Today, I transformed the bedroom we share with our toddler back into the bedroom I share with my husband. The ultra-huge king+ size bed (a queen and a twin put together) that took up most of the room was reduced to just the queen bed. I returned furniture to the room. Put the lamps back. Hung things on the wall. Cleaned out the baby clutter. I’m taking back my space. I do this at the end of bed-sharing with my babies. And today I decided that it’s time to get that ball rolling. To get my boy to take the next developmental step. To sleep on his own, out of range of the comfort of his mother.

I’m ecstatic to think of sleeping for more than a few hours at a time. It’s been 2 years+ of having many of my executive functions .. not functioning because of lack of sleep. I wonder what it’s like to get sleep.

I know I’m a long way from the goal I’m beginning tonight — to have my toddler sleep through the night. Likely, it will be weeks or months until I can claim that success. But it’s beginning. It’s the first step.

Part of me is already mourning. I love sharing bed space with my kids. But that other part of me has a lot of pull. The part that is hope. Hope that I’ll get a little bit more of myself back. I’ve given a lot. I look forward to reclaiming some of that lost power and functionality.

Goodnight.

cultural pluralism. noun Sociology.
1. a condition in which minority groups participate fully in the dominant society, yet maintain their cultural differences.
2. a doctrine that a society benefits from such a condition.

I hope that young mother reads her Yahoo news this morning. My husband pointed me to this link, about a young child who was born with boy parts wanting to join the Girl Scouts in his hometown in Colorado.  At first, the local leader said “no” because of said boy parts. But up the chain of command, the Colorado leaders did a very amazing and forward-thinking thing: they invited him and his family to join. Because Girl Scouts is an inclusive organization.

I’m proud and awed that this organization that my girls are a part of, that was such a big part of my own childhood and young adulthood, is growing up and opening its doors to families of all types, and supporting the families of transgender children.

Girl Scouting isn’t all about cookies. Or about teaching young cisgendered girls how to become strong cisgendered women. It’s not about turning out cookie-cutter people into society with a boxed set of beliefs and a road-map toward finding a suitable life partner and career. It’s about teaching young people to have a voice, to take action, to make things happen. And to be a part of an experience wherein we not only respect cultural differences but celebrate them.

Hooray for Girl Scouts of Colorado for setting this very public precedent of supporting families with transgendered children.

Tub full o' kids

Today is the day we, as parents, have committed to sharing sleep with our youngest child for an indefinite amount of time going forward. We’ve co-slept with all three of our babies, so it’s not like we’re doing anything new. Our usual modus operandi is to co-sleep for the first year of baby’s life, and then to gently sleep train baby to sleep apart in another room. My third child is now 18 months old, and he and I co-sleep in his room because he is too big to fit in our bed. My poor, lonely husband gets to sleep all alone in our bedroom down the hall. But everything changes now. Today, I moved a twin bed into our bedroom and squished it beside our queen-sized bed to make one ginormous bed. We are now committed. No going back. It is done.

Oh gods. I must be insane.

*Takes a deep breath*

I see that quizzical look. I hear your cynical sigh. I know it’s nuts. But let me ‘splain. We have these older girls, one of whom is OHMYFREAKINGOD 9 years old. And this 9-year-old has been sharing a room with her 7-year-old sister forEVER. No, really. Since Laurel was 1 and Kelsey was 3, they have shared a room. So, yeah, forever. A few months back, this older child posited the question: “Why does the baby get his own room, and Laurel and I have to share one?” To which I answered, “Ummm, well… because… Oh, look, something shiny! Want some cookies?”

These people take up space!

It didn’t work for long. I did get a few months, though. But I’m out of cookies and shiny things.

Despite my best efforts to be fair, it turns out that I’m that unfair mother who puts the BOY child into his own cute little room. While the girls are jammed into the adjoining room, their shelves overflowing. Their moods conflicting. Their desire for “personal time” making it nigh impossible to share space without the use of a stopwatch, a calendar, and a lot of grumpiness.

So the husband and I talked. And we’ve decided that we either do this insane thing, or move to a bigger apartment. And we are NOT moving. I’m not ready to move and give up this f-ing amazing location across the street from my kids’ school. Really, we have the perfect apartment. And did I mention I’m not moving?

And so today I put my statue of Treebeard up high. I hid my shell collection. I moved Andrew’s things into our room, and I know that he will be very happy sharing sleep and space with his parents. I’m excited that our girls want to and will be able to, for the first time, make their space their own. And I hope this move will help them maintain what is right now a really sound and healthy sibling relationship.

I worry about finding time and space for the easy intimacy I share with Allen. But I know we’ll figure it out. I know that there is cuddling on the couch with books and good movies and ice cream. There is our shared office, where we hang out sociably every evening. There are the shared showers and those wonderful Saturday mornings when all the kids are playing nicely in the other parts of the house. I know we’ll be OK. And it’s not forever. Babies don’t stay babies for long. This apartment won’t be the last place we parent three children. It will be the last 3 bedroom we’ll be renting. Our next home will have to have 4 bedrooms and please, oh please, more than 1 bathroom. For now, we’ll make it work here.

We’ll be OK, Allen and I. Besides, there is that secret room in the basement….

These people changed my life. Thanks, kids!

Click here to read Extended Breastfeeding, Part I!

If you are a new parent, or if you are expecting to become one and are setting the bar toward extended breastfeeding, do yourself and your offspring a favor: prepare for utter chaos. For life to change in unexpected ways. Maybe everything will happen just as you expected. I hear there are amazingly self-actuated folks out there who flow naturally into parenthood without hitting any bumps. And then there’s the other 98% of us, the foggy-brained insomniacs who learn that the ones running the game are the screaming newborns. Sometimes, all your best intentions go poof. It happened to me. My kids MADE me into this Mom you see and read about. How did that happen?

Twelve weeks of insomnia, of breastfeeding around the clock, of learning that the pediatricians I had so carefully chosen were spouting advice about baby-rearing that absolutely was contrary to every feeling and instinct raging through my brain. Twelve weeks of shattering every preconceived notion I had about parenting. I ended up giving up my career, and I became a co-sleeping, baby-wearing, breast-feeding, attachment parent. My kids changed me, and I am utterly transformed. For the better, I think. I hope?

So, I have TIPS. Because there are some things you should think about before you even get started. But this article is about breastfeeding, so I will limit myself to just THOSE tips.

If you’re considering nursing a baby, short or long term, prepare yourself for the battle early:

• Know the law.
• Have a support team of partners/parents/friends who understand what your intentions are, and will be supportive and keep you motivated.
• Choose medical professionals who understand and will help support you.
• Buy this book: Medications and Mothers’ Milk: A Manual of Lactational Pharmacology
• If you’re planning a natural birth, read about the breast crawl!
• Get it right, from the start. Hire a lactation consultant to give you the best chances of starting and maintaining good nursing habits.
• If your lifestyle permits, breastfeed on demand. Don’t look at the clock. Your doctor/Mom/book/website does not know best about how often to nurse. Your baby does.
• Use that new tax credit to get a good pump if you can’t be there for every feeding.
• Understand the normal patterns of infant weight gain for breast-fed babies. Don’t be pressured into putting your baby on formula because of weight gain charts that are based on formula-fed babies.
• Ask if your pediatrician follows the WHO charts for infant growth rates of breast-fed babies
• Don’t miss a feeding in those first 3 months, as you are establishing your milk supply. Pumped milk is still your breast milk, and it’s best for your baby. A second option is breast milk from a human milk bank. Formula is not evil, but it should be your last option.
• Get support in the work place for expressing your milk if you work outside the home.
• Develop a breast milk bank in your community. It takes some simple screening,  supplies, pumps, and freezer space. Having friends who are willing and able to open up their stored milk coffers if I have a medical emergency does wonders for my confidence.
• If it’s possible, exclusively breastfeed your baby for the first 6 months. His/her gastrointestinal tract will thank you.
• Nurse in public, because you will further the cause!
• Wean when it’s right for you and your baby.

Join Up!

If you see a woman nursing a child, you should take a mental picture. She’s doing something amazing. And if my words have reached women out there who are thinking of nursing their baby and have the economic and biological opportunity to do so, I hope you get what I’m saying here. We need you on the ground, as part of our new army of fabulous breast-wielding baby-feeders who daringly nurse past that 6 month mark, nay the 12 month mark! Who whip out a boob on park benches, on the subway, in the doctor’s office, in the pews, in the mall, and feed those toddling youngsters straight from the source. Those gorgeous portable containers that keep your milk at optimal temperature should be a source of pride! Keep motivated! As I said in Part I of Extended Breastfeeding, you’re more likely to see a unicorn trotting through your local park than a woman breastfeeding an older child. Don’t be a unicorn! Nurse your baby for as long as it still works for you and your child.

Talk about it. Discuss it. Argue for it. And send me your stories and snapshots of breastfeeding babies. We want to see your boobies doing what they are functionally designed to do!

Doing what I do

A hot topic out there in the blogosophere lately is one of my favorites: Breastfeeding. I’d be writing more in support of the awesome mommy bloggers out there who are beating me to it, on topics ranging from busting nursing myths,  to how to respond to critics of public breastfeeding, to kicking ABC News in the soft parts for their slant on money and breastfeeding in the US, but I’ve been too busy being constantly gnawed on by my growing enormous-er 16 month old.

Still, here I am. And you know I’ve got something to say about breastfeeding. And as that picture up there suggests, I’m not afraid to expose… my own opinions on the subject! [Also, Dear Facebook: Pics of nursing mommies are inappropriate? Bite me.]

Breast milk. It still does a body good.

I want to talk about why Americans aren’t nursing their older children. And by “older” I mean toddlers and beyond. Specifically, the age a baby is when he is old enough to make his way independently to his mother and using words, sign language, or physical prowess is able to get into her shirt to facilitate getting the breast into his starving, gaping maw.

Everyone is certainly free to express his or her opinions on how long women should breastfeed. And I think such comments, be they positive or negative about extended breastfeeding, are effectively raising the level of dialogue on a damn important topic. After all, extended breastfeeding is something that can make for healthier adults. If more women could breastfeed their babies to 12 months and beyond, there would be, overall, a lower incidence of a whole host of health concerns for mothers and their children that you can read about on Wikipedia or Kellymom, or the CDC website, or about 50 other websites out there. But I’m not going to focus on why you should breastfeed your baby for as long as possible. Yet. I want to talk about why the majority of U.S. women are, statistically speaking, NOT breastfeeding for longer than 3 months.

A Healthy Start, Followed by a Plummeting Disappointment!

According to a 2010 CDC report, significantly more women are breastfeeding their newborns. More than 75% of newborns in 2010 started out nursing, whereas in 2001 the number was closer to 65%. Yay! But after the first three months, that number drops drastically. Only 33% were exclusively breastfed at 3 months. Now, bear in mind that the World Health Organization advises ONLY breast milk for the first 6 months of life, and a weaning age no earlier than 2.   Most babies in the U.S. are weaned at or before the age of 12 months. A study by the CDC posited that those low rates can be attributed to a lack of support: “Low breastfeeding rates at 3, 6, and 12 months illustrate that mothers continue to face multiple barriers to breastfeeding.”

The CDC targets ways to support breastfeeding mothers, through birth facility support, professional support, legislation, infrastructure, and support in child care settings. And whereas I see these as positive ways to effect change, I think that this effort needs some support from the ground. American women don’t breastfeed their babies beyond 12 months for a number of reasons, which I will now enumerate using the MotherMirth Patented [un]Scientific Method™:

Why American Women Aren’t Doing the Extended Breastfeeding Thing

1. Nursing babies past the first few months is weird. That’s what your MOM said.
Why, oh why, do we listen to the naysayers? Because they are our mothers. Our aunts. Our freakin’ grandmothers. “Well, YOU were fed formula from birth, and look how well YOU turned out!” Oh. My. God. Shut UP! The previous few generations will keep saying this to validate their choices because they want forgiveness when you end up with adult onset diabetes or celiac disease or one of the other afflictions headed your way if you were given formula at the beginning of your life. The fact that more women are breaking the mold, doing something different than their own mothers did, is notable. And this trend needs to continue. You can love your moms. That doesn’t mean you need to heed her antiquated breastfeeding advice.

2. For the same reason you don’t see “Sunday” in Days of the Week Panties. Because of God.
We live in a country where there are some sanctimonious mofos. Not all of them are Republican, even, but still, for some reason, the moral compass too often in America points to the crazies, and the more conservative beliefs about women and breasts make us look positively Victorian in ideology. And not in the fun lace-and-silk way! When it comes down to it, if you are contemplating breastfeeding and your value set is Judeo-Christian in flavor, or is informed by the Old Testament of the Bible, you should picture Eve in the Garden, dressed in her fig leaves. I didn’t read anything in Genesis about a deity providing Enfamil, so it’s my assumption that Eve nursed her dozens of babies with her breasts until they were of an age where they could chew up some of that nummy forbidden fruit using their own choppers. The bottom line is that no matter your faith or lack thereof, women are biologically equipped to nurse babies for an extended period of time. And yet, peek-of-breast-aphobia is enough reason for some women and their partners to opt out.

3. Boobies are for hot sex! And our sexual partners have dibs on our nibs.
Ah, the voracious sexual appetite of our partners. We should wean early so that we can give our bodies back to our lovers. Because those boobies aren’t multi-functional. You can’t nurse a baby with those things and then offer them up to your lover for nibbling and hot booty rocking. That’s perverted. </sarcasm>

4. Extended nursing goes well with co-sleeping, and we all know that THAT is just wrong.
We’ve been told to put our babies far away from us for sleep by the very medical professionals who should know better. More and more American women are advised to sleep train their young babies earlier and earlier. The reasons given include more sleep for mom, and training a baby to self-placate. And, yes, it must be nice to have a baby sleep through the night at 3 months. If you’re a working mother, it’s a whole lot easier to get some sleep if a baby isn’t attached to your nipple. I get that. But it’s biologically ill advised to be separated from him or her for 6-8 hours per night in those early months if you want to continue with an extended breastfeeding relationship. If you are the type of mom who can get up a few times per night to pump milk for your slumbering baby, you are a saint. I wish you all the best in the world, and please remember me in your prayers. Co-sleeping parents are more likely to continue with extended breastfeeding because it’s just… easy. Extended breastfeeding and co-sleeping are childrearing practices that have been written off in our more modern culture so much so that they are both, basically, taboo behaviors. In my experience, and in a lot of families I have had the privilege of knowing, co-sleeping is a way of life that helps support the mother for extended breastfeeding.

5. Saggy baggy used-up fun bags. “I mean, c’mon. Ewwww.”
Chewed up nipples. Breasts that hang down to your waist line. Let’s face it: your breasts will not return to their perky, pre-lactation state after you breastfeed a baby for an extended period of time. The perception that I need to wear a torture device called “underwire” or else duct tape my mammary glands in an upward position for the rest of my life so that my USED breasts maintain that youthful sprite and bounce is completely driven by marketing dollars. If your lover/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend really has any sense, he/she/they would love you and your breasts because they nurtured and nourished a baby. Or three. If my husband really ever said “ewww” to me regarding my breasts, he would find the locks changed when he came home from work and all his stuff on the front lawn.

6. Money, baby.
Most of the reasons for not continuing to breastfeed have to do with money. You had to return to work after a short maternity leave. Your household requires two incomes to make ends meet. Your employer doesn’t support pumping milk. You have a health concern that makes it impossible to continue to provide breast milk for your baby. Rock on, Momma. You are da bomb. Extended breastfeeding in our culture is hard because it’s based on the assumption that you either have the economic means, basically, to stay home with your babies, or you have the money/patience/willingness/biological ability to pump enough milk for your baby to sustain him/her while you are away. Two-income families are more the norm these days as more Americans struggle to make ends meet. And in low-income households, extended breastfeeding is almost impossible. Diane Pagen writes here that assistance programs make it impossible for women of low economic means to continue their breastfeeding relationship.  Money is a huge reason why women in the United States don’t nurse long-term.

7. Illness and Bad Medicine
There are very valid medical reasons for discontinuing a nursing relationship, ones that don’t need further discussion from me. You are the expert on your health. Unfortunately, there are also those occasions when medical professionals don’t find ways to support women in continuing to nurse their babies. Mastitis is not a reason to wean. Painful nursing also is not. There are classes of drugs that are safe to take while nursing. There are lactation consultants who can help you perfect your latch in those first months. One of my physicians advised I wean because I had a lung infection, and he was afraid that the drugs he wanted to give me would pass to my baby. I assured him that I could find alternate breast milk sources, and I could pump and dump if need be during the course of any drug I needed to take.  In short, there are valid reasons. And then there are misinformed medical professionals that advise weaning when they shouldn’t. It’s up to the mothers to have the confidence and information from breastfeeding professionals to speak up and advocate for their babies’ best interests.

8. In a word: Teeth. The Horror.
Friends and family seem to think I’m a martyr because I nurse my be-toothed little guy every 3 or 4 hours, 24 hours per day. His little mouth is infested with teeth! How do I do it? I very seldom get bitten, because I don’t allow it. Just as your dog shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds him, my son shouldn’t bite the nipple that sustains him, or he doesn’t get it. Human babies are really quite smart. I hope to help debunk the myth that nursing babies with teeth is so fraught with peril and pain.

9. My dentist is a pain in my lower right quadrant
So, my baby should suffer more childhood illnesses because nursing past a certain age might make his teeth come in crooked? Let’s get our priorities straight here. Health before vanity, IMHO. I’m done with this reason.

10. Our role models are nursing ninjas
Women who don’t have family support–a relative or friend who nursed her baby–have no role models for breastfeeding unless they seek them out. And although she may have support in the hospital or birthing center, statistics show that she will give up on breastfeeding earlier than is best for her child. Why? Because we don’t see women nursing their babies in public very often. And we never see women doing extended breastfeeding, because they are stealthy, closet nursers. Because they are tired of trying to cover up nursing their frantic, upside-down hyper two-year-olds on the park benches at the playground. They time feedings for when they get home. So where do we turn? What media gets more of our attention in the United States than any other? Uh, that would be television. Why don’t you see women nursing on TV? Or women expressing milk using a pump? Because it’s hard to fake. Giving a baby a bottle is much easier to film and is more “realistic.” Plus, showing boobies on TV is one of those rated R things. So you won’t really get a good peek of actual breastfeeding of older babies or children on your television unless you rent a documentary.

11. Enough is enough, girlfriend!
I love my friends. And I know that they want the best for me. But sometimes, it gets a little tiring when you hear “When are you going to get that baby off your boob, woman!” You don’t want to get on your lectern. And you know they mean well. But this goes back to a lack of support. Women who lack support give up earlier on breastfeeding.

To sum up
I wish I had a quarter for every time I read or heard comments such as “I think you should stop breastfeeding when the child is old enough to ask for breastmilk in his tea/coffee/cereal/oatmeal (etc)” or “breastfeeding is OK for babies, but I don’t want to see a woman nursing a 4 or 6 year old in public.” I assure you, our culture will continue to see extended breastfeeding as abnormal and wrong, something you should turn your eyes away from, if all comments were like these. And the funny thing is that you DON’T see 4 or 6 year olds nursing. You are more apt to see a unicorn trotting through the local park. But, hey, at least someone is commenting on nursing and older children, right? So, bring on the comments. Negative or positive. At least there is the beginnings of constructive discussion regarding this taboo practice. The idea of nursing older children needs to be dragged into the cultural dialectic, to the land of being OK to discuss. To see. And, finally, to accept as normal.

Stay Tuned for Thursday’s Part II: Tips to Extend Your Breastfeeding Relationship. With a timely, seasonally appropriate Mardi Gras plea: Show Us Your Boobies!

I’ve been trying to teach my now one-year-old son the sign for nursing since he was old enough to open his eyes for longer than a minute. I squeeze my hand together in a “milking” motion, and I ask if he’d like milk. I’ve had other mothers giggle at my sign choice, as it’s actually the sign for cow’s milk, which is something Andrew’s tummy is not designed to be able to process, as he is not a calf. But I chose the “milk” sign over the “nursing” sign because I didn’t want to assume that my baby would always be able to breastfeed. I didn’t want to take for granted the health of my body, my ability to stay off medicines that would transfer to my infant via my milk.

I’ve had a wonderful first year of breastfeeding exclusively, and I’ve been able to give my third child all the milk he could want or need–just as I was able to do for his sisters–for his first year of life. I hope to continue for as long as it works for both of us.

I realize the privilege inherent in those last few sentences. I know that not every new mother can breastfeed. I know that a lot of parents find other ways to give their babies human milk. And I know there are parents who don’t, for whatever reason, have the resources–who turn to formula because of a health challenge, or financial resources, or geographic difficulties. There are just not enough human milk banks. Nor is there enough awareness about the benefits of mother’s milk. And, sadly, there are far too many hospitals that don’t support breastfeeding. Just reading about my friend Sarah’s amazing fight to breastfeed her baby in the NICU was enough to make me wonder if things will ever change in the hospital environment in favor of the nursing infant and her mother.

My hospital experiences with childbirth were far easier, and for that I am thankful. But even so, I had to adamantly refuse formula with the births of my babies. I fought well-meaning nurses who wanted me to get some sleep, and that meant taking my babies into the nursery and giving them formula. My babies slept in the room with me, and we only separated long enough for me to shower.

Today, with my crawling chaos of a son, separating long enough to get in a shower is STILL a challenge, but breastfeeding isn’t. It’s the easiest thing in the world. And all my attempts to teach him how to communicate his need for sustenance were unnecessary. He tells me what he needs, and he always has. I just had to learn his evolving means of telling me. At first, it was a particular cry. And then, it was rooting. Biting was next. Eventually, he started pointing at my breast and saying “That!” And THAT is what we do.

So, do what you can to support nursing mothers. When you see a mother nursing her baby in public, give her a smile and a wink. Offer her a glass of water. Allow your children to see how human mothers nourish their young. It’s not something to be kept behind closed doors. Teach women through your words, through your actions, that this is something worthy. It’s worth the effort, the time, the discomfort, the inconvenience. We are a generation of change. Let’s stop this culture that discriminates against the biological rightness that is breastfeeding. In our hospitals, in our shopping malls, in public places all over this country.

A face full of happy!

Kelsey hasn’t played soccer since she was 5, when she played in the city league in Greensboro, North Carolina. The players were encouraged to, basically, run after the ball and perhaps get a foot on it. There wasn’t a lot of technique. Run to the ball. Try to kick it in the correct direction. Yay! I likened to the level of play I witnessed back then to a flock of flamingoes, all chasing after the same fish.

Even back then, watching Kelsey happily playing soccer was flocking wonderful. (sorry–couldn’t resist)

Anyway, soccer has changed! Kelsey joined a 3rd grade established team in our town, and the coach is COMPLETELY AWESOME! They have technique! They have a plan! There are terms used, and the girls are actually playing together as a team! *boggles!*

Now our family calendar is filling up with obligations this Fall. Our Friday nights are taken up with practice until dusk. Our Saturday morning games start just past bleary o’clock. There are workshops to work on technique, tournaments…. I hope she falls in love with soccer as I did as a kid. I wish I could be out there with her. I loved soccer almost as much as swimming when I was a kid. But I’m happy to be cheering her on from the sidelines, yelling encouraging things, learning when to shut up. Taking photos. Trying to catch little glimpses of her face as she flashes by, gauging the level of fun she’s having by her smile and focus. I live for those moments when my kids are happy, doing something they really dig.

I am SO a soccer mom. *gleeee!*

Can't we all just get along?

I’ve been talking to my older kids lately about the expectations involving our parent-child interactions. They are mature enough to understand that the parent they get is determined in part by their own behavior. If they treat their parent with respect and use good communication, their parent will react in reasonable ways, being respectful in return. And if they behave in ways that are disrespectful, rude, obnoxious, or in a way that physically hurts their parent, they will get the parent who gives consequences, takes away privileges, sends them for time-outs in their room, and raises her voice.

I feel that it’s a positive place from which to parent, but yes, in short, I’m telling them that if they mess with the bull, they get the horns.

And this isn’t to say that I’m always parenting from the happy place or even from the neutral zone. I try. I really do. But sometimes, I am way deep into enemy territory and the slightest provocation will mean war. But I think it’s important to communicate this up front, so that my kids know to tread softly and be more patient. Last week, I was kept up all night long with a ravenous baby. I was exhausted in the morning, and when the baby finally passed out for a long stretch, I crawled to the couch and warned my kids that I was not going to be functional for a little while, and if they woke up their brother, there would be hell to pay. And my kids played quietly while I caught up on a little sleep and turned into rational, reasonable mommy. Score!

And we are letting them know that our parenting of them also depends on how THEY are doing. That if someone is grumpy, we will be more understanding. If someone doesn’t feel good, we will be more sympathetic and adjust our expectations. This parent-child interaction thing goes both ways. And the amazing thing is that this is working for us.

Two days ago, Laurel had some loose bowels, which is totally to be expected given our latest experience with the never-ending GI issues. Still, she felt shame. She wanted privacy in the bathroom, and no she did not want to try to empty her bowels again. Usually, I respect her wishes, but this is a health issue, and she needs the parent who pushes her to do the right thing. I pushed her, she refused. So I gave her a warning. I told her that if she wanted the mother who was understanding and patient in the face of challenges, who holds her hand through difficult times, who smiles and takes the soiled clothing to the basement to be dealt with, that it is in her best interest to trust this parent and to do what is being asked. She considered my words for a minute, and then she did what I asked, had a good outcome, and was happy and relieved. I did not have to transform into the mother who uses her strong voice and has to use negative means (counting to 3, threatening consequences) to get to that same place. And I fulfilled my end of the bargain by being encouraging and positive, running a nice warm shower for her, and taking her soiled clothing to be dealt with in the basement. Another score!

And then last night, Kelsey pushed her father too far. She got physical, trying to escape past him at bedtime to do what she wanted. And her usually patient, easy-going father had to grab her arm to keep her from escaping, and then he yelled at her. He explained that THAT was the consequence of her actions. That is the father she got when she acted in a way that was really not appropriate. She cried. And then she said, ***”I’m sorry, Dad, for pushing you to the point that you had to yell at me.” Allen felt both terrible (about the yelling, and at his child crying) and also… validated. They hugged, and bedtime happened. The experience was sub-optimal, since Kelsey went to sleep feeling sad. But I hope a lesson was learned: you get the parent you ask for.

The last few weeks have been tough, with the week of Laurel feeling really awful, with the loss of our dog, with the trip to the Emergency Room on Saturday, and then school starting up, with all its stresses as we begin again in a new school. And the four of us have found ways to communicate our needs to each other in ways that are more mature than they have been previously. My kids are learning how to be people who live in the world. It’s amazing to think of their development from their toddler years, when they were happy jumping monkeys who had emotions on a whim and reacted without thought of consequence, to now. They are becoming so much more complex and are more equipped to deal with emotions and the complicated dynamics of living in a family where there are differing personalities and ways of expressing ourselves.

The hope is that we all figure this out and become EXPERTS at communicating/interacting with one another before there are two strong-willed teenaged humans (and a younger sibling who will use his sisters as role models) living in our household. Living together with respect for each of us as individuals–that’s the goal.

How do you communicate expectations of behavior to your older children? Do you have any tools/tricks you’d like to share? We have an 8-year-old who is testing her boundaries. Do you have any tips to help keep the drama at a minimum? Share them please!

*** This is what we learned using “Peace Bear” for dealing with interpersonal dynamics. It really works! I’ll write about this soon, but big kudos to New Garden Friends School for training us all to use Peace Bear to 1. identify our feelings 2. take responsibility and 3. come to a resolution when there is an altercation.

Before

My husband and I each cut 10 inches of hair off our heads. And we still have what most of mainstream society would call long hair. So, how do we feel about being shorn?

In a word? Lighter.

Last night, we shuffled off our two older children onto a friend (thanks, Jessica!) so that we could get haircuts and a few hours without having to juggle ALL of our children. Allen and I made it to Salon Cu in Ball Square, Somerville, right on time for our appointment. We were blessed last minute by a visit from our friend, Erica, who helped watch the baby, take photos, and cheered us on.

It took about 5 minutes for my stylist, Jackie, to brush out my hip-length hair, mark the length to cut, braid the hair below the mark, and cut.  Five minutes to cut off hair that I’d been ignoring and half-assedly grooming for years. I immediately felt as though a headache that had been nagging me for years was suddenly lifted.

The cut!

Jackie placed the braid on the shelf in front of me and proceeded to cut and style my hair, cutting in long layers. It’s now a little longer than shoulder-length, lying just above my bra-strap. She then spent about 30 minutes drying and shaping my hair with a round brush while I tried not to giggle with all the attention my much neglected hair was getting. It’s not like it will ever look this good ever again. I own a hairdryer for one reason: to blow up air mattresses.

Allen, pre-cut

Allen has had thinning hair on top for a few years now, and he’s been struggling with the idea of cutting his hair ALL OFF and going with the bald look. I’ve been lobbying on behalf of his hair for years. Because I love his long hair. He decided to listen to the stylist’s advice to go shorter and cut layers in. Thank the gods.

His hair is now above his shoulders, and it’s taken a lot of weight off his scalp. I was afraid it would end up being a page boy kind of cut, and he’d have to get a nose piercing and a facial tattoo to keep his weirdo cred, but he’s looking good. He’s still rocking the tall, long-haired hippie freak/geek vibe.

Allen, de-ponytailed!

We both endured the coiffing that comes at the end of a haircut from a real salon, trying to be patient while our awesome stylists played with our hair and made it do gorgeous things like be flippy and light as air and move in ways not natural to our hair. It’s fun to be pampered. And there was one very not happy Rockstar, wailing in the background as my stylist was finishing up. He caught a glimpse of me and remembered that he hadn’t eaten in hours.  So, I flipped my hair around a bit, rescued the sad boy from the very tired arms of the ever-patient Erica, and nursed him in the lobby while we waited for Allen.

A couple of coiffed hippies (front view)

All in all, we lost 20 inches of hair between us. We feel lighter and slightly more contemporary. To celebrate, we brought Erica along and had dinner at The Boston Burger Company in Davis Square, where we sat at the table by the front window, flipping our hair around like divas and grinning like idiots.

Allen has showered this morning, and his hair is looking much more normal, with some natural curl and messiness instead of the coiffed look of last night. He looks much more like himself. I like the messy look. As for me, well, I think I’ll go with the styled look for at least one more day. My hair feels like silk! And I want to flip it around some more and play the role of a more put-together woman.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the regular, messy-haired me!

Laurel the Lion, in her natural morning state: reading Calvin & Hobbs

The last few days have reminded me just how close autumn is. The temperature dropped in that dramatic way it sometimes does in late August, a temporary respite from a blindingly hot summer. Still, the 60s temperatures signal an impending end to summer vacation. Only a few more weeks to enjoy spontaneous adventures with kids, to spend hours not knowing what time it is, and days where tracking the date is unimportant to our scheming.

The signs are all pointing to Fall as my town prepares for the change in season. We counted more cars parked at the school across the street from our house, and we can spy people going into the front doors with their arms laden with boxes. We received letters from new teachers, little notes telling us how much their teachers are looking forward to meeting our kids at the beginning of the new school year. The town reservoir closes next week to swimmers, and the Fall soccer league sent out its annual email, preparing parents for the upcoming schedule of practices and games. Soon, the ice cream trucks cease making their every 30-minute rotation. I envision the trucks being cleaned out and put into the garage for repairs for next summer’s hard work of making every little kid in town smile and every grown up cringe. I wonder what the smiling man who sells me rocket pops and fruit bars does when the season turns to thoughts of warm apple cider and pumpkin bread.

Little things in my home remind me of how life changes in subtle ways at the end of summer.  The coconut oil in my pantry turned from liquid to solid. The oil burner clicked on for just a few minutes last night, reminding me that it’s time to set up an account with a local oil company. And as I folded clothes fresh from the dryer, I noted the pile of long-sleeve shirts that I had set aside in June. Consistent short-sleeve weather does not last terribly long here in New England. The tights and sweaters live year-round in our bureaus and closets, but we don’t SEE them. We have eyes only for summer dresses, for the big basket filled with swimsuits, floaties, beach blankets, and goggles.

What I love about living in New England is the excitement at the beginning of a new season. It’s a feeling I missed in the 23 years I lived in Florida, where seasons have an indeterminate end. I remember swimming in October when we first moved from Marblehead, Massachusetts to Pensacola, Florida in 1980. It was an unsettling but amazing feeling to body surf in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico at a time of year leading up to Halloween. I felt like we were breaking the rules, the rhythms of the life I knew in the first 10 years of my existence. The warmth of summer never broke to make way for Fall the way it does here. I know that there will still be hot days left in the last weeks of summer living here in the Greater Boston Area. But those days are numbered.

Soon, our family calendar will be filled with schedules and plans as the pace of our lives picks up. There will be homework. And arguments about taking the time to do the homework. But there will also be playdates and birthday parties, ballet classes for the little girl, soccer games for the big girl. I will have to find shoes as my little guy starts to take his first steps in cooler weather. I know that I will miss this time of crawling baby, this time of bare-footing, this day of children dressing up like lions and princesses, reading for hours on the couch as the morning passes into afternoon. And I also look forward to going from 3 children to 1 for 6 hours each day.

I see you, Fall. You are right there, just beyond the horizon. And there is so much to look forward to, and so many things to mourn. That is the way with change, isn’t it?