Still On The Fence: More Thoughts on Life Balance and Having Number Two

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything here again. I have excuses, yes, I’ve been busy. Working on my manuscript, teaching workshops, pitching classes, doing housework, engulfed in family life, and so on. I’ve started posts for this blog, but not finished them as more pressing deadlines take over. And my perfectionist tendencies always keep me from just rattling off a few random paragraphs. That’s not really my forte, anyway. I’m an essayist at heart, not a blogger.

           

But in any case, I still regularly feel the need to purge the crusty layers that build up, to vent, to muse, and to locate my center of gravity beyond all the thoughts and tangents: to locate what, at core, has been going on. So, here goes.

First off, I finished another round of Writing Motherhood in October, and am now wrapping up a round of Writing Your Birth Story. Both have been good; and both have taught me how I might refine the experience, for the participants and for myself. Namely, I still want to make the workshops longer. One month always goes by too fast, but then I worry that less people will sign up if it’s longer—because of the time commitment, the money, and thus the greater element of risk involved. But I crave the opportunity to go deeper into the writing process and the community that we form each session, and that can only come from more time together. So next March, I will offer a six-week, in-person Motherhood workshop series that taps into craft, in addition to the usual free-writing and focus on process. And sometime in the late spring, another (mostly) online Birth Story workshop. Stay tuned.

Another thing I’ve been weighing still is whether I want to have another child. Some days, it feels obvious, if only because I can’t yet let go of the underlying longing to know what it would be like to go through the experience of motherhood “all over again”, yet on a new level. To imagine getting to know another child of mine, to go through a similar process of discovery and bonding, but also, to know that this child will be a completely different person than Cedar. How would this feel to go through motherhood again, yet this time a bit more seasoned, and with a different child? A part of me can’t stand to not find out.

There is something deeply fascinating to me about the whole unfolding process of motherhood, despite all the sleep deprivation and angst at not having enough time to myself. Motherhood has offered the ultimate paradox for my creative life, in that while I’ve been constantly struggling to get more time to write and teach, I also have never felt this over-brimming with projects and ideas of things to write about. Almost three years in now, and motherhood, more than ever, still feels like such a rich, unmined territory to tap. Whole stages of mother-child-father-universe relationships have gone by, that I simply haven’t had the time to capture by pen. And so if I do go through motherhood again, maybe I’ll get a second chance to approach these topics all over again. Granted, from a new layer of insight.

But then, my devil’s advocate pipes in, I will also be even more busy, and catapulted back into the early days with hardly any time to myself. Instead, now, my “breaks” will consist of time that I am “only” with the baby, while Cedar is in school or with others. It might be years before I regain the equilibrium I have finally gained now, the space where it actually feels possible to mother, to write, to publish, and to teach—to do a bit of everything I want to do to feel satisfied inside. Instead, I will have to go back to a period of “just mothering” (as if that isn’t intense enough by itself), with a little scribbling and reading on the side. Teaching will be put on hold for a while, because as much as I love it, some basic minimum amount of writing needs to come first for me. And publishing? This blog will have to continue to suffice.

Any big publishing goals I have will need to happen before another baby comes. This much feels clear. That’s why the last time I was expecting, I made a final push to send out my manuscript to small presses. That’s why I haven’t done much of anything with my book for two years, until finally late this summer I took the plunge and paid someone to read the whole thing and give me feedback, to will myself into seeing it and loving it and being motivated to work on it from a fresh perspective.

I wrote a new introduction and epilogue, drawing out certain themes, reframing the ‘arc’ of the book anew. I actually feel like it is good again, worthy of the work it will take to get it out there, worthy of the money I plan to spend to make it look professional (assuming I self-publish, the current plan). Worthy of the energy it will take to launch my own book tour, to market, to update my blog or make a new website, and to get myself excited about a project that is so old, all over again. I am motivated. I want to do this. I want to birth this labor of love of mine, this coming of age memoir, this project through which I’ve learned so much (and would like to have some closure around, please).

But the deadline keeps getting pushed forward. Because I have so little concentrated time to focus. I did have two and a half full days alone to work a few weeks ago (when my husband brought Cedar to his Grandma’s for the weekend) and I accomplished more in a couple days than I would for many months in the usual piece-meal way that I must work. I need more of those intensive working chunks. I am not planning any classes for December-February, with the hope that I will finish the book and start in on the publishing process then. But then I have been saying this—that I’m “almost done”—for a long time. And if I didn’t know myself better, I’d start to doubt in my own resolve. Only I know each time I say it, it’s that much more closer to true. And I know how much work I’ve already put in, and I know how close it is. And so I know, I must do this. I must put it out there into the world. And this must happen soon, certainly before any pregnancy or new baby could enter my life. This much is clear.

Writing will always be like another child to me, another child I need to take care of and take into account any time I’m considering adding something new to my life: how will this child be affected? Will I still be able to care for this child in a way that feels satisfying? Will this child be somehow left behind? These are not trivial questions to me.

So, here I am. It is almost December. Christmas is coming, gift giving, photo-organizing, tree buying, family gatherings. This all takes energy, time. Somehow I must be diligent in making sure that my few afternoons a week to myself don’t get completely sucked into this frenzy, alongside the usual housework, bills, chores, and correspondence. Somehow I need to dive back into the manuscript revisions, set clear small goals, personal deadlines.

Somehow I must also find a way to exercise more, to prioritize health, for this has fallen by the wayside over the last year, and I know how important it is to my overall well-being. (Although as I think about how my future ‘breaks’ would probably consist now of times when I just have the baby to care for, I console myself by remembering that at least during that baby stage you can pop them in a stroller and go on lots of walks. At least I got more exercise back then. And drank less wine, too.)

When I try to imagine what else about that stage would feel “easier” now that I can compare it to the toddler stage, I feel fairly steadied for the challenges. After all, we’ve already had our share of dietary, sleep, and behavior challenges—what are the chances that the next baby would be even more challenging? Certainly possible (and this thought fills me with both fear and humility), but not that likely (at least I hope, or pray).

Ah, so apparently I’m back at the topic of: to procreate again or not to procreate. Well, I’ve already decided that it would be hugely stressful, financially risky, and too time-consuming to try to build an addition before another baby came, so I’ve already (sort of) made peace with how we could add another child into our one bedroom, 850 square foot arrangement, by putting the baby’s crib (and yes, our baby is getting a crib this time) into the living room next to our bed.

It would be crowded. Our evenings would be subdued (assuming the baby eventually wakes from noise, as most babies do). And our marital life may, yet again, suffer. But, oh, the ultimate joy! (Right?) Oh, the joy of having a larger family to grow old with. Oh, these early years will go fast, right? Yeah, I don’t know. I’m still on the fence as I’ve said. Just trying to feel out if it is indeed do-able and, most of all, right. Do-able? Yes. Where there’s a will there’s a way. But, is it right for us? That is the bigger question.

So, no home remodel yet (although at the rate our appliances are dying, we’ll at least get an all-around updated kitchen by then). I’m also looking into other preschool options for Cedar so that he could be in school more than the three mornings a week that co-op preschool (which we love) will entail next year. We can afford that, I think, though I have yet to do any math. So that leaves the publishing goals, the teaching, the writing… the weaning and toilet-training goals too (both of which keep getting put off for now, for lack of interest, or resolve). A lot still needs to happen before I want to remove my IUD.

My husband and I would also need to have a good budgeting talk, a sound financial plan laid out, as well as a plan as to how we plan to prioritize marital peace, connection, communication, and overall sanity. And that means: regular date nights (or afternoons); even once a month will do (obviously we haven’t set a high precedent here). And a new agreement forged between us as to what degree of personal time it is realistic to expect—for me, to write (and do everything else I do to maintain our household). And for him, namely, to fish. Because that is his passion, his religion, his connection to nature, his exercise, his primary release, and I get that.

Sure, I’ve spent plenty of time over the last couple years begrudging his desire to go fishing (Again? Haven’t you gone enough already?), with a lot of back and forth negotiation (You can go every other weekend for the day, if I get to go write for a few hours every weekend. Fair enough?) But then there were the long weekend trips out to the Olympic peninsula which began to take their toll (Most parents of young children are lucky if they get to go on one long weekend, bachelor style trip with their buddies a year, much less four!). Until we finally reached the place where nursing had decreased enough that I could leave Cedar for longer stretches, and reached a wonderful, almost equitable agreement called tit-for-tat: you get a weekend, I get a weekend.

I say ‘almost’ equitable because his “weekends away” have typically consisted of about three full days, whereas mine are more like one point five. But it’s hard to complain about this when for almost two years, the longest time to myself I ever got was something like four hours to go to the spa. And so, in my ongoing quest for shared parenting equity (tit-for-tat, if you will), I’ve now proposed that we count “days” versus weekends, because I still mostly feel like I end up with the short end of the stick. I believe my husband begrudgingly agreed (translation: grunted). And so now, I’m fine with him going away fishing for a weekend, as long as I get my time to write in exchange. I need it, and now more than ever. I have serious goals. Limited time. The decision to have or not have a child may hinge on this factor!

Anyway, the irony of course is that even if we manage to finally come to a place of “total equity” regarding parenting duties, if another child were to come into the picture, this equation would no doubt get thrown back out again for another year at least. (And I don’t expect to get “back pay”, so to speak, because somehow that would just be way too demanding of me and the expected maternal sacrifices.) Maybe the next baby won’t nurse or co-sleep for as long, and won’t be as dependent on the boob to go to sleep. Maybe we’ll consciously decide to make it easier on ourselves, and especially on me, not following quite such an attachment parenting model (not that I ever set out to be an “attachment parent”, mind you; we just made the choices that felt right at the time).

Don’t get me wrong, I stand behind the parenting choices we’ve thus far made, for the most part, and for this particular baby, with this particular temperament. But there are things I will probably do differently. I tell myself. Of course, the true test will be what actually happens when we are in the thick of it. And there is a sense of adventure and an exciting challenge inherent in this imagining… mixed in with impending fear and dread. In moments though, there is an overwhelming optimism, that says, in the end, how could we ever regret it!? But in some ways, this sentiment is naïve, for I’m sure some parents actually do regret having another, on some level, but this is not a socially acceptable sentiment so you don’t hear about it.

But still. It is exciting, you must admit, the whole baby-imagining, baby-making, birthing process. It’s high drama. It’s life and death from its most peaked and illuminating vistas. And it’s also a bit like… falling… into an abyss. First and foremost. Before you slowly climb your way out again, and before you are so worn down and seasoned that you are finally able to enjoy the view from each stage and even in the midst of each new challenge; where you are so humbled by the whole life-altering experience of parenthood, that you’ve stopped waiting around for those promises of the future plateaus, and you truly are just along for the ride. Or something like that. Doesn’t it get easier as they say, even as it gets harder, with two? Don’t you experience even more of a degree of ego destruction, humility, and self-surrender? And isn’t that ultimately a good thing?

Hmm… I’m not completely convincing myself, although I am trying. I truly do see both sides. The amazing and awesome, and the terrifying and terrible. Parenting is at heart a paradoxical experience. It’s rough. There’s no escaping this, no matter how “easy” or “hard” of a baby you had. Parenting is hard on marriage, on your body, on your personal goals or dreams, on maintaining your former idea of yourself. And yet, it is also so hands-down incredible and amazing. To watch a child grow. To be so intricately tied to their experience of this earth. To laugh with them, dance with them, nurture them. To see the world anew through their eyes.

Sometimes I wonder though how much of this desire to have another baby is tied up in societal norms. If the majority of mothers around me weren’t having number two, or planning on it, if I were in the minority for considering another one, would it be easier then to let go of the lingering desire and embrace the sanity of just one; i.e. the quicker return of my equilibrium, creative life, and quality time with my husband? It’s worth pondering. There is something of the fear of “missing out” at play here. Not wanting to miss out. The clock is ticking, it’s now or never, so just go for it!

And then, a friend recently mused that after she had her third child (who incidentally was a “surprise”), she definitely no longer had that feeling of baby lust around infants she’d still had before number three came along. None whatsoever. And so that makes me consider: would the lingering baby lust still be there, even if it weren’t meant to be? Will I somehow just “know” at some point that I want to do it, or will I have to make the harder choice (in some ways), of deciding “no,” and in turn letting go of whatever lingering visions I might have had of a larger family or round two of motherhood anew?

Why does it feel like deciding not to have another child would leave me with more questions and potential regret, than deciding to have one? I think it’s because the decision to have one is proactive, decisive, and once I decide something big like that, I stand behind my instincts that led me there. Whereas the decision not to do something can feel more passive (even if it isn’t a passive decision, but deliberately thought out); still, it can feel like something you just “let happen” by letting “time slip or opportunities slip away from you”.

Perhaps this is also tied up in how our culture values “doing” more than “not doing”. More is better. And “not doing” is often seen as laziness or fear, whereas more “doing” is usually applauded and admired, at least from a distance (wow—look at how much that person is accomplishing!), even if it drives one to emotional, physical, or spiritual fatigue.

Hmm… this is an interesting discussion, Anne. But now I must go and pick up my child. I am sure these thoughts will be continued in a future post, (sadly, yet realistically) months down the road. Until then, dear readers, thank you for indulging me. And feel free to share with me more thoughts on your experiences with having number two. I’m definitely still on the fence. Sticking with just one at times can feel pretty sweet. 

Especially this little one.

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.

Mother, Uninterrupted: A List of Things I Want to Do During My First Weekend Alone Since Giving Birth

My weekend alone has officially begun. Cedar and his baba are off to stay with Grandma in Olympia, and I have the good part of two days and one night to do ANYTHING I WANT. UNINTERRUPTED. Without a ticking clock at my back counting down the minutes until I will need to be on duty again (at least not yet, anyway). And so what WILL I do exactly? The choices are abundant. I know I will not get to do everything on my list, but I will be satisfied if I manage to accomplish a key few. Here are the possibilities:

1. Clean. Okay, this obviously should not belong on this list, much less be at the very top, but it must be mentioned (especially since it is the first thing I proceeded to do once they walked out the door). I did the dishes, wiped down the counters, took out the garbage, swept the kitchen floor, picked up clothes, put away toys, wiped off the dining room table, organized some mail, and made the bed. All in a normal day’s work. It only took me 45 minutes probably. And worth every minute. I cannot relax, much less settle into a weekend of writing and personal indulgence in the midst of a messy house. I am not a perfectionist (there are layers of grime beneath all my surface cleaning), but I DO enjoy uncluttered surfaces. And the beauty in this cleaning session today is that: IT WILL NOT IMMEDIATELY GET MESSY AGAIN. For the rest of the weekend, I will only need to pick up after myself—and since I am generally a fairly neat person and do not throw my food nor dirty underwear (well, okay, sometimes underwear) on the floor, that means that I will not need to clean again for two days.
2.  Halfway into my cleaning session, I turned on some music. Angus and Julia Stone is my most recent beloved discovery. I will continue to remember to listen to music all weekend long, and really listen, not just have it on in the background in short bursts and starts.
3. I WILL WRITE. This requires the use of capitals, for it is the most important goal on my list. I will write this short blog post, and then I will work on my Epilogue and Introduction and line editing for my Searching for the Heart Radical manuscript which I am slowly gaining on, inching towards completion with a capital C. And then I will plan for my Writing Motherhood workshops. Sink into the syllabus again and finalize some choices for prompts. (Although lesson planning is very different than writing, I will keep it under the same category here because it draws from the same creative energy and sustained focus of presence that my writing needs). I will attempt to do all of this in two or three good sessions. Right now, maybe tonight, and definitely for the better part of tomorrow morning and afternoon. The idea that I can actually sink in for more than 2-3 hours is absolutely delectable. I’ve gotten so used to working in short hurried bursts that I have almost forgotten what it feels like to work for an entire day (or 5-6 hours, which is about what I used to consider a “full day” of writing before the brain would burn out and need to go outside and move the body).
4. I will drink coffee. I have stopped drinking coffee again because it still gives Cedar gas, even though I seem to have forgotten this fact for several months (because I’ve needed my coffee … which leads to more gas and poor sleep… which leads to a heightened need for coffee… in an endless cycle). Well, I finally went off it again and lo and behold, Cedar’s been sleeping way better! But today, I will drink it again. And it should help my foggy brain that indulged in a bit too much wine last night, knowing I’d have the ability to sleep in today (thank you, dear husband), or even take a nap!
5. I WILL SLEEP WHENEVER I WANT, UNINTERRUPTED. This also needs the use of capitals. I have not had an undisturbed night of sleep since my early days of pregnancy. Yes. You heard me right, it’s been about two years now. And although Cedar’s night wakings are less frequent and disturbing than they used to be, I still cannot emphasize enough how crazy strange wonderful it will be to actually sleep all night long without waking (if this even happens; perhaps my body is so programmed to wake now that I still will). Yet even if I still wake, I am quite sure I will get a good night’s rest and wake with a near euphoric feeling in the morning-- whenever my body deems appropriate. (But hopefully not too late so I can still make good use of the early morning hours to write).
6. I will shower and shit, uninterrupted. Um, there is not much more that needs to be said about this. Moms, you understand.
7. I will go outside and enjoy the sunshine and our yard. Maybe rake up the last of the leaves (that are currently killing our moss), relishing in this simple, hearty chore that I used to quite enjoy, but that I don’t so much now because when it’s a choice between chores and everything else that there is never enough time for, it is hard to be all zen and enjoy chores. And it is extra nice that we happen to be having this warm, sunny weather in February! In Seattle! Right after a snow storm. Inspiring gentle feelings of mild, sweet euphoria to rise inside...
8. Perhaps I will call one of my dear friends whom I have not been able to have a proper uninterrupted conversation with in way too long. But if I don’t, I know they will understand, because enjoying my time alone is going to trump any desire to be social.
9. I will stay up as late as I want, and do whatever I want at night, and make as much noise as I want. This might look something like: an open bottle of wine, blasting music, lit candles, and me ripping out pictures from National Geographics for a collage (which probably won’t get glued down for many weeks or months, but that’s okay, because the ripping out stage is an important one, that is: simply feeling which images resonate within, right now, for whatever reason, without analyzing or discriminating. Then later, you can sift through them, weed out the weaker ones, and start to arrange them on a page. They will begin to speak to each other of their own accord; there is no need to try and influence or dictate).
10. OR, perhaps I will be tired at my usual 10 or 10:30 and decide instead to just crawl in bed with a book. Did you hear that? CRAWL IN BED WITH A BOOK. Another long abandoned primal pleasure that I have not gotten to indulge in since I was pregnant (and truly, not much since getting married since my husband used to always complain about the light). It just so happens that I’m sinking into a good love story novel right now too. Ahh… in many ways this choice feels even more sinfully delicious and subversive than the idea of drinking wine and making art.
11. I’m not sure if this time will fly by really fast (because, let’s be real, it’s only a day and a half, and truly, I deserve a week of this kind of retreat). But I suspect that because of the way I have been living—that is, in perpetual service to another, “instantly interruptible, responsive, and responsible" as Adrienne Rich once put it, and with a dogged, yet often disappointing determination to carve out for myself the basic minimum of time and space that I need to feed my soul, my passions, my mind—because of how hard I work, and how much I have sacrificed in the name of motherhood and unspeakable crazy love for my son, I suspect that I WILL ENJOY EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF THIS TIME ALONE. That I will not be able to do otherwise, even if waves of melancholy come over me, because this gift of this weekend truly is that overdue and appreciated.
12. And as I write this now, still listening to Angus and Julia Stone, I already feel those first stirrings of tears that very likely will be released this weekend. Because tears have always been a natural part of my cycle, but since becoming a mother, I do not have the time to sink into that part of myself enough to cry, it seems. And I wager there are some tears in there that are long overdue. Tears of gratitude, tears of self-compassion, tears of reckoning, and tears of prayer.

If I allow myself the gift of crying, you can bet that I will also be crying for my baby, for my son, for my huge huge love for him, AND for my huge huge gratitude to have this time apart from him, if only so I can experience my love for him from another perspective. That is-- from the perspective of also honoring how much of myself I have offered to him, how much of myself I have poured into him, how much of myself I have let go of, re-birthed, and allowed to be molded and reshaped by this transformational experience called motherhood.

Motherhood is a blessing, and yes, it is a sacrifice. It is a hero’s journey, a path of responsibility, resilience, and passion like no other. It is hands down the hardest AND the most amazing-illuminating-rewarding thing I’ve ever done.

So here’s to motherhood, here’s to me, and here’s to ALL of the mothers out there, working their asses off and deserving a whole lot more recognition and rest than we get.

Mothers: may you keep asking for those elusive yet so deserved pockets of time and space that you NEED-- whether it be a moment to breathe at the end of the day, or your own personal weekend retreat. And everyone else: may you bow down and conspire to aid in this task. May you remember to honor your mother.

Popo and Cedar

Christmas Eve, huoguo (hot pot) tradition

Also celebrating Popo's birthday

My grandmother has been visiting the last couple months, staying with my parents in Seattle. My mom flew down to L.A. to fly her up here, and in a little over a week, my parents will fly her back down.

My grandmother is 92, too old to fly alone. She still looks remarkable for her age, but each time I see her I can tell that she is shrinking. It is true: old people shrink. Young people grow. Her hearing is going too, which makes it hard to talk with her, especially when in Chinese, a language I am still hesitant to use. You cannot be hesitant in a language in which you need to yell to be heard. Often, I just opt for smiles and silence. There is not much to say anyway.

I love watching Popo interact with Cedar. She met him first when he was five months old, then I sent her photos of him every few months until she met him again when he was 18 months. But it hasn't been until these last couple months that she’s really gotten to know him. I bring Cedar over there two afternoons a week for my parents to watch him while I go write or run errands, and recently I'll come by a couple more times too, where I stay and hang out as well.

Playing deejay and dancing are two of Cedar’s favorite activities at my parents, especially since my parents indulge his every request—changing the c.d. or record again and again and again while he shakes his head, “No, no, no,” until they finally alight on one he wants to listen to. Amongst his favorites are fifties classics like ‘The Twist’ and ‘Rock around the Clock’; or songs for kids like Nat King Cole’s ‘Frosty the Snowman’, me and my sister’s old Puff the Magic Dragon record, or the Sesame Street rendition of ‘Sing a Song’ (which my dad found amongst other old kid’s classics at a record store).

Cedar’s other favorite is “Beat It.” “Bi bi!!!” he’ll yell when it comes on, and when the song transitions to ‘Billy Jean’, he’ll shake his head, “No. No. No,” until my dad switches it back to ‘Beat It’. Then, when he puts on a new record, Cedar demands to be picked up so he can “See, see!” (Did I mention that this boy gets whatever he wants over there?)

Recently we were all dancing to “Beat It” in the basement in the midst of Seattle’s snow storm. My parents were practicing their hustle/swing steps, I was indulging Cedar in his favorite form of dancing (being held and swung around), and my grandmother was marching in place. It was one of those fleeting moments that, even as it’s happening, you realize is precious. 

Popo loves Cedar. She smiles, bobs her head, and pats her lap rhythmically when he’s around, calling him over. He runs up to her, and together they do a sort of chicken dance—bobbing their heads in and out towards each other (Cedar copying Popo’s movements). She pulls his bulky 30 pounds up into her lap, even though she is less than 90 pounds herself. She makes noises, “Bababa, bababa…” and also talks to him in Chinese. He copies her intonations-- in fact, my mom shakes her head at the grating way she taught him to call my name, loudly and with an emphasis on the second syllable, “Mamaaa!!!” He calls her Taipo (great grandmother) and she calls him “Cedee”, both pronouncing the other’s name imperfectly.

But really, at two and 92, who even needs language? He is the perfect companion for her, a burst of delight and energy, a being she can relate to because he is a (not quite) two-year-old, and two-year-olds are more or less the same in any language. They are curious, silly, stubborn, delightful. Popo can spoon feed Cedar avocados, let him turn on and off the lamp by her bed, let him play with the remote to the T.V. to his heart’s content. I will swallow my usual annoyance when told how to parent my child, and Popo can admonish me all she wants to put on his hat before we go out, to make sure the gate to the stairs is closed, and to not let him play with a rubber band, because she is his great-grandmother, because she has raised five children, and because no matter how much advice has changed in the parenting department over the years and across cultures, most of her words are still valuable and sound.

When it’s time for us to go, I can always tell that Popo is disappointed.

“Stay for dinner at least,” she’ll say.

“We can’t Popo. Cedar needs to go to sleep in half an hour. And he can’t eat most of the food we eat anyway.”

 “When will you come back? Tomorrow?”

“Not till Wednesday. The day after tomorrow.”

She nods, looking slightly disappointed, but appeased that at least it won’t be longer.

I need to make sure that Cedar and I spend as much time as possible over there in the coming week, because before long Popo will be flying back to L.A., and I do not know when I will see her next. It is not easy for me to travel with Cedar, especially without my husband who is tied to a busy work schedule, and the idea of trying to keep Cedar occupied while at Popo’s condo for days on end (without resorting to watching copious amounts of T.V.) sounds slightly… awful. So I hope that my parents will invite her to come back to Seattle again soon, perhaps this summer, and that she will still be healthy enough to travel.

Each time I see Popo now, I cannot help but wonder if it might be the last time. Overall, she’s in great health for someone who is 92, but still, her blood pressure runs high and even a cold will send her into a tizzy of fear and stress (not to mention real, escalating symptoms). But more than this, I can sense that Popo is wondering the same thing each time she hugs me goodbye now, or comments on how old she is, or forces me to take a little extra money: she is thinking, this might be the last time.

Every time I see Popo, and especially as she starts to anticipate her departure, she will start to reflect on how she helped to raise my sister and I when we were young. “I’ve held you since you were a baby,” she’ll remind me again, and nowadays she’ll shake her head and add, “I used to care for you when you were Cedar’s age, and now you have a child of your own.”

I can only imagine what this must feel like. She is 92. Cedar is not quite two. Ninety years separate the span of their experiences here on this earth. One of them can reflect on how fast it all goes; the other does not yet know that there is anything to be lived outside of this moment. One is losing her memory and hearing; the other is learning new words every day.

When he is older, Cedar will probably not remember these days of playing with his great-grandmother. But I will. And I will tell him how much she loved him, how much delight he brought her in such a short span of time, and how much joy it gave me to be able to share him with her, to watch them laugh and play together, these two beings connected to me through blood and fate, these two beings whom I was given no choice but to love. 

The Awesome-Crazy-Hard Plunge into Becoming a New Mother

I’m getting excited to facilitate my first PEPS meeting next week. To welcome this group of mothers and babies into my home, to drink in their tender new beginnings.

As a new mom, PEPS was extremely helpful to me. Although I had other moms and drop-in parenting groups I gathered with on occasion, PEPS was one thing I could count on each week, my one structured commitment in what was otherwise a blur of feedings and naps. Coming together with a group of women who knew me through my emerging identity as a mother and who understood on some silent level what I was going through, helped me to better process this intensely transformative time. It helped me give voice to concerns I had and to articulate what was going on for me and my baby.

The format was simple. Each week we met for two hours in one of our homes. We all lived in the same part of town and we all had babies within a few months of age of each other (PEPS creates groups based on your zip code and due date). A volunteer (also a mother and PEPS alum) facilitated. Each week we would begin by sharing our high and low points of the week, and then go on to discuss some pre-determined topic, like sleep, feeding, or shifting identities. Babies would cry, feed, and sleep during meetings, and moms learned to grow more comfortable tending to a fussy baby in a space outside their own homes. Resources were shared and sympathy given, yet PEPS is not a therapy group nor a parenting class. Mostly, it’s a place to form community and feel more supported as a new mom. It can help normalize what otherwise can be an incredibly overwhelming and isolating experience.

Some PEPS groups continue to meet for years after their formal group has ended. Others, like mine, gradually disband, because women go back to work, schedules conflict, and everyone become more busy. Regardless of the group’s future, however, I believe that the value of belonging to a group like this for even just three months can be enormous.

Motherhood has been such a profound, transforming experience for me, and I’ve spent so much time over the last three years reading, writing, and learning about so many facets of the experience, that I like the idea of sharing some of the resources that I’ve garnered. But more than this, I like the idea of helping other moms to process and talk about the joys and challenges they are going through. My role as a facilitator is not to be a ‘teacher’ (especially since I can’t remember a fraction of what I once knew about each particular stage of development), but rather to be a conduit to help the group form their own strong connections.

PEPS philosophy, as well as my own, advocates that there is no one ‘right’ way to parent. In a culture which inundates pregnant women and new mothers with well-meaning but often unwelcome not to mention judgment-ridden advice, sometimes what we most need is just for somebody to listen. And it is often through feeling heard by another that we can actually begin to hear for ourselves the precise nature of what is actually going on inside. Have you ever had someone say to you something like, “That sounds hard,” after you’ve relayed a story, and then, for the first time, you feel tears brimming in your eyes, tears that key you in on just how hard it actually has been? That’s what I’m talking about.

The other day I went through my roster and called each woman to welcome her to the group and see if they had any questions. In the background, I could hear babies crying, breast pumps wheezing, and the muffled voices of the women themselves that suggested they might be holding a sleeping baby or simply existing in that slightly altered time-space of being holed up with an infant for days, weeks on end.

I try to remember those first days and what they were like for me, still coming off of the drugs from the cesarean, lying down or sitting in the recliner, my breasts heavy with milk, my hair uncombed, the heat turned up high. Visitors would come now and then bearing food that was greatly appreciated, taking their turns holding our newborn, but mostly we kept to ourselves, venturing outside for a walk to the neighborhood pond only after the first three weeks were spent solely indoors, save for a few steps out into the yard.

I also remember how nervous I was when I had to drive the baby alone for the first time, and what a relief it was to arrive. When you are caring for a newborn, there are a million little hurdles like this to get over—first night, first bath, first day caring for him alone, first time away from his side. Actually, I think this statement could probably be said for caring for any aged child: parenthood is a continual succession of ‘firsts’, and although it may not feel as daunting and I may not feel as raw as I did during those first months, parenting continues to grow more challenging and complex in other ways. Although some of the early demands (sore nipples, woken all night, fears of suffocating your baby, seismic identity shifts) might have diminished, there are always new stages and concerns to worry about, and new joys and milestones to celebrate, as well.

Let’s just say it: parenting is really fucking hard. (Only the f word seems to do justice to the gravity of this sentence). If anyone claims otherwise, they are employing a selective memory. It’s tiring, all-consuming, non-stop. It is a constant challenge to carve out enough time alone with your partner; to carve out enough time alone with yourself; to negotiate a sense of equity with regards to how you divide childcare, respites from childcare, and chores; to maintain your friendships, especially with those who do not also have kids. For those who go back to work, it can be hard to be away from your baby for so much of the week. And for those who decide not to go back, it can be hard to leave behind huge chunks of your identity that were tied to the work that you once did out in the world of adult interactions.

Parenting, and motherhood in particular, is challenging on so many levels. But it’s also filled with so many transcendent moments that are equally piercing when they come over you. Beyond the exhaustion and tedium that parenting can bring on, each day we are also privileged to witness a new being coming alive, discovering the world for the first time. Discovering its hands, toes, tongue, voice. Discovering lights, sounds, textures, tastes. And this discovery keeps going, never ends. It is amazing to witness and realize all the stages of discovery  that go into becoming a person, all the skills and ordinary miracles around us all the time that we adults take for granted in our daily lives.  Holding and witnessing a newborn, a being so new, so tied still to some other world, we are reminded of the pure awesomeness of life, of how each and every one of us was born and came into this world.

Together, new mothers and babies are an inseparable unit, existing in this vulnerable, other worldly state. New mothers have just gone through the exhausting and traumatic feat of giving birth, only to then plunge into a blur of days and nights spent caring for their newborn. Their hormones are careening, their bodies healing, their emotions reeling, their former world and life turned inside out, and they don’t get time to rest to recover-- they just have to dive in.

Mother and baby both recognize each other on some level—recognize each other’s presence, experienced now from a different perspective—yet they are understandably also in a state of inexpressible awe about where and who they now are. This is a magical time; this is a crazy time. This is a fragile time, a painful time. This period of brand new motherhood can be so many things; everyone experiences it slightly differently, but no one can deny how intense it is-- and how precious it is—because it is also so fleeting. One stage, one age, one crisis, one delight, one day merges into the next. And although you may still feel like you are in survival mode for many months or even years, where it feels like enough just to manage to eat, to sleep, and shower (if that), somewhere along the way it can be so important and illuminating to carve out the time to step back from “total immersion parenting” and give voice to your experiences. Whether this voice comes forth through talking to a friend, writing in a journal, or joining a support group, it can be so valuable to find the words to express what you are going through, what we all go through albeit in different ways, as mothers. For it is through this process of reckoning-- of mourning our losses, proclaiming our discoveries, and speaking our truths (and yes, even garbled, sleep-deprived, grasping for truths)-- that we can begin to step more gracefully into the demands of motherhood. In naming and honoring all that we have gone through and are going through, we can learn to see our experiences through a clearer lens, with more perspective, and hopefully with more acceptance, self-compassion, and trust.

WRITING MOTHERHOOD SEATTLE WORKSHOPS: Sign-up Today!

ONE-DAY INTENSIVE: Saturday, February 11th, 9:00 a.m. -2:00 p.m.

EIGHT-WEEK SERIES: Saturday mornings, March 3 - April 21, 10:00 a.m. -12:00 p.m.

Has motherhood been a profound or complex journey for you?

Do you long for time to write and digest your experiences?

Whether you are a beginning or experienced writer, a new or longtime mom, these workshops are designed for you!

In a small group setting, we will gather to explore our diverse, individual experiences as mothers. Each week we will free-write from a series of prompts that explore themes such as: joy and intimacy; isolation and community; shifting identities; cultural myths and taboos; longing, change, and letting go.

Participants will be encouraged to share from their writing in a supportive, non-judgmental environment. Together we will aim to go beyond labeling our writing as “good” or “bad,” and to let go of our internal editors so we can access the place where our writing reveals new insights. Each week, we will also read quotes and essays from mother-writers such as Rachel Cusk, Anne Lamott, Naomi Wolf, and Hope Edelman, which we will discuss and use to jump-start our own writing.*

By the end of our time together, you will have generated pages of new writing, connected with a community of mother-writers, and emerge with a stronger sense of what motherhood means to you.

* The one-day workshop will not include readings, and instead will focus on free-writing and sharing aloud. The themes will be similar, but condensed.

Sign-up early for a discounted rate! Details below.

Limited partial scholarships available. 

All workshops held at the Good Shepard Center in Wallingford: 4649 Sunnyside Ave N. Seattle, WA 98103.

One-Day Intensive:

Saturday, February 11, 2012        

9:00 a.m. – 2:00 p.m.

Max.# of students: 10. Register below.

Payment Options

Register by 1/11 $65.00 USDRegister by 2/11 $75.00 USD

Eight-Week Series:

Saturdays, March 3 – April 21, 2012

10:00 a.m. – 12:00 p.m.

Max. # of students: 10. Register below.

Payment Options

Register by 2/3 $208.00 USDRegister by 3/3 $240.00 USD

Online Registration Information

1) PayPal encourages people to register and establish an account. When you click on the PayPal link during registration the page will prompt you for a PayPal user ID and password. Please note it is NOT necessary to have an account with PayPal to register for a workshop. Below the question "Don't have a PayPal account?" you will see the word "CONTINUE," click on this and you will be able to finish paying for your registration by credit card without setting up an account.

2) If the workshop is already full and this information has not yet been posted on this page, I will notify you and issue a refund to your credit card. If the classes do not fill to the minimum (5 students), I will do the same.

3) You will receive e-mail confirmation of your payment from PayPal AND an email from me. If you do NOT receive this confirmation it may mean your registration has not been received. Please email Anne at: alkellor@gmail.com

4) I will send a group email out to the class a couple weeks prior with room information and any other instructions. Thanks!

Scholarship Information

If you are interested in attending either workshop but cannot afford the tuition, you are welcome to apply for a partial scholarship. Please send me an email (alkellor@gmail.com) letting me know what your financial situation is, why you wish to take the course, and how much of the tuition you can contribute. Requests are due for the one-day intensive by 1/11, and for the 8-week series by 2/3. I will then let you know within two weeks of the scholarship application deadline whether your request can be granted.
 

About the Instructor

Anne Liu Kellor holds a MFA in creative nonfiction, and is a Hedgebrook and Jack Straw alum. Her essays have appeared in the anthology Waking Up American (Seal Press), The Los Angeles Review, and other publications. Anne has read her work from coast-to-coast and led writing workshops in community centers, senior centers, schools, prisons, colleges, and living rooms. She has written a collection of memoirs, Searching for the Heart Radical, and blogs on motherhood and writing. 

Questions? E-mail Anne at: alkellor@gmail.com

Baby Lust— Or Not

I used to always think that I would probably have two kids. Two parents and two kids seemed like the “perfect” family unit, balanced and lively yet manageable, without necessarily requiring the purchase of a minivan. I grew up with a sister, and although we fought a lot (we are a year and a half apart, and many of our spats ended in fear-inspiring threats like, “You can’t wear any of my clothes anymore, ever!”), we also had lots of fun together.  We understand each other on an intrinsic level because we grew up in the same environment under the care of the same people.  Being an only child always seemed so… lonely. Only children might grow up to be more… self-centered, or demanding, or possessive of their things. Well, even if these aren’t true (in fact, siblings might feel more of a need to establish their personal territory), I still always felt that two was better than one.

But now that I’m the parent of a toddler, I see things a little differently. It’s true that I still see families of four (or five- but five’s the limit) eating crepes, drinking coffee, and reading the paper and picture books together on Sunday mornings at the café, and think how great that would be to be able to go on family outings someday where everyone will be entertained. But then, during the week, I see mothers pushing their toddlers in a stroller, while also carrying a baby in an Ergo and walking the family dog, and I feel a kind of empathy for them. Or is it pity, born of thankfulness that, no matter how tired I am, at least I’m not them? I’m sure that they treasure their family and that this may very well be the cozy family unit that they’ve always dreamt of, and yet, no one can deny that these full-time mothers shoulder a heavy load.

Mostly, I have embraced my initiation into motherhood over this last year and a half, and I have been grateful for my ability to stay at home with Cedar while he is so young. And yet. I have also acutely missed my loss of time—namely, to write and pursue my career. Because so much of the work that is involved in being a writer is unpaid, we cannot afford to hire a regular sitter so that I can go sit in a café and write. Instead, I depend on the two afternoons a week of childcare that my mom provides, or my weekend morning respites care of my husband—and inevitably, half of “my” time also gets funneled into the mound of dishes, laundry, emails, or chores that I haven’t been able to get done while I’m with Cedar.

Recently, as my son has grown older, I’ve slowly started to claim back little pockets of time to write, not to mention to begin to consider pursuits like teaching and publishing again. And despite what can feel like painstakingly sloooww progress, chipping away at a long list of goals, it has also been hugely satisfying to begin to inhabit the larger spectrum of my creative and professional identity again, even as I remain a “stay-at-home” mom. Don’t get me wrong, I have only the fullest respect for stay-at-home moms—I know how hard they work (for no pay, for often under-expressed thanks from their partners, and for a sliver of respect from society), and I also know what a joy this occupation can be. But I resent feeling like I am “just” a stay-at-home mom in the eyes of others, I resent the distinct ‘demotion’ that this role occupies in our society, and the way that it’s demands usurp all other aspects of my identity.

And so of course I am excited for each new stage of independence that my son moves into—whether this was his ability to be away from the breast for longer periods, or, his ability to go to preschool for several mornings a week in the not-so-distant-future, during which I can dive into my projects all the more. Even if we’ll have to find the money for these additional school hours, this spending will feel more ‘justified’ since it’s good for Cedar to be exposed to other children and creative environments. This investment will be “for Cedar” and not just me, even if I will reap just as much—if not more-- satisfaction out of this new routine.

So with this new phase of motherhood on the horizon, it’s hard for me to feel eager to get pregnant again and to plunge all over again into that altered, caring-for-a-newborn state of mind-- only this time with a toddler to chase after simultaneously. If I’m so tired and desperate for more time with just one, how on earth will I be able to do anything else but care for my children if I have two? Of course, I realize that eventually when they go to school you gain some of your time back. But I don’t think I can handle waiting the four or five more years that that it would take (if say, I got pregnant today) to come back to the state of equilibrium that I’m only just reclaiming now.

Right now, I’m thinking that having just one might be good enough. He can play with his neighbors, cousins, and friends. He can be assured of always having plenty of attention from mom and dad. And he can more easily be schlepped off to the grandparents or brought with us on airplanes when mom and dad regain their ability to go out more and travel (even if this feels like a distant fantasy). Also, having just one will help my husband and I regain some of our own time together, something we desperately need, as opposed to taking away even more.

Maybe if we were rich, some of these factors wouldn’t be quite so relevant. We could hire a nanny, go on regular date nights, both feel intellectually engaged by our work, and still have energy left over to shower on our kids. But we aren’t rich, and when one half of the family income comes from a writer, we probably never will be. So although a lack of money alone wouldn’t stop me from having another kid if I wanted one at all costs, in our case, it’s definitely a factor worth considering. With just one we aren’t quite as pressed to tackle the expensive remodel that our humble cabin requires if my husband and I ever hope to have our own bedroom again.  And with just one, doing something drastic (however unlikely) like moving the family for a year to live in China feels slightly more within reach, whereas everything feels that much more daunting with just one more child’s future to worry about.

There’s something to be said for making life a little easier. I know that some people say that with two they can entertain each other, but mostly what I hear from the buzz on Facebook and the like is that having two young kids is definitely harder. Perhaps it’s a selective memory of the early years (not to mention an intense love) that leads one to proclaim that more is easier. I don’t know.

I do realize, of course, that in another year or two I might take all this back as I’m seized by an irrational desire to have another baby. Even now, as I encounter the newborns of friends, I have small flutters of longing to hold and remember the essence of one of those mystical beings. Those first months are such a blur of hormones, anxiety, and sleepless nights that it’s already hard to recall what it felt like to be privy to care for such a being, but I know that, once again, our selective memories can help us to block out the hardships and to instead pine for the fleeting, yet nonetheless very real moments of joy that come with caring for a baby.

And yet, I fear getting sucked even deeper into the maternal world of diapers, playdates, doctor’s appointments, online shopping, and conversations centered around breastfeeding and sleep.  I fear getting sucked in so deep that it will feel insurmountably hard to reemerge into the adult, work world. And this is in part because I am acutely aware of how much work it took me to get to where I am—and I’m not even satisfied yet; I still have greater goals. And the longer you set those goals aside, the harder it is to dig back into them. Not impossible, never impossible. But hard.

Baby lust. I know it might still hit me. I know some of you out there might be thinking to yourself, yeah, I remember feeling that way… just you wait another year or so, and I concede that I’m still hanging on to those bins of baby clothes up in the attic, just in case.  Yes, there is a part of me that would be excited again to go through the ripening journey towards birth again, with the ultimate climax that comes from meeting the new mystery that life has sent for you.  But I have also not yet forgotten just how hard this first year and a half has been. These last twenty months have shown me how strong I am, how much I can shoulder when called upon, at the same time that they have shown me my limits and where I need to set the boundaries when it comes to my own needs.