Writing Your Birth Story: June Online Workshop

Have you always wanted to write your child’s birth story, but are worried that too much time has passed or that you won’t be able to do it justice? Or have you simply lacked the time or focus to sit down and write it?

Procrastinate no more! In this four-week workshop, you will gather online with a small group of women and support each other in writing your birth stories. Maybe you simply want to remember and preserve the story of what happened for yourself; maybe you have lingering questions or layers of understanding that you still need to unearth and process about your experience; or maybe you want to create a polished personal essay that you can share with others. Whatever your intentions are, whatever your experience with writing is, and whether you gave birth five months or five years ago, this workshop is for you!

First we will read about and discuss the process of writing, and more specifically how this applies to the process of writing your birth story. Then we will free-write from prompts about our birthing experiences to help us stir up our memories and explore the different layers, themes, and questions that may reside within our stories. By week three, you will have written and submitted a draft of your birth story to the group. Anne will respond with extensive feedback for each person, asking questions and providing suggestions for ways in which you could further explore your story if you should so choose. Workshop participants will also be required to read and respond to at least one other woman’s birth story, following Anne's guidelines for ways to give respectful and constructive feedback.

By the end of our time together, you will have: written and received feedback on a draft of your birth story; gained insight into stages of the writing process from free-writing to revision; and emerged with a deeper understanding of your birthing experience’s significance to you. 

DETAILS:

When: Sunday, June 3^rd – Sunday, July 1^st, 2012.

Cost: $120 Sliding scale available- please inquire.

To Register: Please email Anne at: alkellor@gmail.com and confirm how you would like to pay. (Personal check, cash, or Paypal.) Receipt of payment necessary to hold your spot.

Format: We will use googlegroups to post our documents and manage our discussion threads. Group size will range from 3 – 6 women.

Questions: Please don’t hesitate to ask! Email Anne: alkellor@gmail.com


Here's what one mother had to say about working with Anne on her birth story:

"I knew early on that I wanted to write the story of my birth. I wanted it for myself, for my daughter and to connect with expecting moms who might face a similar experience in their pregnancy and birth. Writing gave me a way to process the disconnects of my journey and create a fluid, seamless understanding of my experience. It gave me closure and at the same time opened a whole new world of possibilities.

Working with Anne was a tremendous gift. She skillfully stepped into one of the most intimate moments of my life and held it with tenderness and integrity. Anne's insight offered me the opportunity to try on new perspectives that I may not have seen without her help. She was a sounding board - a mirror to reflect my own thoughts, feelings and words so I could go deeper. Even now, years later, I am filled with warmth and gratitude for the experience. It changed me as a person and I believe it changed me as a mother." - Stacy Hirsch

Unsure whether you want to write your birth story, or what kind of story you might have to tell? Check out my old blog post that reflects on how many different versions of one person's birth story exist. So much depends on when we tell our story (how much distance and perspective we have); how we tell it (what aspect of the story might we choose to focus on), and what our intentions are for telling it (What is our ultimate purpose here? Who is our audience? What do we seek to understand?).

On Toddler Ear Infections, Trusting Doctors, and Trusting Your Gut

It’s been a bit of a rough week around here. Nothing unmanageable, just a runny nose that turned into an ear infection. A trip to the doctor’s, some muddied advice about it being up to me whether we “watch and wait” a couple days to see if it gets better on its own before starting antibiotics, or whether we start them right away.

Well, of course, if you leave it up to me, and you tell me about the potentially adverse side effects of antibiotics like allergic reactions and diarrhea, and then I get online and find out that since 2006 the AAP has actually recommended the ‘watch and wait’ approach, since many ear infections do get better on their own, and since a tendency to over-prescribe antibiotics can lead towards increased resistance to antibiotics, then I’m going to choose to wait and see. After all, I’m someone who doesn’t even like to give my child Tylenol too often, especially with all that high fructose corn syrup. You might think this sounds silly, but my child gets itchy and rashy when he has too much processed GMO corn.

Anyway, so I waited on the antibiotics, and meanwhile started giving Cedar Ibuprofen around the clock, and he seemed to be feeling better. But, of course, that was probably because of the Ibuprofen. So how am I supposed to tell if he’s truly getting better if I’m suppressing all the symptoms (fever, fussiness, etc.)? He seemed better and hadn’t been pulling at his ear anymore, but he was still sleeping poorly and he still had a temperature (although it was hard to know if I was getting an accurate reading with a squirmy toddler and the under the arm approach). So two days after going to the doctor, I called the consulting nurse. She took notes on everything I told her, consulted with the doctor, and advised me to wait one more day, then call back. She also made some remark about antibiotics to the effect of, “Well, and you don’t even know if they’ll work for sure. And over-prescribing antibiotics has led to cases of resistance to Merca.” Or something like that. So, okay, let’s wait one more day. I’m all for natural healing if that’s a likely option.

That said, I’m also someone who ultimately errs in favor of Western medicine—especially when something seems bad enough that I want immediate results. So I still drove to the pharmacy that afternoon to pick up the antibiotics just in case things took a decided turn for the worse. I wouldn’t have much time the next day to deal with the pharmacy, and maybe my gut was already telling me that we were going to need them in the end.

On the following day, Friday, Cedar was still following the same pattern of being okay, but increasingly fussy once the Ibuprofen wore off and still sleeping poorly. We were on day three of Ibuprofen, and although Cedar didn’t seem worse, he also didn’t seem better. His temperature had gone down a degree—or so I thought, until I called the consulting nurse one more time, and was reminded that you needed to add a degree to the reading when doing the under the arm approach. Oh, right. I knew that, once upon a time. Cedar has never had a fever before, so I’ve only taken his temperature once since he was a baby!

In any case, I was pretty much thinking we should start antibiotics that night, but like a dutiful patient I was calling one more time as advised. Well, the nurse this time clearly though that I had already waited too long and that I had some irrational fear of antibiotics. “Is there some reason why you don’t want to give it to him?” she asked in a slightly exasperated tone.

“Well, just because of the various side effects that the doctor told me about and that the articles I read online mentioned.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Is there some specific question you want to ask the doctor?”

“No, I just wanted to call and tell you his symptoms since I was advised to do so by the nurse.”

“Let me see who was on yesterday when you called. Oh… Dr. X.” she said, with a clear note of disdain. “Well, it certainly doesn’t sound like he’s getting better. I’d say you’ve certainly waited long enough. It says here in the notes that you were told to wait 24-48 hours and to start antibiotics if things did not improve or got worse.”

Yes but, I think to myself, it says on my notes from the doctor to wait two or more days. “Yes, well, it’s hard to tell if he’s really getting better or not because we’re suppressing the symptoms with Ibuprofen, but I agree that it seems like time to start. I thought his temperature had gone down, but now I realize it hasn’t. He doesn’t seem worse, though. And I just don’t know how long it typically takes for these things to clear up when you are supposed to wait.”

Anyway, suffice it to say that the nurse I talked to that day was of a different persuasion than the one I talked to the day before. And the doctor I saw? He seemed pretty neutral on the matter, but I trusted that if it had seemed like a bad enough case, he’d have told me to start antibiotics right away.

Some quick research online also revealed that this is a source of debate in the medical community. Recent research that came out in early 2011 shows that toddlers may recover sooner and have less chance of having reoccurring infections when treated right away, so the current AAP advice or the general sentiments amongst doctors may likely swing back towards advocating immediate antibiotic treatment. But other previous studies have also shown that the problem may lie in diagnosis— “Doctors vary in their opinion of what defines an ear infection when looking at the ear drum. The enlightenment in this new research is the use of strict criteria for diagnosis: bulging eardrum, redness on the drum, pain, and an inventory of acute symptoms. The study highlights the essential challenge with ear infections–make a good diagnosis.” says Seattle pediatrician and blogger, Wendy Sue Swanson in this article. 

She goes on to say that parents should thus question the doctor about the nature of what they see in the eardrum to make sure it indeed looks like an infection. “When the pediatrician diagnoses an infection, push them on the appearance of the eardrum. It’s always okay to ask what it looks like! Ask if the eardrum is bulging, if it has pus behind it, or is red in color. It’s okay to ask the pediatrician to clarify and explain the difference between fluid in the ear and an ear infection. In combination with your child’s symptoms, it will be important for making a plan.” But who in reality does this? Or who has the forethought to read such articles before taking their child in to the doctor? Not me. My first response is always: go to the doctor. Second response: question what they say from the comfort of your couch and with Internet access.

It seems that the more you read and learn about your own health or children’s health, the more it teaches you to not blindly trust your doctor’s word or sometimes pithy statements of reassurance. We all want to just be able to trust and get on with it, to not have to play detective and doctor ourselves. And most of the time, this is probably okay if we have good doctors and fairly normal diagnosis. But unfortunately, this is not always the case. I have been given questionable information by my child’s doctor a number of times. And when Cedar was having so many problems with his body rashes and intestinal pain, it was ultimately through seeking out the advice of naturopaths that I was able to find any answers—with clear, tangible results—as opposed to the treat the symptom, not the cause (“We don’t know what the cause is”) approach of the Western pediatric dermatologist I saw.

Like I said, I still err towards Western approaches. I am fully immunizing my child (also after much reading and considerations towards alternate schedules, etc.). But we have also been relatively healthy and not been placed in situations in which your willingness to do your own research, seek second opinions, and make your own decisions might make the difference between life and death. 

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to make it sound like Cedar’s ear infection is THAT big of a deal. But these recent interactions have just brought up for me these thoughts and feelings. And we are approaching 48 hours of Cedar on his antibiotics, and unfortunately, he does not yet seem to be getting better as he should. But again, this is hard to say because, after calling the consulting nurse one more time to see if it was okay, I started giving him some Ibuprofen again to help him in the meantime before the antibiotics take full effect. I guess if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow, I’ll need to bring him back in. Sigh.

The last two nights he’s been sleeping terribly, only seeming to find rest when attached to my boob or lying on top of me, and then waking up in 30, 60, or at most two hour increments. This has meant I have gotten very poor sleep myself. I would not be functioning, much less sitting here writing, if my dear husband did not let me catch up by sleeping in. I slept an extra three hours this morning until eleven, when I was brought a tired toddler to nurse back to sleep for his nap. I had just enough time to put on my robe, drink a cup of tea and have some cereal before said toddler woke up again. I tried to get him to go back down, seeing how tired he still was, but his nose was all stuffy and when he tried to nurse he was uncomfortable, and this—plus who knows what other discomfort—set him into a tizzy of screaming, which turned into a full-blown tantrum that lasted a full 30 minutes.

I usually am able to calm him down from a tantrum within a few minutes. This time, nothing helped. He did not want cuddling or soothing. He did not want to get up and look out the window. He did not want more milk. He did not want to watch Thomas the Train. Instead, he violently flung his body about, banging his head on the bed, and trying to bang it elsewhere—on the wall, even on the bookshelf. I’ve read that head-banging falls within the realm of normal toddler tantrum behavior, but it sure is scary to think of how he could hurt himself if he’d succeeded in hitting his head on the corner of the bookshelf. Finally, after 30 minutes, he decided he would try to have some milk again, and his nose had cleared enough for him to do this, and so we lay there for another half an hour, allowing our heart rates to go down and breathing to return to normal, before he finally decided to get up, a happy and perky little two year old again.

Big sigh. In the meantime, this was supposed to have been my morning to steal away and write, but I finally got out the door at 2:30 p.m. Thank God I was able to get away at all. A week of terrible sleep + worrying about your sick child + long days staying at home with him = one exhausted mama.

I also carry a slight trace of guilt knowing that Cedar might already have been feeling better by now if I’d started him on antibiotics right away, even though I know that I made the best decisions I could given the information I was given. This whole process has just been a reminder to me that you need to take everything any doctor or nurse tells you with a grain of salt, and remember that even though they are the “experts” their personal biases and training can and will slant the advice they give you in distinct ways. During this process, I’ve talked so far to three nurses and one doctor. They each have given me slight, yet still significantly different takes on what I should do. It was only the last nurse I talked to whose voice reached out to me with a tone of mothering compassion, who listened closely to what I told her, and who did not seem like she was scolding me for being “that type of paranoid parent” or whatever the previous nurse had been thinking.

Anyway. I have other things I’d rather be writing about, but I feel all pent up and angsty and sad, so I needed to get this off my chest. Access to the Internet and too much information can sometimes feel like a curse in our modern age where everyone can self-diagnose and prescribe if they wish.  And yet. I also will not apologize for being someone who does not just blindly trust what I am told. I will ask for as second opinion if I feel the need. And a third opinion at that.

But in the end, I always have to come back to trusting my gut—which to me, is not some wild, irrational stab in the dark based on fear-- but rather a decision that is the end result of a process that includes: careful questioning of experts, close observation of my child, as much additional research as I have time for (so, not a ton, mind you), and in the end, choosing the path that feels the safest and most sound.

Sounds easy, right? Right.

Saving My Marriage from Facebook

Sometimes I absolutely hate Facebook, i-phones, and the prominence of technology in my life and home. The way my husband and I are glued to our phones and the Internet each night, you would never guess that a mere four years ago all we had was dial-up. That was back when we lived in a cabin with a woodstove for heat and a composting toilet on the back porch. That was back when it still felt like a novelty for me to even have a cell phone (which incidentally didn’t happen until 2004).

When Matthew and I lived in the cabin on 50 acres outside of Olympia, our time together was mostly technology-free. We had the occasional DVD night up in the loft where the T.V. lived (that could only be used for movies), but mostly we just hung out, made dinner, listened to music, drank wine, and stared at the stars—both metaphorically and literally. Dial-up was, of course, frustratingly slow, but because of its very slowness, it forced me to get on, do my business, and get off. No mindless surfing, no long detours into someone’s life story or web links, no wasted time online. Sounds ideal.

Of course, I also love the Internet, my i-phone, and Facebook. I would feel cut off and disconnected from the world without them. And without a fast connection, I would never have the motivation to network or do Internet research. I might very well withdraw into my old insular ways.

But what I hate sometimes, and I mean loathe, is the way these devices pull us away from the moment, pull us away from our living room, from our child, from each other, distracting us and eating away at the precious few moments that we have to connect at the end of the day.

When I come out of the bedroom at the end of the night, my son finally asleep, dinner eaten, the house quiet, a feeling of relief washed over me, I want to be able to sit down next to my husband and have him look up at me, put aside his laptop, and ask me how my day was. I don’t want to have to ask him to do this, but if I don’t ask, and instead decide to just go get a glass of wine, sit in the chair across from him, and get online via my I-phone myself, then it might be an hour before we finally look up at each other and attempt to converse. Or, we might just skip that part altogether and decide to watch an episode of Mad Men or what have you, since we only have an hour now before it will be time to go to bed.

To be fair, there are times when my husband comes into the room and I am the one who is engrossed in something online, and not immediately willing to shut it down and tune into him, or us. To be fair, I am sure that I check my email way more than he does his. And to be fair, I am probably every bit if not more addicted to Facebook than he is.        

My excuse: I’m home all day with a toddler. Some days go by where I don’t talk to a single other person besides a few words exchanged with the grocery checker. My days are devoted to meeting the needs of a two-year-old: to feeding, changing, and clothing him, to providing him with enriching, stimulating environments and play. But are these activities stimulating to me? Not very often. Perhaps in a mild, satisfying “that was a fun way to pass the day” kind of way, or in a random intensely delightful moment. But seldom in a way that actively engages my mind and creative longing.

And so? I turn to Facebook and to my email. I check them over and over again, a mindless reach of the fingers, to see if anyone new has written me, if anyone has commented on an update, or posted interesting links. It’s like candy. (Or chips, if you go more for the salty.) It’s little morsels of fluff and occasionally glimmers of opportunity or interest that inject a bit of the outside world into my day. Since I can’t just decide to take a break and go be alone, or sit down and watch a few minutes of t.v. (if I want to be a good parent), or talk much on the phone without my son trying to get my attention, then I turn to Facebook which provides the perfect take it or leave it morsel of a break that I can get away with in between activities throughout my day.

My husband’s laptop sits right next to the couch, right next to the spot where coincidentally one of us is usually planted. We also use the laptop to listen to music and stream videos, so it makes sense that it lives at the center of our living space. But sometimes I wish it weren’t so, because I know that the ease to which I can click the button, scan a few posts, and turn it off, is not always an asset. It’s a distraction. It pulls me away from my son, who is here and wants my full attention. It pulls me away from my husband. It pulls me away from myself.

And with the i-phone, it’s even easier to click on and off, wherever I am—in the bathroom, in the yard, in the car. I never wanted an i-phone, but now I’m addicted to it. Again, it’s like candy, or a cigarette, or anything you might rationalize giving yourself as a little “treat”, a quick fix, because “you work so hard you deserve it”. Never mind that it doesn’t really matter if you read that message now or later at night (when you know you’re going to check your email again anyway). It’s just habit. It’s an addiction.

I know I am hardly the first here to decry the ways in which technology is pulling us apart more than together, but I feel compelled to write about it because, like I said earlier, sometimes I really do hate what it’s done to us, and I mean HATE in capitol letters or italics, whichever you prefer.

I hate it when I realize that one of the reasons why my son probably begs for Elmo so much is because I am constantly getting on the computer, and thus reminding him of Elmo (for we stream it via Netflix). And I hate it when I want to just be with my husband, but it feels like he would rather be with his virtual fishing buddies online.

Once you’ve developed a ritual where you are used to checking certain sites every day, the process becomes like a litany of sorts, and the day feels incomplete unless you’ve done so. My husband and I both developed our habits in large part during the year and a half that he worked on the road during the week and we were both alone during the evenings. That’s when my love affair with Facebook and my online community of friends really began. Almost every night, I’d sit down with my dinner or my wine and enjoy Facebook. If it happened to be a night where I felt chatty and had posted a status update (or two or three; I tend towards either binge updating or silence), then my chattiness would no doubt be rewarded by that perky little red flag of correspondence, with new comment or ‘likes’ boosting my inner extrovert and desire to connect. Other nights, when I am not feeling that chatty, my time spent online is shorter, although I still loyally scan through the new posts, looking for those few that pop out at me with interest.

Loyalty. If you want to love it, and keep loving it, Facebook demands a degree of loyalty. Leave it for too long and it might feel like no one cares about you, no one cares what you have to say, and you were really just talking to yourself the whole time in the first place. Facebook rewards those who reward Facebook. Leave a bunch of comments, post a bunch of updates, and lo and behold, red flags will abound and your interactions will begin to feel that much more personable, conversational. But if your own interest wanes, if you couldn’t care less or be bothered to comment, then after a while, you might just find that the whole endeavor feels like a giant waste of time.

I’ve only gone on one Facebook purge since I started; it was during the three weeks I spent at Hedgebrook, a writing residency for women on Whidbey Island. I could have still checked it each day in the main farmhouse or “pumphouse” if I’d wanted, but I chose to leave it behind. It was easy. I sunk into my writing mind and the environment around me instead. I didn’t post one thing, and on the one occasion that I did glance at it, everyone’s updates suddenly seemed so… inconsequential. Petty. Striving for something to say. Striving for connection.

I’m not trying to sound all high and mighty, for it didn’t take me long (at all) to get reengaged, but what I recall here is the feeling of what a complete organism the world of Facebook is, the way it sucks you into it’s chatty, interesting, sometimes political, often apolitical, sometimes passionate, often ironic world, and makes you want to be an active part of it, makes you want to stand out and be noticed, makes you want to be followed and liked.

Sometimes, there’s nothing wrong with this. Being ‘liked’ and otherwise encouraged and patted on the back can feel great, especially after a long and difficult day. But if we come to expect this, or go to Facebook for our “quick fixes” of approval, don’t be surprised if Facebook can then also offer the opposite effect. Ever notice what happens when no one comments or likes what you post? It can be a mild let-down-- whatever, Facebook, it’s not that great, you shrug it away. Our own disappointment or delight is fed in accordance with our own expectations. But our addiction for more “positive fixes” keeps us hungry for more.  If suddenly something you write gets twelve likes and nine comments (or adjust your expectations accordingly here)—wowzas! It makes you kind of perky. People like you. Or like what you have to say. People notice you. Or people want you to notice them. Be their friends. Like them back. It’s middle school all over again.

Have you ever noticed how seeing the red flag of correspondence gives you a little zip of anticipation? And how seeing nothing gives you a mildly deflated kind of blah feeling? Of course, it’s often no coincidence that it’s exactly when you’re feeling blah, that your updates are then blah, and therefore so are your comments. And it’s when your feeling all, “Zippity-do-dah, the world is great, and I just won the Pulitzer!” that people love to give you virtual high fives. It makes me wonder how much we unconsciously (or consciously, for those of us who have thought about it) start to post things that are happier or perkier or somehow easier to “like” because we’ve learned that it elicits a response. For me, I often just don’t feel like posting anything unless I’ve got something particularly funny, exciting, quirky, or poignant to share. Or else, be prepared for silence. Mostly though, I’ve just figured out by now that I mostly only care to actively engage with Facebook (as in post on it) when I’m feeling relatively good about my life. Otherwise, all that chatter on Facebook just starts to depress me. And who wants to be a bummer online?

I know I’m never going to swear it off—the benefits of Facebook and the online world in my life are too great. Beyond the distractive qualities, I find that it can and does actually connect me to people in ways that I wouldn’t otherwise have the time or means to do. As a natural introvert (or perhaps an introverted extrovert), I benefit greatly from this way to know more people. I do end up feeling like a part of a greater community—whether that’s across the world or in my own city or amongst my extended family, other writers, or other parents. I have forged and cultivated real, in-person relationships via Facebook that otherwise wouldn’t have come about.

So call me a diehard fan, and I won’t deny it. But then what are these intense feelings of hatred that Facebook can also evoke in me? I think it comes from the same hunger to connect that draws me to Facebook in the first place. It’s the recognition that no matter how stimulating Facebook might be at times, it can also leave me feeling disappointed, distant, and sad about my lack of real-time, right now, connection. It’s that mild dissatisfaction that almost all of us feel now and then, if not every day, that feeling like, this is it? This is my day? My month? My year? Was there something else I was supposed to be doing with my life? Was there some promise that I made to myself long ago that I’m not fulfilling? When did I forget about how nourishing practices like yoga or sitting meditation can be? When did my husband and I forget that we might actually be able to do some of those important and restorative activities together? Why does it have to be just “my time” (spent writing) and “his time” (spent fishing), and then “our time” sans child, becomes the rare afternoon visit to a pub or the beach, or more like the nightly veg out state on the couch—checking our email and watching T.V.

The ultimate irony is when my husband and I are sitting in the same room at the same time and both on Facebook, and one of us attempts to ‘chat’ with the other or else comments on the other’s post. Sometimes this is humorous, but more often than not, it’s just depressing and a sign that we really need to get offline NOW.

When did we become one of these couples? When we moved to the city? When we had a child? Yes, I could blame it on child rearing, the easiest and most obvious target. But even without children, I think all couples start to sink into these levels of complacency, forgetting all the hard internal work you might have done while you were single and alone, pining for your soul mate, and then sliding comfortably into a lazy space where you don’t push each other to grow—and even more than this, you don’t push yourself to grow as a couple. You do what you can do to keep the peace, stay sane, pay the bills, reward yourself with treats. But couples therapy or retreats? Save that for when the marriage really gets rocky; that’s salvage and reparation time.

Most of all, my husband and I just need more time together. And time that is NOT being interspersed with checking our emails, Facebook, and texts. Because our lives are already marked by a decided shortage of time to do the things we need and want, it is baffling to think of all the time that we both freely give to acquaintances and distant friends online; if we were to add up all of it, I know we would be appalled. I’m quite certain that we give more time to Internet rabbit holes overall than we do to sitting down and chatting about our day. And THAT is truly sad. THAT is what makes me want to institute Facebook or Internet-free moratoriums when together—try for an evening, a weekend, a whole week even! But just as I know my husband would be hard to convince, I know that I too would want to make exceptions. This is called bargaining. This is called an addiction.

So when that familiar feeling of stifled frustration comes over me when I see you sitting there online, and barely looking up to acknowledge my presence walking into the room, I will try to remember that it’s in part my frustration with my own addiction that makes me so resentful of your own. And I will also try to remember that it is in my power to not be angry but simply be honest and forthright.  To tell you what I want and need, even if I feel like I’m repeating myself again and again. And to tell you this because I love you, because I want to be with you, and because it’s our job to keep reminding each other why we are here, together, in the first place.

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.