Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Bleh-brain, Toddler Whining, and Poop

I'm having one of those 'mom aspiring to still be a writer' moments where I have a limited amount of time to tackle one of several writing projects (one of which is updating this blog); I'm hungry, tired, need to prep dinner, and have a ton of other little things I could do (Internet, networky, business-like things that I often don't feel like doing when I collapse on the sofa at the end of the night). 

1.5 hours of my break has already gone by, and all I've done is: stuff potato chips and cheese-its (or the organic natural version anyway) down my throat, make two cups of green tea (and still feeling sleepy), send out a couple posts about my upcoming workshop (please, register, you know you want to, I'll make it cheaper, please?), flit about on the PEPS leader site searching for appropriate resources for my group, stare at the fragments of a new piece I have brewing, and type out a frazzled "what to do free-write" before wandering to the bathroom to trim my nails. 

I'm narrowing in on only having an hour left. I don't think I have it in me to tackle that piece-- it feels too big, too important, too much requiring a certain energetic space to go there, a space that I cannot go to if I know I'll have to leave it again soon (I know, this is the excuse that all people use when they are time-crunched, and I know it IS possible to just CUT THROUGH and begin writing anyway, but every so often we are allowed to indulge in this excuse and just say, frack it, not today). 

I contemplated just giving up on all things "productive" and going to have some "fun" in this last hour alone before picking up my son, but then I asked myself, what would I do? For me, especially these days, "fun" means writing for the blog or doing something that feels worthy of giving my precious break to. "Wasting time" does not sound like fun to me. I would read a book if I had one I was really into, but I don't, so even that feels like a diversion and not an activity that will bring waves of indulgent pleasure. And so... I decided that I WOULD just sit down and blog, never-mind that I don't have an all-important TOPIC that I'm dieing to write about, never-mind that I might bore you (sorry), because when it comes down to it, it's been too long since I've written here, and ultimately, it is me I need to keep this here blog up for, profound and greatly-read entry or NOT.

Some of the more involved topics that I've considered writing about lately (but that I don't have the energy or will for now) include: still breastfeeding Cedar, who is nearing age two; watching Cedar grow into a boy, the subtle yet profound shifts that surprise and delight me each day, but also give me a tinge of sadness as I realize how fast it will go; and writing about this awesome writing workshop I attended last weekend that helped me remember and tap into the power of metaphor.  

For some reason, it's still really hard for me to just sit down and blog a few paragraphs. I guess I am just that kind of wordy writer. Or else I still fear that if I post something random and not super meaningful to me, that some person will only read that post and judge my writing as that. Bleh. I'm considering whether this current bleh-fest is even gonna make it to the Internet as it is.

Do I have ANYTHING profound to say today? My son is teething and has been keeping me awake more (again) than usual. He has been especially into his "milk". I still love breastfeeding him, but I have to say, the whiny-tired-toddler voice demanding his milk is not the part I enjoy. Actually, I've been pointing out to him lately what it means to "whine." "Are you whining?" I'll ask him when he gets that eh-eh-eh thing going. He knows what this means now, so it will stop him and he will get this sly smile. "Can mama whine too?" I tease. "Eh eh eh!" I copy him. He grins. "Now, can Cedar whine?" And he whines some more, this time our private joke. I'm trying to teach him to "use his words", in preschool speak. And he's getting it, and getting more and more words to actually use all the time. Like he can say, "Help." (But of course, usually says it in that whiny voice). And so I'm teaching him to say, "Please", simply because it sounds better to the ear, and it's a part of our cultural lexicon that he should know if he doesn't want to annoy people, but that said, it still strikes me as kind of meaningless at this point. It's just teaching him an extra sound or syllable to latch on the end of his demands. I suppose that eventually he'll understand that it is what is expected of him, and that it can help him get his way, but it won't necessarily teach him to feel more respectful or polite. 

Anyway, we're just introducing certain concepts now that we'll be able to better explain and make more meaningful later when he can be that much more aware of emotions-- his own, and other peoples.  We are also paving the way for potty training, which I'm not in a hurry to do, but now that he is more aware that he is pooping when he is pooping, and now that he can actually squeeze out a fart on demand (and laugh with us afterward; family fart humor preparation is already well-established), we figure it's a good time to start talking to him about what is happening, and what will eventually happen when he gets to go on a potty, too. 

Step one: actually show him his poop. I avoided doing this up until now, because I feared it might lead to an inconvenient curiosity with looking at (or even touching?) his poop. Better to not let him see the strange globs that come out of him, or to know what we are wiping from him every day? Well, up until now, I figured so much. But now I have shown him, and now every time he wants to "See? See?" And I hold up the poopy diaper to show him, and he smiles and says, "Cedee..." his name for himself. Proudly, as if to say, yup, that's my poop!

Speaking of poop, at the writing workshop I went to last weekend, I was supposed to write a metaphor about how I was feeling that day, and I picked the color yellow, more for it's feeling of optimism and energy than anything. I did NOT expect to then start writing about poop, mustard yellow breastfed baby poop to be exact, and to consider how this might be an even more apt metaphor for my day, or some part of my life. I'll let your imaginations run wild here... but let me just say that I still see it as a positive metaphor and not a dank, yucky, stinky one, for as mothers of newborns can testify-- breastmilk poop does not hardly smell at all, relatively speaking. But I'll stop here, since I'm not in the mood to go too deep into any one topic here for now, it seems. You'll just have to wait till next time, perhaps, to read my full-on poop metaphor.

And now, the cat is demanding to be fed. I have half an hour left, so I guess I'll go please my family and prep dinner. Till next time, dear readers, bear with me.

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