Get Your Belly Over... to the Elephant Journal

If you missed my post on lovin' your belly over at New Approaches, come over to the elephant journal.  I'm talking about some unique ways to increase the peace with your body image.

High Needs Mother

When my son was a baby, I wanted answers.

This new little red-faced infant wanted to nurse every twenty minutes. Max was up six times a night. The ‘quiet alert’ phase that we heard about—the one we imagined where our peaceful, silk-cheeked baby would silently gaze at us—was non-existent.

Long days dripped by in a haze of milk and tears—both of ours. Our pediatrician said that he didn’t have colic because he could be soothed by nursing. And Max didn’t save his sadness for just the witching hour—any hour of the day or night was fair game. In my attempts to ‘fix’ my son, I lugged him to osteopaths and homeopaths. I went on an elimination diet consisting of brown rice and carrots. I spent hours with him hooked to my breasts while I surfed the internet for solutions. For a way to make him happier. To make us both happier.

I came across an article by Dr. Sears, a leading proponent of attachment parenting. In the article, Dr. Sears described ‘High Needs Babies.’ These intense babies tended to sleep poorly and required constant holding and attention. Max fit ten out of twelve of the criteria. The article suggested that it was possible that my son’s temperament was just who he was, who he was born to be. Not something to fix. I was a bit devastated by this theory; if I couldn’t fix it, the tears and sleepless nights would continue. We were already utilizing many of Dr. Sears’ suggestions for calming the ‘High Needs Baby’—co-sleeping was the only way for any of us to get any rest. I carried him in the Ergo so often that I felt like the straps were melding with my skin. I nursed on demand—and the demand was high.

The only thing that really helped was time. Ever so slowly, our nursing sessions stretched out. After about sixteen months, Max finally started piecing together four or six hour stretches of sleep.  

Max is four and a half now. He’s been weaned for a few years now, and he usually sleeps through the night. But he is still intense. When he’s happy, he’s down-to-the-toes effervescent. And when he’s not—which is often— he’s shrieking, writhing puddle on the ground miserable.

We have a daughter now, too. She smiles and laughs easily and often. Loud sounds don’t phase her, and she weaned with little effort. At 21-months, she still requires a lot of care. But her whole being vibrates with ease, with lightness. I sense that life is much easier for her than it is for my son.

Than it is for me.

You see, I’m a High Needs Mother.

Before my kids were born, I practiced extreme self-care. I went to yoga and dance classes. I attended twelve-step meetings and therapy. I took long walks and joined a Unitarian church. I signed up for retreats and workshops. I did all of this to help me simply feel normal, which has always seemed much easier for most people than it did for me. Maybe it’s because I’m an introvert. Maybe it’s because I struggle with anxiety and depression. Maybe it’s because I’m what Dr. Elaine Aron describes as a ‘Highly Sensitive Person.’ Or maybe I’m just in touch with myself, and aware that humans weren’t really designed to withstand the fast-paced, over-booked life that much of the western world thrives on.

My husband and I vowed that when we had children, I would keep up my rigorous program. We promised we would support each other in doing the things we loved and the things that kept us sane and happy.

And then my son arrived.

And I was the only one who could sooth him.

I fantasized that my husband could induce lactation so my nipples could get a break. I pumped milk during the three minutes a day that my son wasn’t nursing. After a few months, I went to a yoga class by myself. As I backed the car out of the driveway, I felt half giddy to be on my own, and half naked, because my constant companion wasn’t strapped into the empty car seat in the back.

At the class, I breathed. I tried to root my body on my yoga mat, to let the ground cradle me like I so often cradled my son. In between surrendering to gravity, my mind wondered how my son was. If he was screaming. If he would take the bottle. If he would nap. During the closing shavasana, I felt the sharp zing of my milk letting down. In those days, I rarely went an hour without nursing.

 

 

 

I kept attending yoga classes, though I’d often return home afterwards to a sobbing child and a frustrated husband. The classes were a small burst of freedom, but it wasn’t enough. I fantasized about the day Max would start kindergarten, the day’s hours stretching ahead, all mine. But kindergarten was still years away. Between working so hard to meet my son’s high needs, and my inability to take care of my own, I felt withered.

When my son was twenty months old, we discovered that my husband’s work would subsidize part-time child care. We enrolled Max two days a week in a nearby daycare. The guilt I felt was expansive. I had wanted children, badly. So why did I so need to be away from my son? And how dare I ask other people to care for him two days a week when I wasn’t going to be filling all of that time with paid work? When I might use some of it to go to a yoga class or do laundry or lug my laptop to a coffee shop and write?

My guilt was huge, but my need for a break was bigger. When I dropped my son off that first day, I came home, melted onto the couch and cried. When I finally peeled myself off the couch, I wrote Max a letter. In my home, alone, all I could hear was the hum of electricity. For the next several hours, my body was all mine. I felt guilty and blissful, free and lost.

With time, the guilt shrunk.

I hate that as a mother, I felt like I had to choose between caring for my child and caring for myself. Because really, I can choose both. I can teach my kids—by example, which is perhaps the most potent way of teaching—that they are worthy of listening to their own needs. To the quiet, still voice that might tell them they need a break. That they need to lie on a yoga mat and sink deep into their own body and breath. To wander through a cemetery, alone, slow enough to read the names on the gravestones. To sit down and write about how they’re feeling, or to surrender to sweet sleep for an hour.

Maybe you don’t need to hear this. Maybe you are a working mother who longs to be home with her kids but needs the paycheck. Or a stay-at-home mother dreading your child’s first day of kindergarten. Or a home schooling mom who finds that the daily tasks of child-rearing light you up from the inside out. I honor you. We are, like all humans, all mothers, the same but different.

When I take good care of myself, I am more present for my babies. I can play air guitar with my son and orchestrate dance parties to Footloose. And when I don’t take care of myself, I’m a stringy, soggy, limp wash rag of a mother. Slowly, over the years, I have been able to add more and more self-care back into my life. To come back to myself and meet my own needs.

Over time, I learned that there was nothing wrong with my son. He just happens to be a lot like me.

The Good Mother

 

I remember talking to another new mom at a mom’s group at Birth Roots when my son was a newborn. The other new mom was clearly connected with her infant daughter; I could almost see the cord of love twining them to each other. I could see it in the gentle but sturdy way she held her daughter and the way she smiled and gazed at her. While my son alternated nursing and crying, nursing and crying, we chatted.

“I have this ‘good mother’ voice in my head sometimes,” she admitted. “The other day, Julia was napping and I realized I’d forgotten to turn the baby monitor on. I checked on her and she was still sleeping, but I thought, ‘a good mother wouldn’t forget to turn the baby monitor on.’”

I nodded, but not because I agreed that a good mother wouldn’t forget to turn the baby monitor on. I nodded because I had that voice, too. It seemed to have arrived about the same time as my son’s placenta and was equally unpleasant, but unlike the placenta, it carried no nutrients. It said: A Good Mother wouldn’t forget to bring extra clothes when her baby has a diaper blowout. A Good Mother would read her baby books every day! A Good Mother would be fully focused on her child instead of surfing the internet while she was nursing. A Good Mother would know how to soothe her baby.

Unfortunately, four and half years later, the sneaky, unpleasant voice still pipes up. I was bringing my son to school this morning, and in the bright sunlight, I noticed that his shirt had a few small pink smears on it, most likely dribbles of frozen yogurt. My mind raced. Getting dressed this morning had been a battle, as my son is still in his monochromatic clothing phase. It is “Wear your class color” day at his school today, which meant his friends and teachers from the Green Room at his preschool would be wearing green. After a brief, heated discussion, I realized that my son would wear his favorite matching grey shirt and shorts instead.

“I want to be in the Grey Room,” he sulked.

“Honey, there’s not a Grey Room at your school, unfortunately,” I replied.
“Mama, make it the Grey Room!” he demanded.

So as we were walking and I noticed the stains on his grey, not green, shirt, I quickly decided that the easiest thing would be to let him wear his soiled shirt. He didn’t care. But the Good Mother did. A Good Mother wouldn’t let her son wear a dirty shirt to school! And a Good Mother would’ve noticed the stains before she left the house, she hissed. I shooed the voice away, but she popped back up when we arrived at my son’s school and I saw the sign for the school potluck, which happens to be tonight. I had forgotten all about it, and I have no idea what to bring. A Good Mother would have a casserole, the voice whispered. Apparently, the Good Mother voice comes from 1955.

 

I am curious about whether dads have a Good Father voice. I often hear people saying, “Scott is such a great dad.” My husband is a great father. He is affectionate and fun, and he spends a lot of time with our kids. He bathes them and changes diapers and takes them out for ice cream and tries to soothe them when they’re sad. But it occurs to me that we set the bar much lower for fathers than we do for mothers. Because all those great things that my husband does, I do, too. I smother my kids in hugs and kisses. I say, “I love you,” with my words and my actions throughout the day. I take them to the beach with their friends and keep them reasonably clean and reasonably well fed. I read their favorite books to them over and over again until the words feel like they’re melting my brain. And still, the Good Mother voice pops up to remind me that it’s just not good enough.

One of the hardest things for me about being a mom is that I make about 107 little decisions every day, and most of the time, I am totally winging it. Unlike work at a paid job, I don’t get regular feedback on how I’m doing.  

So I think that as moms, we need to tell each other, “You are such a good mom.” And we need to really hear it when our friends or family says it to us. We all parent differently. We parent from our personalities and from our wounds. From our heads and our hearts. We parent from our unconscious family patterns and from tips on books and blogs. And it is never perfect because we are human and messy, and our kids are human and messy.

Maybe someday I’ll know what to bring to the school potluck and be more caught up on my laundry. But maybe not. It doesn’t mean I’m a bad mother if I don’t do those things. And it doesn’t mean I’m a good mother if I do. Honestly, the Good Mother— the one in my head— is not much fun. She doesn’t laugh when her son makes a joke about boogers. She is so busy baking casseroles and folding underwear that she misses out on dance parties in the living room.

When I quiet the Good Mother down, which requires a good deal of mental duct tape, here is what I think makes me a good mom: My kids know they’re loved. They are growing. They trust me. I keep them safe. And they go cuckoo with delight when I pick them up from daycare.

And maybe, just maybe, by cozying up to my imperfections, my laundry list of weaknesses, I can teach them that they don’t have to be perfect, either.

I’m a good mother. Say it with me, even if your kid is wearing a yogurt shirt today like mine is. Say it if you have no idea what’s for dinner. Say it after you raise your voice because your kid won’t get in her freaking car seat. Say it out loud to yourself. Say it to your friends or your wife or your own mother. Keep saying it, even on the hardest days.

Especially on the hardest days.  

You’re a good mother.  

Onward and Upwards

Fear crouches in my chest. The voices start up: who do you think you are? Why don’t you get a real job? You are going to embarrass yourself. You should be spending more time with your kids instead of writing.

Really? You guys again? I think.

With my recent recommitment to writing, I feel more like me. More alive. I’m finally, finally doing that one thing that I’ve always wanted to do but been too stuck or afraid or busy to really dive into consistently.

I’m not sure why writing feels easy and fun right now. Maybe it’s because I’m on the fast track to 40’sville and I’m realizing this is it, this is my life. Maybe all those years of therapy are finding kicking in. But wherever this tailwind is from, I’m grateful.

 
But I’m also scared.

I used to get frustrated when I’d work and work and work on an issue, seemingly moving forward, and then without warning, I’d backtrack. Fear and external challenges would pop up and sometimes I’d sabotage myself. The sabotage usually showed up as overeating, too much television, or isolation.

Then I heard of the concept of the ‘upward spiral.’ The theory is that as we move through life, working on our issues, we move forwards and up, around and around. On the Slinky of life, if you will. We don’t backtrack. But as we circle around, propelling upwards, we revisit old places. Hard places.

As a slowly recovering perfectionist, the idea of backsliding is blasphemy to me. But the idea of spiraling up makes sense. I’m writing and I’m running. Most importantly, I’m cozying up to myself. I’m showing up and showing myself: the awkward parts, the scary parts, the funny parts. All the parts.

I’m cycling up and around.

Last week, someone I care about criticized my writing, and worse, me. Because I believe in kindness, I’m not going to say more about that. But because I also believe in truth telling, I’m going to say that it sucked and my heart hurt. And for about 24 hours, that external, critical voice melded with my internal, critical voice and those voices were freakin’ loud. I doubted myself and the choices I was making in writing and sharing this all with you.

And then I talked to some friends and to my husband. I realized, oh, I bet this is that upward spiral thing again. And I breathed and I slept and when I woke up the next day, I felt a lot better.  

So see, you silly voices? I’m on to you. You saw me circling around and came out to meet me. You even brought friends. If you’re right? If this writing thing doesn’t work out? I can get a job. I can regroup and try something else. But before that, I’m going to give this thing a chance. This one thing that brings me alive, that brings me up and up and up.

Hot Yoga

image by Martin Peters

 

Last weekend, I went to the first Maine Yoga Fest. My husband’s work was a sponsor of the new event, and we were fortunate to receive some free passes for the weekend. My husband and I were supposed to go to Goddess Yoga together on Saturday. But right as we were getting ready to drop the kids off with my parents, Max throws an enormous tantrum and refuses to get dressed. “I DON’T KNOW HOW!” he hollers, flailing around on the couch in his undies.

After about 20 minutes of trying to cajole our four-year-old into putting his clothes on, we realize there is no way we can inflict his vile mood on my parents. “Go ahead,” Scott says. “I’ll stay here with the kids.”

I suspect he is nervous that we would be harnessing our womb power in the class, creating a fierce and overpowering vortex of estrogen. But I am grateful for his offer to wrangle the wildebeests, so I head off to the yoga festival.

Walking the hallways of the East End Community School, I pass by beautiful yogi after beautiful yogi, most clad in skin-sucking leggings and tops. Is this supermodel yoga, or can I be here, too? I wonder.

Shuffling amongst the slender yet muscular yet bosomy crowd, I look down at my once-black yoga pants. They are more of a dark grey now, with mysterious swirls of kid food debris and drool (theirs, not mine). I feel something happening that used to occur all the time, a fast moving body dysmorphia. My hips expand, my small breasts flatten. Crows feet deepen. I feel lumpy and frumpy among the crowd of gorgeous women. Is this what they mean by ‘hot yoga’? I wonder, eyeing yet another adorable young yogi. Thank goodness my husband didn't come. There are way too many goddesses here!

Stop comparing, my saner voice says. You are here to do something good for yourself.

Before my kids were born, I did a fair amount of yoga. Now the only downward facing dog in my life appears when my son is done pooping. “Mom! I’m done!” he bellows, and I walk towards the bathroom, where I find him on his hands and feet, naked bottom pointing to the ceiling. I mentally call this position ‘brown dog.’

I make my way to a large, white tent outside and plop my yoga mat down. The day is hot and sticky, and the tent provides a welcome shade. I close my eyes for a few moments before the class starts, attempting to shake off the aftershocks of my son’s tantrum and my jealousy of the other festival attendees.

The mats around me fill up with bodies, which I try to not compare mine to. The teacher appears. She is radiant and several months pregnant. As she begins the class, she tells us about three Hindi goddesses. Behind her, a woman plays the guitar and sings in a sweet, pastel voice. I close my eyes and listen.

I hear about Parvati, goddess of love and devotion. Kali, who is fierce and many-armed. Lakshmi, who represents beauty and abundance. As I start to root into my body and move, the teacher weaves stories of the goddesses into our practice.

I stretch. My muscles reach, hitting that sweet space between burn and pleasure. We flow through a series of poses, always coming back to downward facing dog, our bodies making lines of v’s. I try to ignore the girl in the front row, the one who can move her body further and deeper than anyone else. Fortunately, the effort of the poses requires most of my focus.

I hear the whoosh of my own breath. The guitar strings and the singer’s wispy voice and the stories. Parvati, so devoted. The tempest energy of Kali. Flowering Lakshmi. I take it all in and my body loosens. My mind slows.

We move and move and move. Up and down, our bodies rise to make crescent moons, then fold to the warm earth. I feel the tangle of grass on my forehead as I rest in child’s pose. I feel new space in my shoulders as we ‘thread the needle,’ and I hear myself exhale a small noise of pleasure. I try to ignore the girl in the front row who can somehow sit on her own neck.

When I close my eyes, I see bright smears of color: hot orange, whispers of purple, clouds of pink.

I remember why I both love and avoid yoga: it requires attention to myself, when so often my attention is divided among my family, my work, and trying to keep our house from devolving into an utter biohazard.

But like a mother, like Parvati, yoga gives more than it asks. As we finally rest in shivasana, I hold my palms to my heart. We all hold so much: devotion, fierceness, beauty. I let small images flicker through my mind: My children crawling on me in the morning. Max’s tantrum. Our lovely, toy-strewn home.

We open our eyes.

I am back in my body, the only one I get in this lifetime. It is enough.

I head out into the sunlight.

Fear

 

I’ve been grumpy for weeks.

Before I had kids, I set up my life to be spacious. I worked part-time so I had ample opportunity to take good care of myself; I could practice yoga, dance, write and walk. I could watch TV and relax. I spent time with friends. I am high maintenance in that way—it takes a good deal of effort for me to simply feel okay. Some of that is because of the anxiety and depression that I am prone to. Some of it is just because I’m freakin’ sensitive—research suggests that some of us are just born with nervous systems that overload easily. I feel things deeply. I shut down when there are too many people around or too much noise. I get overwhelmed. It’s just who I am, and something I’m trying to accept, despite living in a world that places great value and emphasis on doing.

And then we had two kids.

 
They are gorgeous. They bring great meaning and love and snuggles to our lives.

And they squeeze out all the extra time.

So I stopped watching TV. I stopped spending much time with friends. We started sending our son to daycare a few days a week. So I could breathe. So I could attempt to tame the sprawl of toys and crumbs and laundry.

And then we had another baby. And I took a part-time job.

It’s a low-paying editing job that I can do from home. It worked for awhile. It felt good to be contributing a little teensy trickle of money to our family. It felt good to use my brain and do something I was good at. Something besides raising two little munchkins, which is amazing, but does not ever leave me feeling wow, I am really good at this. 

My husband provides well for us, but there is something in me that can’t let go of my little job. Though it gets in the way of writing. And yoga. And breathing. Though it stresses me out and takes time away from my husband and I.

I am so scared to let it go.

We are so fortunate that I don’t have to work for a paycheck right now. I could be writing more. I could be taking better care of my kids' mom. So why do I create this problem for myself? This fully first world problem?

Guilt. And fear. 

Guilt that I’m a bad mother because I need so much time to myself. That if my babies go to daycare a few days a week, I should be using that time to work. To be productive. To contribute to society.

Fear that people will judge me. That because I decided to be a mom, it’s selfish to want so much time to myself.  

Fear that if I let go of my little job, I’ll have to really commit to writing.  And then I’ll find out that I’m really not good enough.  

If you were my best friend and you were sitting where I’m sitting, I’d say, “Sweet Lord, woman. Go for it. You have nothing to lose.”

My husband says, “The kids go to daycare because it’s good for them and they like it. Your job is not serving you.”

So why is it so hard to say that to myself? To believe it?

What do you do when you get stuck in fear?

Mama Worth

I woke up in the wee hours of Tuesday morning with stomach cramps. It was that same crushing tightness of a labor contraction. Except instead of giving birth to a tiny, sweet-faced, sleepy conehead, I spent the next six hours ejecting foul-smelling slime. From everywhere.

My body was pissed and exhausted. I handed the morning child care duties off to my husband and proceeded to alternate between the bathroom and bedroom. I knew without knowing that I could barely migrate between my bathroom/bedroom route (cussed third floor bedroom with no bathroom), let alone feed and entertain my children for the day.

Scott kicked into gear and arranged for an extra day of child care for the kiddos, cancelled some of his work duties, and got the kiddos ready and off for the day. I stretched a shaky, grey finger to my cell phone to text him and ask for some Gatorade.

All day long, I dozed. I also admit to moaning for my babies, as if they were capable of being cuddly little teddy bears for more than .3 seconds at a time. I am pretty sure I even whispered "Mommy..." a time or two as I kicked the comforter off and on, off and on, a bizarre OCD dance.

When Scott picked the kiddos up in the afternoon, I couldn't even wobble my way downstairs to say hi until after Vi went to bed.

So, if you're ever doubting your worth, Mama's:

$110 for extra day of child care for two kiddos
$20 for dinner for dad and kids at Chipotle
45 minutes of 18-month old screaming for mama at bedtime
Husband scrambling to do all the things you usually do and the things he usually does

On the plus side, this morning, when I awoke feeling much better, an air of appreciation hung in the air. My kids were really happy to see me, and I them. It happens to be my birthday today, and Max launched into "Happy Birthday" about four times before 8 a.m. Violet even pitched in with,  "Buth-day boo."

It is good to remember the household can survive without me, but next time I hope to do something more fun than reenacting childbirth with a vomit baby. And it is not the worst thing in the world for your partner to have to do what you do, every day, without really thinking about it. It is sweet to miss and be missed.