leo cries alone. Despite my misgivings, our setup is getting easier and more sane with time. I'm so proud of Cameron for his growing independence and his ability to entertain himself when I'm unavailable to play. When Leo stops crying upstairs, and especially when he doesn't cry at all, I pat myself on the back for recognizing his need for sleep, and then I proceed to enjoy a few precious moments alone with Cameron.

What I can't wait for is the day when Leo and Cameron develop an attachment to each other. Already my heart melts when Cameron holds Leo, when both boys lie down in one bed together, and when Cameron imitates my soothing skills in an attempt to stop baby Leo's crying. There are a lot of needs flying around this house lately. My hope is that my boys grow up confident in themselves and their needs, and rooted in unconditional love.

Do you have more than one child? How did you adjust your parenting style to best meet everyone's needs?

My Second Chance Birth

2014-01-10T11:19:00.000-05:00

Today is my last day of maternity leave, so it's time to kick this story out into the blogosphere. I'd like to start by celebrating that I got my home birth.

Leo Scott, born November 25, 2013

Home birth doesn’t just fall in your lap. I drove an hour each way for my prenatal appointments, paid out-of-pocket for a birth assistant and medical supplies, and had to find a new pediatric care provider when my toddler’s provider said he wouldn’t see my baby if he was born at home. When I was 38 weeks pregnant, an insurance representative incorrectly told me that they do not cover home birth. A week after birth, I got stuck in another insurance snafu that made getting my baby’s newborn metabolic screening nearly impossible.

So why bother with the road less traveled when things could have been so much easier?

I had a vision of how birth could be. I’ve seen it in documentaries and read about it in Ina May Gaskin’s books. I sampled just a taste of it during my first birth, which rapidly turned into a freight train of runaway contractions, vomiting, dehydration, and Stadol. Everyone told me I did a great job with my first labor and that anxiety just got the better of me, but I wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t know if I had the capability of navigating birth and introducing my baby to life with the ease and grace with which I heard was possible—and I needed to find out. So, without further ado, here’s how my second shot at labor went down.

My first few contractions started the minute my moms walked in the door after their 12 hour drive from Florida. We were all hoping they would arrive in time for the birth and had no idea how close they would cut it. At first I wasn’t sure if the contractions were real. I braced myself on the kitchen counter for a clear, deep breath, then rested on the sofa feeling my way through those first squeezes. Two hours later, I was on my hands and knees in the middle of my toddler’s bedtime routine.

I called the midwife and birth assistant to talk my way through what was happening. We decided to call it early labor, and my team started their trek toward my house just in case things progressed quickly. Meanwhile, my midwife encouraged me to take a warm bath and then try to get some sleep.

At midnight the midwife was on my front porch, and the birth assistant was close behind. After an initial exam, the two of them decided to camp out on the downstairs sofas until I showed signs of active labor.

Time blurred once everyone in the house was sleeping. It made sense to let everyone get as much rest as possible so that they’d have the stamina to help me when things got intense. But there I was, awake and aching for someone’s touch. I choked down the growing knot in my throat and asked my husband for help. He broke open the essential oils and commenced rubbing my feet. Tears streamed down my face; I wasn’t alone anymore.

Over the next hour I dozed between contractions just as I had while on Stadol during my first birth. It was my most restful hour of the night even though contractions sped up to every 5 minutes. At 4am, my husband woke the birth team, and they came upstairs to start their care.

One of my birth plan requests was to not tell me how dilated I was or what station the baby was unless I specifically asked. Numbers got in my way last time and triggered unnecessary anxiety. But just this once, I asked for a report. I was coasting through labor and wanted confirmation that something was happening.

“Six centimeters, 2+ station,” said the midwife.

It has to get harder than this, I thought. Last time I walked into the birth center at 4 centimeters, -2 station and begging for drugs. My midwife said that because my water hadn’t broken like at the beginning of my first labor, I had a cushion between me and my baby’s head. I was proud of myself for coping so well this time around, but even more so, I felt unforeseen relief in the knowledge that my inability to cope last time was not my fault. I didn’t have a weak character or resolve. I didn’t have an unusual problem with anxiety. I just got dealt a bad hand.

Active labor was in full swing, and because I had tested GBS positive this pregnancy, I received IV antibiotics to minimize the baby’s risk of exposure. The birth assistant hung the IV bag from the ceiling fan, and after 15 minutes, I was free to move around. The contractions again sped up, and I headed for the tub.

“Do you prefer we stay in here with you, or do you want us out of your way?” asked my midwife.

The birth assistant, midwife, and my husband stood looking to me for instructions. The knot in my throat swelled again.

“I don’t know,” I said. Then the tears fell.

“Aw, get her moms,” said the midwife. That’s exactly what I needed—the silent presence of women who know me inside and out and understand exactly how to support me with touch, tears, and well-timed words of encouragement.

In just a couple minutes, my moms came up from the guest bedroom. What followed was one of the most beautiful parts of my labor. I couldn’t have picked better music for my labor playlist. My moms complimented me on how peaceful and relaxed I seemed. I drifted back and forth between deep breaths with eyes closed to eyes wide open and cracking jokes.

At 7:30am, my toddler woke up. The adults took turns watching him and ushering him in and out of the bathroom when he wanted to see what was going on.

Things started getting intense over the next hour. Waves of nausea hit me between contractions and my midwife thought for sure that the last bit of my cervix was dilating. I decided to move to the bed for a rest, but it wasn’t long before my midwife strongly encouraged me to get upright.

“I really think your water needs to break before this baby will come out,” she said. “Let’s get up and do some sideways lunges on the stairs.”

So after being up all night and headed into my 13th hour of labor, I got up. I gave my midwife the evil eye and headed for the stairs.

Every time a contraction hit, I’d stop on the stairs and squat. I kept going. I persevered. But right before 9am, I plopped down at the top of the stairs and despaired.

“I have to get this baby out,” I said.

I meant it, and my midwife could tell. I started seriously entertaining the possibility that I might need to go to the hospital for an epidural so that I could rest and try pushing the baby out later.

“Well, here’s an option,” said the midwife. “We can keep letting things progress naturally and not intervene, or we could break your water and see if that speeds things up.”

“Yes,” I said. "Let's do that."

“Now, you have to realize that things will probably get even more intense once we do this,” she warned.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

She did it, and she was right. She didn’t tell me until after the birth, but when she went to break my water, she discovered that I was still only 6 centimeters dilated—the same as the first time she had checked me 5 hours earlier. Breaking my water immediately opened me to 7 centimeters and ushered me into transition.

Just as my labor got every bit as intense as my first had been, my midwife made me get up. Again. I squatted beside my bed with every contraction and in less than 10 minutes I headed back to the tub.

The warm water helped me get a grip. When the temperature dropped, my mom would turn on the hot water and swirl it with her hand like warm ribbons wrapping around my torso. I felt the urge to push, but with every push it felt like there was no way out for my baby. I’d go with the urge and then stop cold against what seemed like a closed door pushing all the pressure back inside me with its unyielding tension.

I switched from deep breaths to low moans--the embarrassing ones that I never thought would come out of me until I experienced my first labor. My midwife coached my breath, position, and sounds. She asked me questions about what I was feeling. Finally, she asked me to reach down and tell her if I could feel my baby’s head. I could, but I still felt no relief or progression.

“I see hair!” she said. Still no solace.

Then out of nowhere, out came my baby’s head.

“Okay, Melissa, I need you to stand up,” said my midwife. She had warned me about this possibility earlier in the night. Babies can be born in the water, but if the head starts bobbing in and out of the water, it’s no longer safe.

I hiked my leg up on the side of the tub and squatted one more time. My mom says the midwife literally caught my baby, but it felt like she pulled him out as he broke the rest of his way into the world.

“Thank god!” I half sighed and half roared. I peeked down and saw my baby’s bluish skin. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” said the midwife. But I heard no cry.

“Is he okay?” I asked, this time with more urgency. My baby answered this time with his beautiful cry.

My midwife handed me my baby and I walked back to bed with my prize. My husband and toddler joined me on the bed, both with equally wide eyes. My toddler wasn’t in the bathroom for the birth, but I had prepped him with my Mamamor birth and breastfeeding doll, so he wasn’t fazed by the cord or the placenta that followed.

“Baby brother!” he yelled with a huge smile stuck on his face.

The third stage of labor, breastfeeding, newborn exam, and standard postpartum care followed. Everyone told me I could sit up or do whatever I felt I needed to do. But all I wanted to do was lie horizontal, admire my baby, and revel in how pain-free and at rest I felt.

I did it. I birthed my baby.

If I could go back and do it over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Nature dealt me a good hand this time around, and I knew how to handle it—one contraction, one breath, and one minute at a time. I got lucky, yes, but I didn’t just win the labor lottery. Birthing at home helped me avoid unnecessary tension by nixing the car ride to my birth site. It also allowed me to visualize the birth ahead of time in the very room it was likely to take place in. I practiced deep breathing in the tub and guided meditation in my bed. My nightstand housed a copy of CNM Nancy Bardacke’s Mindful Birthing.

And it wasn’t just about my experience. I believe what I did was best for my baby, too. I had gestational diabetes that was well controlled through diet and exercise. Despite our best efforts, nobody knew how big my baby would be. A 36 week ultrasound estimated 6 pounds, 11 ounces. At 38 weeks the midwife guessed 7 ½ pounds. On his birthday at 39 ½ weeks, it took me an hour to push out all 9 pounds, 12 ounces of him. If I had run into trouble getting him out, we had an emergency hospital transfer plan ready to go. It wouldn’t have been fun, but we all knew what to do just in case. If I had started in a hospital, my care team probably would have freaked out about me staying at 6 centimeters for 5 hours. If we got past that, I probably would have asked for an epidural, which probably would have further extended the pushing phase, which would have raised our risk for a cesarean section. Instead, we had a peaceful birth followed by plenty of time to establish breastfeeding before proceeding to eye drops, vitamin K, and blood sugar testing on the bed right by my side.

Another mother-baby combo could have faced the same situation and decided on a completely different route. In the end, I think birth setting is an extremely personal decision with no black and white answers. There are risks and benefits to every birth setting, and every woman deserves the freedom and authority to weigh them for herself and her baby.

I’m so thankful for my birth team, my family, and all the friends and health care providers I consulted along the way who lent me their best advice and knowledge. I ended up with a deeply satisfying birth experience that taught me how to voice my needs, fight for what I want, and confidently face each moment one breath at a time.

“So birth like a lion. Roar your baby out. Thrash and burn and yell and squeeze tighter….let the train barrel through you, hold on tightly, jump out of your body and right back in again. Deep down sounds—low in your belly. Growl. Yes. Birth is like this.”

Here Now

2013-12-31T17:10:00.000-05:00

I'm proud to announce the arrival of Leo Scott, born November 25, 2013.

He weighed 9 pounds, 12 ounces, and was born at home surrounded by family. I've been writing our birth story for the past month, but am still not ready to release it into the blogosphere. So, until then, I'll continue mumbling my way through my journey as a mother of two--count 'em--two!

I haven't done so much as a supta badha konasana since Leo arrived. Instead I'm focusing on the very basic task of breathing through every moment. When I'm nursing the baby and putting my toddler down for a nap, I breathe. When both boys are crying at the same time and I can't soothe either one, I breathe. When I'm awake for the sixth night-time feeding and I'm choking back tears wondering when I'll be able to sleep again, I breathe.

Between the breaths, I rest. I take hot baths, I exercise, I nap, I drink afternoon coffee, and I have red wine with dinner.

The days and nights are long and hard, but I'm determined to soak up every second of my time as a mother of two young boys. More than ever before, I'm convinced that motherhood is fertile ground for spiritual development and brimming with the stuff that tethers you to the here and now.

No Hospital, No Service: A Level-Headed Response to Home Birth Discrimination

2013-10-30T15:31:00.000-04:00

I've encountered an unexpected opportunity to advocate for home birth. When I called to arrange pediatric care for my new baby at my first son's pediatrician, I was floored to hear that I would need to find a different pediatric care provider because I am planning a home birth. My first reaction was to post the news all over Facebook and seek validation for my anger from family and friends. What follows is my more calculated response, due to be delivered into Cam's pediatrician's hands tomorrow morning at his well-toddler check up.

I feel the need to clarify that I did not include certified midwives in my letter below because they are not yet authorized to practice in Virginia, which is where my pediatrician is located, and I want to avoid any unnecessary confusion over midwifery credentials. Please also consider that this letter arose out of my very personal health care and birth decisions as well as what I think our pediatrician most needs to hear. My opinions are forever evolving, and I respect the validity and fervor of opinions and decisions that differ from my own.

Dear Dr. Wayne Eriksson,

My son has been coming to your practice for 1 year, and I have thoroughly enjoyed and benefited from our experience. I’ve found your advice in particular to be practical and effective. When I called to arrange care for my second son, due at the end of November, I was quite disappointed to hear that you will not provide him with the pediatric care he needs due to my choice of planned home birth.

I chose home birth with a certified nurse-midwife because of Virginia’s limited availability of freestanding birth centers staffed by certified nurse-midwives with pre-existing facility arrangements for emergency care. Instead I chose BirthCare and Women’s Health based in Alexandria, VA, which offers the option of birth center or home birth with pre-arranged emergency care and consultation built into their practice system. Given that my first labor and birth happened so quickly and given that the birth center is nearly 40 miles from my home, I believe the safest route is for the midwives to come to me at my home on the big day.

I am aware that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that birth take place in a hospital or birth center. However, their latest Policy Statement on Planned Home Birth also states that pediatricians should respect the right of women to make a medically informed decision about delivery and that:

“Regardless of the circumstances of his or her birth, including location, every newborn infant deserves health care that adheres to the standards highlighted in this statement.” (Of particular note, the statement says that newborns should be evaluated by a health care professional who is knowledgeable and experienced in pediatrics within 24 to 48 hours of birth.)

The goal of providing high-quality care to all newborn infants can best be achieved through continuing efforts by all participating providers and institutions to develop and sustain communication and understanding on the basis of professional interaction and mutual respect throughout the health care system.”

Less than 1% of women in the United States choose planned home birth. However, the rate of home birth has increased by 41% from 2004 to 2010, especially among white, non-Hispanic women. In the coming years, your practice is likely to encounter more mothers seeking pediatric care following a planned home birth. By denying care to their infants, an opportunity is being missed to provide patient education and to advocate for the safety of the baby.

I am aware of recent studies that found an increased risk of neonatal mortality, low Apgar scores, and seizures among infants born at home in the United States as well as the support and criticism these studies have attracted. I am also aware that choosing a certified nurse-midwife as your care provider at a home birth appears to mitigate these alleged risks. My midwives, collaborating OBGYN, medical assistant, and I have taken great care to ensure a safe environment for my baby and me, including GBS screening, availability of IV antibiotics and oxygen if needed, standard maternal and newborn screening procedures, emergency transfer arrangements, and ready pediatric consultation.

I am disappointed that our pediatric consultation will not come from Union Mill Pediatrics, but I hope that my letter may have a positive impact on your practice and your future patients. Thank you for your care and advice over the past year, and thank you for considering my concerns.

Respectfully,

Melissa Garvey

Life Stops for No Birth

2013-09-23T15:23:00.000-04:00

I’m 30 weeks now. My house is still a mess from our summer move. Cam has backslid into sleeping in Mommy’s and Daddy’s bed plus waking up crying multiple times per night. Set up of baby boy #2’s room hasn’t even begun…not like he’s going to sleep in it anyways. And on that note, where the hell and how the hell is he or any of us going to sleep given the amount of attention Cam still requires?

The past week has been a difficult one for me. Life isn’t falling into boxes of activity and organization like I had hoped and even strived for. There’s more. I failed my 1-hour glucose screening and now am awaiting the results of a 3-hour glucose tolerance test to see if I have gestational diabetes. Not only would that mean a rigid diet and blood sugar monitoring until the baby is born, but it would possibly change my plans for a home birth, to which I have become quite attached.

So here’s where I would switch to a positive note, except there isn’t a real one. There is only acknowledgement and acceptance. I mean, how much can I DO in less than 10 weeks? I want to:

Finish a baby blanket
Guide Cam successfully to sleeping in his own bed through the night all by himself
Paint my room, my bathroom, Cam’s room, baby boy #2’s room, and the basement playroom
Finish unpacking all our boxes from the move
Freeze a stash of homemade meals for those hazy newborn days
Make a list and acquire what I need for baby boy #2
Get all my holiday shopping done in advance.

That may seem realistic for some people, but for a woman with a 2-year-old and a part-time job, it ain’t gonna happen. The time for “figure it out” has passed. The time for “don’t sweat it” has come.

My capacity for fullness and openness is about to stretch once again. And in preparation for that, what matters is taking care of myself through rest, exercise, and self-compassion along with respect and kindness toward my toddler and my spouse. Dishes and laundry can wait. Naps exist for a reason. Moms (as in my moms) come to help with the birth of a baby for a reason. And thank god for preschool.

Baby, here we go.

Rediscovering Connectedness with an Everyday Altar

2013-09-12T14:36:00.000-04:00

In my early 20s I did a lot of foo-foo stuff. I was in search of my spiritual foundation, and I regularly veered from schedules and to-do lists to do things like make a collage of meaningful words and pictures from old magazines, write poems and place them on special paper in a 3-ring binder, and hang inspirational materials on my dorm room wall.

Adulthood has progressively squeezed most of those old activities out of my daily life. Instead I sit with my toddler while he tries to pee-pee on the potty, attend the occasional conference call, slip in a few hours of writing and editing for pay, and do the other normal, everyday things that keep household life running decently.

Last week I returned home from a 2-week Florida vacation spent visiting family. As I unpacked my suitcase I paused when I got to the birthday card from my moms. Usually I toss greeting cards, or at most place them on a flat surface until enough time has gone by that I can toss them without feeling guilty. For some reason I put this card on a ledge beside my bathroom sink.

The next evening I got to indulge in a shower by myself while Matt played with Cameron downstairs. As I began the post-shower routine of brushing hair and slathering lotion, the card caught my eye. It was a physical reminder of my connection with my moms more than 600 miles away. I looked at the rest of the blank tiled space on the ledge and considered the potential.

In short, I discovered a space of my own that I visit every day (some days longer than others!) that I can turn into a space for foo-foo things that remind me of my connectedness—with my family, my values, my inspirations, and the everyday divine that permeates my life.

I think what I have is the start of an everyday altar and the return of the all-important foo-foo in my daily life.

She Could Have Been Anything

2013-08-29T10:57:00.001-04:00

I've been feeling a little down lately. I'm sure part of it is pure exhaustion from being pregnant and still reeling from our recent move. But I think another part of it is the sequence of thoughts the whole house hunting project triggered.

It took effort to figure out where it would be best for us to look for a house based on our price range and anticipated commuting needs. We have a lot of flexibility right now given that I work from home as a writer/editor. In the future, though, our kids will go to school and it won't make sense for me to stay home, which means I'll probably head back into the full-time work world, most likely in or near DC.

And that's the down part. It's the first time I've realistically thought about my work-at-home bliss coming to an end. I love being a mom. I love being with my son. It's seriously the best job I can imagine. In the years to come, I want to be home when he returns from school and be available when he needs help with homework. I want to spend as much time getting to know my new baby as I've had the privilege of spending with Cam in his early years.

What gets me so down is that I feel bombarded with the message that the choices I've made are not admirable. The other day on NPR, I heard an author say something about her mom that I fully admit I once thought about my own mom: "She could have been anything she wanted to be." The underlying assumption is that being a mom and nothing more is a waste of a smart woman's life.

I used to want to write a book about my mom's life that would show the world my mother's exceptional traits and reveal the life circumstances that "kept her down" as a person. Since becoming a mother myself, I don't think that's the right focus anymore. My mother made very deliberate decisions that allowed her to be the best mom she could be. She was good at what she did and enjoyed doing it. And it's a good thing she's smart, because my brother and I benefited from her creativity, math genius, and open-mindedness.

I don't know what's next for my writing visions or my career. In the meantime, I'm trying to stay grounded in my journey as a mother and evolution as a person. Cam is starting preschool in September, which means more time to get work done during normal business hours and maybe, just maybe, more time to explore my aspirations after hours.

Motherhood and Meditation

2013-05-30T15:23:00.001-04:00

After 7 short months in our Centreville townhome, we put it back up on the market last weekend. By Monday, we had a ratified contract, and by July 16 we need somewhere new to live. With another baby on the way, my husband feels the need for a single family home with a big back yard, which I admit would be nice. So here we are.

In the midst of the upheaval, I'm feeling drawn to meditation. I tend to be of the philosophy that yoga and meditation are more states of mind or ways of life than rigid outward practice. But lately I just need to SIT MY BUTT DOWN.

The catalyst for getting me to stop doing and start sitting was a comment I heard on NPR yesterday: "Everyone should meditate once per day. If you don't have time for that, you should meditate twice per day."

It's not easy to find time to sit or do asana when you're responsible for a little energetic toddler of a human being 24/7. Every day is different, so I find that a daily schedule is a set-up for failure. Instead I'm trying to grab spare moments, for example, the 5 minutes between finishing my work and Cam waking up from his nap, or the 15 - 45 minutes it takes for him to fall asleep while I lie next to him at night.

It's not ideal, but it is practice. How do you carve out time to meditate?

What Really Matters

2013-05-28T00:16:00.000-04:00

It's probably best that I didn't post during my first trimester. Who wants to read about nausea, fatigue, and "holy goodness, what have I gotten myself into?" Complain, complain, complain; blah, blah, blah.

As I enter the second trimester, I'm feeling more energetic. We spent Memorial Day weekend in New York City, which has been a whole new experience with a 2 year old in tow. Simple things like subway trains, double-decker buses, and taxi cabs summon the same intensity of awe as our first trip to Times Square, as do dogs, dinner, and playgrounds.

The highlight of the weekend was our trip to the new 9/11 memorial--2 fountains resting in the footprints of the North and South towers. It was the first time that I've been to a memorial of an event I can actually remember. The water in the fountains flow down into deep, deep holes. It's forever falling into the ground, and you can't see the bottom. It was beauty and death and tears, and there I was leaning over the edge of the South pool clutching my 2-year-old and rubbing my swelling belly.

That moment was full. As I walked away, steering my son through the crowd, my dissatisfaction with my expanding but not obviously pregnant body washed away. I stood in awe of new life and the sweetness of my own. That fountain was gravity pulling me back to what really matters.

Now This

2013-05-27T23:27:00.000-04:00

I've been wanting to post since this happened:

But I chose to practice patience, and now there's this:

The first trimester was tough compared to my last pregnancy, which might have something to do with this:

We're overjoyed to be welcoming a new bundle of energy into our family sometime around Thanksgiving. I'll do my best to keep you posted on our new journey.

Pssst...You Aren't Doing Anything Wrong!

2013-03-24T15:08:00.001-04:00

Notice anything unusual in this lung scan? Look closely for the sobering answer to problems with sleeping, colic, biting, hitting, and everything else I have yet to look forward to with my son Cam.

Still don't see it? Look at the upper right hand corner for the big hairy gorilla that 83% of radiologists missed.

When I first heard about this phenomenon on NPR, I couldn't help but drop everything I thought I knew about navigating parenthood. I listened in awe as the reporter described what he referred to as inattentional blindness.

"...when you ask someone to perform a challenging task, without realizing it, their attention narrows and blocks out other things. So, often, they literally can't see even a huge, hairy gorilla that appears directly in front of them."

Parenting Through Inattentional Blindness

Whereas radiologists might be focused on cancer nodules, when something big hits our parent-child relationship, as parents our focus often narrows to "What am I doing wrong?" I know this internal dialogue well. What am I eating that's making my newborn colicky? What am I doing to make my kid hit? What did I do to make my toddler unable to sleep through the night?

From my experience, this approach rarely leads to "figuring it out." Take, for example, mother-infant bonding during the newborn phase. No matter how helpful the 5 Ss are, you can't just whip out The Happiest Baby on the Block and work mama magic on a colicky newborn. Mom and baby have to work at getting acquainted.

The Power of Observation

For me, the ability to work my mommy magic didn't happen until Cam reached 8 or 10 months. It came from countless hours of presence and observation--even lying sideways on the floor of my office when I discovered that was the only way he would nurse without crying. It also came from Cam recognizing that I was the source of his nourishment quite literally. (For the first few months, he tried to nurse his dad and multiple grandmothers.)

We know the power of observation from experienced moms confessing that every baby is different. I calmed Cam during the colicky newborn days by putting him in the Moby Wrap and riding my spinning bike to Konichiwa B*#!%es. My cousin calms her one-year-old by driving him around in the middle of the night. My colleague had to buy all new baby stuff for her second baby because he was completely different from her first.

Mommy magic does not automatically translate from one child to the next. It's built from the ground up with the watchful efforts of each unique combo of mom and baby.

Finding Your Big Hairy Gorilla

I confess, I'm still looking for the solution to my son's inability to sleep by himself and his occasional, yet diminishing episodes of inappropriate hitting. Try as I might, I cannot find that big hairy gorilla, and I don't think I'll find her anytime soon. I'll probably find her about a year from now when (fingers crossed) Cam is sleeping peacefully through the night in his own bed. I observed my way through 8 weeks of tortorous colic before discovering my son's obvious sensitivity to dairy as a newborn, and I expect that's how many more challenges in my parenting journey will play out.

In the thick of most challenges, I think the key is to take a step back and relax your effort. Accept and observe the hair off that invisible gorilla. By all means, look for logical solutions to whatever is ailing you and your child, but avoid rigid, extreme corrections that leave you both feeling exhausted, helpless, and no closer to finding that gorilla.

What do you think? Does this post ring true with your parenting experiences? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Warning: I'm Going Mom Blog

2013-02-09T15:29:00.001-05:00

I'm not taking the yoga out of Write On Yoga. I feel the need, however, to acknowledge a new direction in the content of my posts here. I used to have a mom blog and a yoga blog, but who has time for that? It also felt schizophrenic to discuss mom stuff and yoga stuff as if they had nothing to do with each other. For an update on how I plan to unite the two subjects, check out my new About page.

Fair warning to my long-time Write On Yoga readers (you are still out there, right?): this post is going to be a heavy dose of mom blog because...

I'm ready.

I'm ready to have another baby. I intended to be more subtle about it this time around, but I thought that would mean simply having the patience to get pregnant on our first cycle of secretly trying, surprise the family with a Christmas announcement, and let the cat out of the bag to everyone else at the end of the first trimester, which should be right about now.

Instead, we're on our third cycle of trying and shenpa has dug its dirty claws into my formerly nonchalant attitude towards achieving baby #2. If you have any sort of fertility challenges, let's pause for a moment so you can laugh and curse my melodrama.

For me, shenpa and trying to conceive go hand-in-hand. I just recently learned about shenpa--the Tibetan word for attachment or hooked--from Pema Chodron. It's that thing that makes you tighten and grasp desperately for something--anything--for relief.

During cycle #1, I felt relaxed, open. I practiced first trimester poses out of Iyengar Yoga for Motherhood and listened wistfully to Sarah McLachlan's "Building a Mystery." Now on cycle #3, I'm all tightened up about it. I'm on forums scouring for details that both encourage and discourage my hopes of having another baby. I'm considering digging out the basal body thermometer and Taking Charge of Your Fertility charts if this cycle doesn't work out. I'm pushing my toddler to wean faster than he would like just in case breastfeeding is interfering with implantation. There's nothing wrong with these things in and of themselves. In a weird way, the forums especially, are a fun part of trying to conceive for me, and I'm fascinated by knowing what's going on with my body, not to mention I'm ready to stop whipping out a boob every time it's time to nap or Cam has hit his head again.

What I'm doing, though, is reaching for these diversions to avoid sitting in the reality of being out of control. The space that I want to be sitting in is the truth that fertility statistics are in my favor and that it's perfectly normal to try for a year or more before getting pregnant.

That's so boring, isn't it? It's so much more entertaining to bury my head in self-perpetuated drama. But premature phrases like secondary infertility and aging ovaries are horror movies that come with negative consequences on my mental health. So I'm going to try to reframe this. Instead of focusing on all the maddening things about trying to conceive (cutting back on red wine and coffee, not knowing when and if I'll be pregnant, the two week wait...oh, the two week wait), I'm going to start exploring the inviting, fuzzy things about trying to conceive, like sex, anticipation (is that a fancy word for anxiety?), taking extra good care of myself, and enjoying one-on-one time with my toddler while I'm still a mother of one.

Practicing Ahimsa: When Your Toddler Hits

2013-02-02T09:23:00.002-05:00

The older Cam gets, the more he busts out with cute little antics that he no doubt learned from watching me. He talks on his toy cars, saying "hiyee" just like me and proceeds with unintelligible blabber punctuated with giggles. My favorite thing of all is when he bends into a Down Dog in the most random places--the aisle of a jetplane or under a desk at the office.

His latest stunt is not so endearing. It started with a plastic golf club at my dad's last week while playing with my 3-year-old half brother. Cam whacked Ty with the golf club, then a toy car, and then his hand. The 3 incidents landed him in time out, and that extinguished the problem...until we returned home.

This week Cam has been liberally hitting the dogs, Daddy, me, and his friends in gym childcare. One afternoon we did 6 time outs in a row to no avail. I'm embarrased to admit that he probably picked up the habit from watching me. My husband has a horrible routine of poking and prodding and generally pressing my buttons to see what kind of reaction he can summon. It usually ends with me reaching my patience limit and stopping him by using physical force.

So, we're working on that.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out what to do with my little hitting monster. I rarely use time outs, but in the past when I have, they've been highly effective. This time, they're not working. I tried clap-growling like Harvey Karp says to do in The Happiest Toddler on the Block. He laughed at me. I even tried slapping his hand, which was a new low in my parenting endeavors. He laughed at that, too.

By Thursday afternoon, I was entirely spent and awash with guilt. Cam laughed at my efforts to be authoritative, but I tend towards inappropriate laughter in stressful situations, and it's highly possible that's what was going on with Cam. And worst of all, how is it possible to teach nonviolence with the use of force and intimidation? I've criticized other parents for this in the past, and here I am.

I still don't know what to do. Cam isn't to the point of being able to hold an intelligible conversation, so I have to rely on body language and very basic words to teach. Whenever he hits me or the dogs, I've started saying "no hit" in a firm but gentle manner and following up with the sign for gentle--a soft stroke on the top of the left hand. So far it's not doing a bit of good at decreasing his frequency of hitting.

But there is one positive outcome in just the past 24 hours. We went swimming yesterday and every time I carried him around the pool, he'd stroke my back like the sign for gentle. So something is getting through to him. It seriously melted my heart and confirmed that I'm back on the right path.

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up

2013-01-20T23:04:00.000-05:00

Walking to the St. Johns River in Jacksonville, FL.

Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to be a mom. When my brother was born, he was my baby. I dressed my poodle in clothes and played with my extensive collection of dolls until the embarrassingly ripe age of 12. There was a brief period in my early 20s where I could not imagine being responsible for the life of another human being, but by 25, my biological clock kicked in and my desire for motherhood overtook me once more.

I still remember the first time I was prompted to think about what I might like to be when I grow up. I didn't want to be anything in particular, so I fell back on what I knew of the work world at the age of 8 and ended up drawing a picture of myself as a teacher. By the time college rolled around, I still didn't know what I wanted to be. Sure, I went through phases in high school--both marine biology and a brush with pediatrics--but nothing stuck. I majored in nutrition because of my interest in health and meandered my way into writing and editing after graduation.

Now I'm a mom. I still write and edit part-time from home, but my full-time job is mothering. Recently I found myself in that same old situation, wondering what it is I should do with my life once the demands of motherhood are not so consuming. What should I be working on now? Am I doing enough to keep some semblance of a career going? My kid will grow up eventually. It's not like I can keep this motherhood gig going forever.

Learning to use the rain barrel at Grandma's house.

I'm really good at being a mom though. And I think I've been ignoring that because it's really not all that convenient. I've tried like crazy to keep working full-time through Cam's infant days and stuffed the agony I felt from paying someone else to do what I wanted to do--teach, play with, and love my baby every day. I pushed myself to be career-minded, something I've never been and don't know if I ever truly will be. All that stuffing and striving landed me in a gooey puddle of icky depression.

What would be so wrong about really being a mom? What if I gave myself over to the vulnerability of being whole-heartily present and engaged in the business of raising my son? I found a way to make it work financially, so what else is there to do but do it? Too often I give myself over to the persistent whispers of what I think other people think I should do--what other people think is best for me, best for my family, and best for my son.

After all this time and all this doubt, I know what's best. I am a mom. That's who I am. That's what I do. There's nothing else in the world I'd rather be doing with my life right here, right now.

Compassionate Night-time Parenting

2013-01-16T20:00:00.001-05:00

If motherhood is a spiritual practice, sleep deprivation is one of its great tests. Until recently, I thought I was a night-time parenting master. But now, out of nowhere, at 21 months old, Cam is back to night-waking galore.

I revisited the 5 sanity-saving tips I wrote for new parents back when Cam started sleeping through the night. Now, in the thick of toddler sleep challenges, I'm struggling to accept my own advice.

Here's the situation: For the past 2 weeks, Cameron refuses to sleep by himself. If we let him cry it out in his crib, he falls asleep standing up, but only for a few minutes before he wakes up again and resumes screaming. The only way he will sleep is next to Mom and Dad. He could care less whether that's on the couch, in our bed, or on his toddler mattress, but the crib is most definitely not acceptable. Consequently, Mom and Dad are getting very little sleep amidst Cameron's thrashing about contentedly in our bed.

The LAST thing I want to do is accept the situation. Cam is not a newborn, and this isn't "supposed" to be happening. Surely there is something I can do to make it go away. Over the past 2 weeks I have:

Enforced a regular nap time and bedtime
Bought a toddler mattress with a car-studded comforter that Cam selected himself
Built a consistent night-time routine of brushing teeth, story time, and falling asleep together on the toddler mattress
Asked friends for advice based on their experiences
Started reading a book on sleep that appears to be consistent with my parenting philosophy

But we're all still sleep deprived.

It's really hard to ride this one out. I favor a compassionate approach to night-time parenting--one that takes into account Cam's needs and my own. When he was about 6 months old, that meant not rushing to his crib every time he cried and instead seeing if he would fall back asleep within 5 minutes. Usually it worked beautifully, and occasionally I'd bring him into our bed for some extra comforting. Today, that approach doesn't work, and I don't know what the new compassionate approach will look like.

There's no neat way to wrap this up. I'm working on accepting the situation before I take further steps to try to change it, and I'm trying to focus on being grateful for things like morning (and afternoon!) coffee, days at home with Cam, and tiny luxuries like burning a stick of incense. Although I'm not yet ready to accept this next part, I do have a sneaking suspicion that my previous conclusions on infant sleep are also true of toddler sleep:

All the warm baths, bedtime routines, and ideal sleep environments in the world cannot make our babies sleep through the night. Mostly, we do stuff to make ourselves feel like we’re doing something that may someday resolve the sleepless hell we live in as new parents. In reality, our babies sleep through the night when they’re ready. It happens when it happens.

Here's hoping that either I'm wrong or that "it" happens soon!