Category Archives: Change

Breastfeeding: We CAN Change our Culture

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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.

Soccer Grows Up!

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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!*

Parenting: Messing with the Bull

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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.

The Hair Saga, Continued

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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!

Every End is a New Beginning

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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?