tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79426012024-03-07T13:31:32.698-06:00Wild Rumpushomemaker, social entrepreneur, crafter, wife, mother, feminist, fair-trade maven, terrible vegetarian, emergent Christian, lighter of the shabbat candles, master of public policy, friend of many cool people adventurer, doubter, idealistPrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.comBlogger715125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-80936795655138442062016-09-06T20:05:00.006-05:002016-09-06T20:06:05.699-05:00Our new house<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Many members of my extended family gathered casually in Danville this weekend. We celebrated my grandmother's 95th birthday (she still lives in her own house!), baptized a baby and had a pretty good picture in the same old spot we always have.<br />
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Many of them asked to see pictures of my house and I promised that as soon as it was clean, I'd take some. The reality is that my entire family is focused on creating conditions in which I don't yell at the kids, so it's not going to be clean in the foreseeable future. So, here it is in all its unedited glory.<br />
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We bought a house five minutes from my parents' house after living with them for 2.5 years in an intergenerational experiment. They drop in here and let me drop off my kids there when they miss them or when I need some childcare. When we were looking, Jacob and I took turns touring houses, leaving the kids in the car because of the snow. I went first for this house and when I got back in the car, I hissed, "I want this house!" It's a little weird and reminds me of the houses I saw and visited when I lived on Orcas. <br />
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So, walk in this front door with me. There's a closet immediately in front of it. Judith stole the shoe rack to make a home for her stuffed animals so all the shoes are just jumbled together on the floor. The door to the closet is usually open.</div>
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If you turn to your immediate left, you'll see the gallery. The previous owners were artists and one was an electrician so the lighting is excellent for highlighting all of our storage and the children's craft supplies and works in progress.</div>
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This is always what it looks like. Someday when the kids are older and we're allowed to have nice things again, this will double as our dining room.<br />
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If you turn to the right upon entering the front door, you will encounter our breakfast nook. On the wall behind it are collages of all our professional photography sessions. They are the first things I put on the walls of our new house and I LOVE the story they tell. Every birth ceremony, every large family get-together. I don't have to fill all of our experiences making my kids pose for pictures because I know that periodically, a professional will do a much better job than I do. Worth every penny.<br />
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As you enter the breakfast nook and turn to the left, you face our kitchen. It is just the right size for me. The girls like sneaking up quickly between the knife I'm wielding and the produce I'm cutting. Akiva has a special drawer full of serving utensils that he frequents.<br />
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On your left, you'll see our make-shift pantry and the door to the basement.<br />
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If you turn to the right, you'll enter our living room, which includes the sliding door out to the back yard.<br />
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As you can see, it has a swinging woodstove and tons of natural light. The whole house is full of light, which was part of why I loved it. My quilting studio takes up a third of the room. I try to create a little every day to maintain spiritual balance. I could not accomplish this if my workspace was away from where the kids spend their time.</div>
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This couch was a gift from a friend when the company sent them a brand-new couch to replace this one when it had a totally hidden marker stain, which triggered its warrantee. Could it be more perfect for the space? That's one of my quilts hanging on the wall.<br />
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There's the rest of my studio and the pass-through window to the kitchen. Those old Advent speaker towers make excellent end-tables or supporting columns for blanket forts.<br />
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Head out the sliding doors onto our patio and you can see the shed, as well. There's all sorts of cool lighting. The previous owners lived here for almost 20 years with no kids, just updating it all the time. Extras like the shed and the built-in benches contribute to my excitement and ability to "settle in" right away.<br />
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Beyond the patio is the pool. It turns out that Esther is a mermaid and some days we swim twice a day. My friend Ginny swam with her one day for two hours and she still complained when it was time to come in. Akiva is remarkably proficient in his little puddle jumper but spends about 50% of pool time throwing objects into the pool from the deck. It's only been the towels twice. Judith can pretty much take it or leave it.<br />
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Behind the pool is the RV pad. Let us know if you'll be coming through town and you can stop over here. There's also a compost pit to the far left and Jacob's garden. <br />
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If we head back to the kitchen and continue through the house, you'll find the hallway to the private rooms. Our bathroom on the right.<br />
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The tub is a favorite play area. It takes SO much water for even a shallow bath. We have an on-demand water heater, though, which is awesome.<br />
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There is a shower tucked in behind the door, with a good shower head. Crucial, in my book. That hand towel is never actually hanging from the towel rack. Notice anything missing? There are no other towel racks in this bathroom. I'm totally puzzled regarding where the previous owners dried out their towels. We use an old laundry rack in our giant bedroom and the doorknobs of the kids' rooms. So weird. We'll make a trip to IKEA eventually to fix this.<br />
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Across the hall from the bathroom is our humongous bedroom. We have no idea what to do with all this space. We put in new carpeting when we moved in since the previous folks had a menagerie of animals. We have yet to fire up this woodstove but it sounds cool at night when it rains.<br />
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That's a huge closet over there. Super awesome.<br />
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Beyond our room is the room that Esther and Judith share. For some reason, their oldschool closet makes me the happiest of any feature in the house. The high shelf set on 2 by 4s screwed into the wall. The hardware for the bar, the louvered doors. This is a Chicagoland house.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTqu3uEPlHJH646qfcAuhEDqpKQt1ulvVPsiO-Ql0cjFhYL_Qf_fvgG_OLWRTyo_tx_ubDnztQV3Va_-kIP6UMhCIxwbHAeNQEGmc-NDmgvG0bxm5SuCo3ecp2krUBbUlGKoR7A/s1600/20160906_165303482_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTqu3uEPlHJH646qfcAuhEDqpKQt1ulvVPsiO-Ql0cjFhYL_Qf_fvgG_OLWRTyo_tx_ubDnztQV3Va_-kIP6UMhCIxwbHAeNQEGmc-NDmgvG0bxm5SuCo3ecp2krUBbUlGKoR7A/s400/20160906_165303482_iOS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Total Felix and Oscar going on with their beds. Judith is totally spare. You can barely find Esther in hers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7H05iHvjk67sFKEsnpWN1dE4GIRS4YiS_FE2uVBSNgfR4qMpha67EZ1ixB2ZQgw1KIz9kVCZ2ke0AwSIi6sMQk8d_rNdI03Hyywa0BbiIHsMVP4zV1J__I65Rwx7cKZuAL3KOA/s1600/20160906_165337369_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7H05iHvjk67sFKEsnpWN1dE4GIRS4YiS_FE2uVBSNgfR4qMpha67EZ1ixB2ZQgw1KIz9kVCZ2ke0AwSIi6sMQk8d_rNdI03Hyywa0BbiIHsMVP4zV1J__I65Rwx7cKZuAL3KOA/s400/20160906_165337369_iOS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
At the end of the hall is Akiva's room. It's decorating theme is #thirdchild.<br />
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My beloved closeout LayZBoy. And another closet that never gets closed.<br />
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The kitchen truly is the heart of the house so if you head back to it, we'll re-oxygenate and head down to the basement. We carpeted these stairs because, seriously, my kids fall down the stairs like it's their job.<br />
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Someday, my children will all sit in their respective therapist's office and say, "The main thing I remember is that my mom was always telling me to go downstairs."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Diz52FeYDSRAW0Cw5vcz5pNQ9coh0ZKSRGBNZ3Sn8UdCYCLUnmJhWn2I5tvhhZqcl5BUDXCaAStrp8RZyRcJJrbHLi7PcznXt9J-CBzOD3jZEiVyGtGIMwYgUrSz1QCkFA0_-Q/s1600/20160906_170242233_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Diz52FeYDSRAW0Cw5vcz5pNQ9coh0ZKSRGBNZ3Sn8UdCYCLUnmJhWn2I5tvhhZqcl5BUDXCaAStrp8RZyRcJJrbHLi7PcznXt9J-CBzOD3jZEiVyGtGIMwYgUrSz1QCkFA0_-Q/s400/20160906_170242233_iOS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
There is another bathroom with a shower down there. The electrician also did his own plumbing so beware the gurgling toilet. All trash cans and toilet paper are up high because Akiva is not to be trusted.<br />
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We got these nifty machines with the house. <br />
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Sometimes, I like to think kind thoughts about the woman who must have lived here in the 70s and this little office that she created for herself. That light fixture and the phone jack are so bold and so pathetic at the same time. We've come a long way, babies.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbVkndJk1rgC5_m-W2oDCrxVIhnqzHJEfdIYU7Oa80ZHjEUPv6s-NriyGKdyL7osdnIWO0Ujn4Joh726rDti5TsYlhrnEb4KLRq3qcnOzH81POj9mkgCBYs3FTZg7gOpNqGKK5g/s1600/20160906_170451395_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbVkndJk1rgC5_m-W2oDCrxVIhnqzHJEfdIYU7Oa80ZHjEUPv6s-NriyGKdyL7osdnIWO0Ujn4Joh726rDti5TsYlhrnEb4KLRq3qcnOzH81POj9mkgCBYs3FTZg7gOpNqGKK5g/s400/20160906_170451395_iOS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A mud room houses all the mechanicals and a SECOND utility sink.</div>
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It connects to the garage.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVfAiD7mXpbf0wepJKpp2M4UhKQOQATiANht5kCZR_X2ntuG0zWGamYan-XcXNQaZmqs3AazDlN3OD2B4btNE0RdY2OYslmFOgGDqzArCkPLgxXPboMANp7duAWb6o9sBxmYtzw/s1600/20160906_170519997_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVfAiD7mXpbf0wepJKpp2M4UhKQOQATiANht5kCZR_X2ntuG0zWGamYan-XcXNQaZmqs3AazDlN3OD2B4btNE0RdY2OYslmFOgGDqzArCkPLgxXPboMANp7duAWb6o9sBxmYtzw/s400/20160906_170519997_iOS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Check it out! Someone used to paint motorcycles so it's got a heater and an exhaust system.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHKQLSYGJN8j3En6SxM0115OJBhYzaxHxPWd8xJTZZ8eQhcLYULaXdP2FeOKVJxRd642TtVBlXHbA4nyyWoxJLtwJXxMAGuzk8XKdXNDK27bwYNQ7Z3hJN7sSrwmGDNbqhDITOFA/s1600/20160906_170534026_iOS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHKQLSYGJN8j3En6SxM0115OJBhYzaxHxPWd8xJTZZ8eQhcLYULaXdP2FeOKVJxRd642TtVBlXHbA4nyyWoxJLtwJXxMAGuzk8XKdXNDK27bwYNQ7Z3hJN7sSrwmGDNbqhDITOFA/s400/20160906_170534026_iOS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
It's super-deep. That's how much crap we can pile up and still house Jacob's Honda Fit. The Fit if go!<br />
<br />
So, there you have it friends. Come over any time. One of those couches in the basement is a comfortable pull-out and there's a 70% chance I'll pick up the toys down there with a 40% chance that I'll vacuum in anticipation of your arrival.<br />
<br />
Most nights I lay in bed before sleep and bathe in a feeling of gratitude for this sanctuary that is ours. We are lucky, indeed.</div>
PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-61212493507020205052013-09-20T16:05:00.001-05:002013-09-20T16:58:38.881-05:00Judith's Birth Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvRIwCEwirBwiTWJiO3K-LwlzZMW0jjPcT_vyZnquAUhp-J7XCqLbO9Qz0_pjE08jbhzvYfoLhFqgiVOEYnoKT26n6q50tXxXdKB79F8rUdetddSsYnyj2-iOzTWqXS8gWALhxQ/s1600/P1000774.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvRIwCEwirBwiTWJiO3K-LwlzZMW0jjPcT_vyZnquAUhp-J7XCqLbO9Qz0_pjE08jbhzvYfoLhFqgiVOEYnoKT26n6q50tXxXdKB79F8rUdetddSsYnyj2-iOzTWqXS8gWALhxQ/s320/P1000774.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-0c8ca3e6-3d29-2510-7db4-6ff4d9b9e7be" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A
little before 9:00 in the morning on March 22, I was in the parking lot
on my way into the office for a massage. I felt a big cramp that
wrapped around from my lower back and thought to myself, “Huh.”
Actually, I think I said that out loud. In my head, I wondered if
today was the day.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When
I visited the bathroom in preparation of my massage (since I would
never make it a full hour without that) I found that I was bleeding
bright red. I came back out into the waiting room and called my
midwives. They agreed with me that it was probably the bloody show, but
that it didn’t mean that anything was necessarily imminent, so I should
go ahead with the massage and call them again when I started having
contractions. After the massage, I discovered that my mucus plug had
also exited the building.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
was staying at my mom’s house because my husband, Jacob, had been out
of town until late the night before. Our first child wasn’t born until I
was 41.5 weeks along so it seemed reasonable for him to be traveling
during my 38th week right up until I was laying in bed, unable to fall
asleep because I kept problem-solving what I would do if I went into
labor at that moment. “And if she’s turned her phone off, who would I
call then? And if he tells me he can’t make it in less than an hour,
who would I call?” So, I went to stay with my mom so that I could just
go wake her up if I went into labor in the middle of the night.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">After
my massage, I went back to Mom’s house and hung out with a friend and
her daughter for a play date. We have known each other for 15 years and
laughed because she and I had been chatting the night she went into
labor. During this time, contractions were coming and going in loose
waves just below the surface. I was aware of them but they weren’t
urgent. I even made us lunch, if not too well. My mom had to soak the
pan I made the grilled cheese in. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And
although I could not tell you what changed, my sense of urgency turned a
corner. I wanted to get on the road into the city NOW. So, I hustled
Erika and Erin out the door, kissed my mom and my 21-month-old and
headed toward home, where Jacob wa telecommuting. I called him to let
him know the situation (I hadn’t wanted to distract him from the
post-business trip clean-up work before this) and also texted my best
friend when I was stopped at a light. She teaches middle school in a
block schedule and sent her kids out for their bathroom break early to
call me back. The dialogue is worth recording.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Susan: Murph, I don’t have my Go Bag packed.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Rebecca:
Susan! Haven’t you been paying attention to all the Facebook statuses
and emails where I’ve mentioned that I’ve been dreaming about going
into labor earlier rather than later?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Susan: I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have my Go Bag packed.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Rebecca: OK. So school’s out in 45 minutes. Go home, pack your Go Bag and get out here.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Susan: All right, but I have to buy a car on my way out.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Rebecca: What?!?!</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Susan:
I’m supposed to pick it up tomorrow at 9:30! Don’t worry: it’s all
detailed and the paperwork is ready to go. I just have to sign for it
and drive it off the lot.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Rebecca:
Fine. But you be sure to tell them that your best friend is in labor
and that you need to be there when the baby is born.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Susan: Got it. I promise you I’ll be there around 7:00.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Rebecca: Well, I guess if this baby comes before 7, then I really didn’t need your help anyway.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Luckily,
she laughed, remembering that I credit her with getting my first baby
out vaginally because she knew exactly how to coach me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">After
notifying my two birth partners and driving for a little while, I
realized that I had begun holding my breath while contractions came on
because they were starting to hurt. So, I began counting with my
fingers on the steering wheel and checking the clock at the start of
each one. 7 minutes apart and a minute long for the remaining 30
minutes that it took to get home. This is where my last labor stalled
for almost three days without progress but also without a break. I had
to take an Ambien to sleep through the pain. But this didn't feel like
the beginning of a fugue state. This felt like a train getting started.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
got home, settled in and announced my plan to Jacob. I wanted to pack
his Go Bag, download a contraction timing app, go for a walk before the
sun went down, fill out the admissions paperwork and something else that
I don't now remember. He was game but didn't take me literally. When I
walked into our bedroom to find that he had added "fold the laundry" to
the list, I flipped out a little, even though normally that would be an
efficient use of time since most of his Go Bag was coming out of the
dryer.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But
we went for our walk, which was briskly cold but sunny at the end of
March. Our parents called but I waved off the phone and let Jacob talk
to them. I was starting to get tunnel vision, spiritually, and didn't
need the outside distraction. When we arrived back to our building,
Jacob was still talking to my dad and I was leaning forward with my
hands against the bricks, rocking my hips from side to side to get
through a contraction. A stoner kid was sitting 20 feet away on the
other side of the wrout-iron fence, being stoned. First, he asked if I
was ok in a voice straight out of a Harold and Kumar movie. I tersely
told him I was fine and went back to my work. Then, he asked a couple
more times and the question shifted to asking for permission to sit
where he was sitting on the public sidewalk "because I'm just soaking up
the sun, man." At that point, I tore him a new asshole about his
intrusiveness and idiocy, which probably led Jacob to quickly finish the
conversation with my father, unlock the front door and usher me inside.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And
then we labored. It was around 5:30 at this point and from them until
11:00, we watched TV, ate and paused periodically for me to stand, brace
myself and rock side to side through contractions, shouting out heir
stating and ending if Jacob wasn't in the room, so he could record them
on his phone. Honestly, I don't remember much except standing at the
dining room table for contractions. Susan arrived around 8:00 to
relieve Jacob, which he probably needed because I know I had a sharpness
to me.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
reality is that we were going through a textbook labor and I had
already transitioned into active labor, but since my first daughter's
labor veered so far from normal by taking 3 days, we forgot everything
we had studied in the class before her birth. We all thought we were
still in early labor. My sharpness came a little from my internal
despair that we had so much further to go. Even once it was time to go
to the hospital, we would have so much work to do there (I labored for
12 hours in the hospital the first time and then pushed for another 6).
Even if this baby came faster, like everyone said she would. Half of 3
days, 12 hours and 6 hours is still a shitload of time to be in as much
pain as I was in. I kept thinking about all of the birth stories I read
when the heroine had a moment of clarity in which she realize she just
needed to reach down into herself and find that extra bit of strength to
move things along and I was so depressed that I wasn't having that
epiphany. I was just enduring.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Jacob
and Susan are the real heroes of Judith's story. I was just doing what
my body pushed me to do: stand up, lean forward with my hands on the
table, rock from side to side, moan if I needed to and collapse again
when the contraction was over. They would put pressure on my lower back
to help. Susan was knitting in between contractions and shocked my
several times when she touched me. I asked/accused her of working with
unnatural fibers and snapped that she could discharge that static
electricity before she got close and she knew that already, right? (Her
patience is a huge part of why she's a hero.) The next contraction, she
shocked me again and she and Jacob both giggled nervously because it
turns out that she had sucked Jacob first but it hadn't worked to get
rid of all the static. The laughter infuriated me and I shouted that
she had to f***ing put that acrylic shit away and that she could take a
ball of wool out of my stash if she needed something to do with her
hands. There was definitely an subtext of ugly elitism in my directives.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Jacob
is a hero because he stopped letting me sit down between contractions
and began making me walk the hallways. He walked backwards and I leaned
on him as I shuffled. I negotiated breaks because I was so tired but he
never let me stop for too long. I wasn't very nice about this either,
but I think I was beginning to sound pathetic, too.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Finally,
I moved to all fours on the couch but we were stalled at contractions
every 3.5 minutes and the midwives had said not to come in until we were
3 minutes apart. Similar to the corner I had turned at my mom's house,
I began to feel an urgency to go to the hospital. This did not make me
feel more warmly toward my life and love partner who was tracking me
with his phone and telling me it wasn't time to go yet. Also, you know
how you have amazing ideas right before you fall asleep but all you can
remember in the morning is that you had an idea, not the idea itself?
This was happening to me in between contractions. I was starting to
realize that I was clenching my pelvis at the end of contractions and
that this felt inappropriate somehow but the pain would come again and
I'd forget.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So,
when Jcob left the room for something and Susan whispered
conspiratorially that if I wanted to go to the hospital, we could go
whenever I was ready, it was like hearing the unthought known. It was
time. We called the answering service and when we didn't hear back in
15 minutes, I insisted we call again. A labor and delivery nurse called
back immediately and asked to talk we me personally. I was in the
middle of a contraction, dropped an f-bomb and apologized at the
conclusion. (It's amazing how being in the presence of a woman who
sounds like a middle-aged African-American makes me forget all my
liberal beliefs about language and remember to be respectful.). She
laughed and said that it sounded like I should come in. I asked in a
worried voice about waiting until the contractions got to 3 minutes and
she told me not to worry about it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">With
that, I had a plan. We got loaded into the cars and headed out. 20
minutes later, my husband dropped me at the front door and he and Susan
went to park their cars in the lot. At my hospital, you don't go throu
the ER but to another door that is unmanned except for a buzzer. As I
waited in the darkened foyer for an elevator, a contraction started just
as the doors opened and a custodian wheeled his cart out. Poor guy. I
shrugged off his offer of help much more kindly than I did the
stoner's, though.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">No
one came to meet me at the door to the delivery ward so I buzzed again
and walked an interminable distance down a hall alone, stopping twice
for contractions and recorded on Jacob's phone, which I had been
clutching since we left the house. I had another as I checked in at the
nurse's station. They put us straight into a room, bypassing triage.
It seemed quiet on the floor, in general. However, the midwife on call
was in another room assisting a delivery, so it was just the three of us
settling in with the nurse that I had talked with on the phone. Once I
had changed into my own nightgown, she asked if I felt the need to push
and I told her I didn't know what that felt like since I had a major
epidural the first time. Her description of the the biggest, most
painful bowel movement of my life didn't resonate, so I said no. They
wanted me up on the bed to do a 20 minute fetal monitoring as part of
the routine check-in and as she set up the equipment and tried to get
the straps around me, Jacob was setting up my iPad and the speakers
according to me instructions. He asked how to set it on shuffle during
one of my contractions and I growled that Apple was famous for intuitive
user experience, couldn't he figure that out himself? Like I said, I
just did what my basest instincts led me to do. Jacob and Susan
conscientiously chose grace and forgiveness. They are the heroes. He
also complained that I wanted the music too loud and couldn't he turns
it down, which tarnishes his armor a little, but I'm willing to let that
slide upon reflection.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
was trying to find the baby's heartbeat up near my belly button and
getting nothing but silence. It took me a little while to register that
this should worry me so I asked Susan if I should be worried. The
nurse answered with reassurance. It turns out that the heartbeat was
all the way down by my mons and she had to painfully hold the monitor
there amidst my bucking and rolling with the pain, which seemed to be
slamming me. I was clutching the rails of the bed, pushing my forehead
into the grooves of the built-in TV speakers. They wanted me to roll
over to help them get a better angle on the monitoring and that was
brutal but I made it and clutched the other side like someone who can't
swim clutching the other side of a short flailing across the kiddie
pool. At this point, the nurse did a manual exam and things escalated
quickly at that point. I guess that baby was crowning and Jacob and
Susan could see her head. No one told me this, or I didn't hear them,
and I was still profoundly sad because I knew we still had a lot of work
ahead of us because we had only just gotten to the hospital. Susan
worked really hard at this point to pull me out of the pit of despair by
saying things like, "This is happening now. Look at how quickly they
are setting out the instruments." In my first delivery, I had pleaded
with Susan to tell me how much longer I would have to push, knowing that
she didn't know but needed an answer anyway. We laugh remembering that
when she said, "Seven more pushes," I shouted dramatically, "You lie!"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
only part of that story I remembered in my pain, with my eyes closed,
was the lying. So, even when she said, "Listen! Do you hear them
shouting down the hallway for the midwife? This baby is coming now," I
didn't believe her. I was sure we had hours of pain ahead of us.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Finally,
the urge to push liberated my clutchy pelvis and my water broke. On
the next contraction, I yelled, "I'm either pooping or pushing!" In a
crescendo and they all ran to my side. I still didn't quite believe as
Susan told me she could see the baby's ear, but it did let some light
begin to shine on my terrified soul and when she told me she could see
the baby's face after the next push tore out of me, I asked in a tiny
voice, "It's face?" This confirmed my realization that my vagina had
created a visual image of a literal partial ring of fire behind my
eyelid<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">s that time and I was finally able to take on some agency in this
whole birth experience and agreed to actually</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> push one more time to
get the rest of the baby out.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 10pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And there she was.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My little Judith.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Less
than a half hour after we had arrived, they were putting my baby on my
chest and I was looking into my husband's eyes and laughing in
bewilderment. "It's still Friday," I said. It had been 11:27 pm to be
exact. I got to push aside the umbilical cord and see that it was a
girl. Jacob hadn't gotten to catch her like he had her sister but this
time he cut the cord once it was done pulsing and he managed not to
accidentally nick her foot in the process. I delivered the placenta in
all of this with one more somewhat painful push, which was also a novel
experience for me. And then they left us alone.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It
was probably only a couple of minutes but they had moved Esther to the
warming table at this point in her delivery so I was stunned to just be
sitting in my bed, holding my daughter and crying with my husband and
best friend a little. Jacob asked me if her name was Judith and I
agreed, asking in return if her middle name was Ruby, after my
great-grandmother. I nuzzled her head and played with the word
amniotical? ammoniacal? to describe the perfect, fecund smell of her.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They
came in eventually to do the things they do with new babies. She was 7
pounds and 3 ounces and had already successfully latched on both sides
by that time. I assume everyone else held her before they gave her back
to me and the room emptied out again except for the four of us. I have
such a sense of peace about that time while we were waiting to be
transferred to a recovery room. My favorite music was playing on
shuffle, my favorite people were with me, my baby was a sweet, warm
weight in my chest and I had accomplished something amazing almost as a
surprise. How awe-inspiring to have it proved that I was capable on
that kind of work. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjYAapg-zGEjBoqjLcmJkn35a3xMr-lKRcmIhqnGY3zAMnv7RXh94R_cZ1B2vdnTe13XWyshSkh0boPKTugl___KtBndKYwU87izTdJaW7vVRyBZkgZ2Iooeal-NNoB1-a9zwsQ/s1600/2013-08-13+(33+of+117).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIjYAapg-zGEjBoqjLcmJkn35a3xMr-lKRcmIhqnGY3zAMnv7RXh94R_cZ1B2vdnTe13XWyshSkh0boPKTugl___KtBndKYwU87izTdJaW7vVRyBZkgZ2Iooeal-NNoB1-a9zwsQ/s320/2013-08-13+(33+of+117).jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Again,
it contrasted so starkly to the denouement of Esther's birth in the
middle of the afternoon, with the sunlight streaming in and most of my
family in the waiting room, ready to storm the castle with cheer and
congratulations as soon as anyone would let them. This time was
contentment and gently radiating love and music. Both perfect for their
respective experiences.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Just like my girls.</span></div>
</div>
PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-14817418604384911882013-05-19T13:02:00.001-05:002013-05-19T13:02:28.784-05:00Happy yellow diaper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAftzckS1Ncs9G5I1EwRLynYEIv0YiRay4vWuC0K-iHZtNa_vx5azOBIf1gRvZaUKDqNCIabywK2ZaHIEVfP2GnmAjWpsTSQwFYrKUrDqvKZVoHFslZS1Bu5BywmA6y523N8VfcQ/s1600/099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAftzckS1Ncs9G5I1EwRLynYEIv0YiRay4vWuC0K-iHZtNa_vx5azOBIf1gRvZaUKDqNCIabywK2ZaHIEVfP2GnmAjWpsTSQwFYrKUrDqvKZVoHFslZS1Bu5BywmA6y523N8VfcQ/s320/099.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
This is my younger daughter, Judith. She is now 2 months old. Isn't she gorgeous?<br />
<br />
I haven't pushed aside the crumbs and the bristle blocks to introduce her to you because, well, two kids is not just one plus one, even when the older one is the awesomest creature on the planet. Plus, Judith is a little extra work in that she is a projectile vomiter, doesn't like to be set down ever and is just overall pretty cranky. Extra work but not at all less loved.<br />
<br />
Also, I have a smidge of the post-partum depression. It comes and goes but when it comes and I have to go a couple of rounds with it, that boxing takes any extra energy I have left. Have you read Hyperbole and a Half's <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2013/05/depression-part-two.html" target="_blank">column on depression</a>? You should. Go now; I'll wait.<br />
<br />
Mine is not anywhere near that in intensity or pervasiveness. Mine shows up as emotional detachment in the face of being overwhelmed. I just sit there staring sometimes, knowing that this is normal and not my fault and being disappointed in myself anyway because there is so much that I WANT to be doing, not to mention the things that need to be done. Also, I get extremely irritable. And sometimes I get very panicked and my adrenaline spikes and my body feels very scared that this is never going to be any better, even though there is a part of me somewhere that knows that I should take steps to ride out this particular endocrinological storm. usually there are tears.<br />
<br />
I had one of the worst of those last kind of last bout on Friday. They are particularly hard, because I know that I should call someone to come help me, but in that state, I feel like everyone I could call would just feel bad that I feel bad and I don't want to add to their burdens. (I know this is ridiculous . . . and yet. . . )<br />
<br />
Eventually, I called Jacob and he told me to go for a walk. I decided that meant I should go for a walk to the Korean bakery, even though I know that my depression will only be solved in the short-term by food. On our way into the bakery, a homeless man held the door for the stroller and I thanked him politely but breezed past him, which is my normal policy. He then WALKED INTO THE STORE, which totally breaks my sense of propriety for panhandling. I shook my head, smiled, and said, "Not today," which is also procedure for me because it linguistically leaves the door open for God's nudge every once in awhile.<br />
<br />
OF COURSE, in the moments after the guy left, God nudged. I remembered that Anne Lamott and <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/" target="_blank">Glennon</a> both counsel getting outside of yourself when depression hits. So, I bought the raisin bread to serve in place of the challah that I was not going to get baked (not beating myself up, not beating myself up), bought a cookie for Esther and a ham and egg bun for the homeless guy. I chose ham and egg since I can't bring it into my kosher home, which would force me not to bail on my intent to be kind to someone else. I did NOT buy a sesame ball for myself. (I just ate bits of Esther's cookie.) Of course, original homeless dude was unavailable when I wrestled ourselves out the door but I trusted that in my neighborhood, God would send me someone else to serve and she did.<br />
<br />
This is not a miracle story. My sense of panic did not lift as soon as I handed the bag to the guy holding out the styrofoam cup from his wheelchair. No, we went home, turned the TV back on and snuggled on the couch some more. But it did dissipate eventually, as I knew it would, even if I didn't trust that confidence.<br />
<br />
And a day later? Apropos of nothing? Esther turned to me (again on the couch while watching TV) and said declaratively, "Mama happy." What could I do but agree? What grace God gave me that my daughter doesn't see my depression, just my happiness. She quickly followed her statement by cheering, "Happy yellow diaper!" <br />
<br />
I'm not sure how her favorite cloth diaper and my happiness are combined in that little pea brain of hers but it made me laugh and that's something.<br />
<br />
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PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-66481593549820485532013-03-18T10:54:00.005-05:002013-03-18T10:54:58.551-05:00What's ours is ours to share<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Some of our closest friends came to stay with us this past weekend to help us wait for this baby who is due any day now.<br />
<br />
Both Jacob and I mourned deeply and for a long time when they moved away from Chicago. It is so rare to find another couple that has chit-chat chemistry, parallel boundaries of propriety and deeply shared values.<br />
<br />
Actually, we are not on the same spot of the values spectrum and that makes things interesting. As Jake once said: "If we're here [holding his hand at his waist], then you guys are here [holding his hand at his chest] and <i>they</i> are way up here [holding his hand as high above his head as it could get]." Their location at the more extreme end of simple living and self-sacrifice serving others has been such a good demonstration of the values that Jacob and I value and helps us determine where we can make similar choices.<br />
<br />
And where we can't.<br />
<br />
The beauty of friendship, of truly loving someone and feeling truly loved, is that you don't need to feel insecure about making a different choice than they make.<br />
<br />
This has been interesting to observe as we have ventured into parenting at the same time. Their oldest child is almost exactly 10 months older than Esther and their younger child will be similarly spaced with our little-one-to-be-born. I would say that as I have watched us all, their parenting style is complementary to but distinctively different than Jacob's and mine. We're in the same color palette but different hues, if you will.<br />
<br />
I was challenged this weekend by hearing my friend encourage her 2.5 year old daughter that "What is ours is ours to . . ." and to hear her daughter finish, "share." She also told me that after reports of a Sunday in the nursery with some fights over toys, they have been having conversations about finding another toy to play with if another child wants the toy she has or has a toy she wants. She had funny stories about when this lesson has not yet sunk in but my dear friend is nothing if not persistent. I have no doubt that her little Tomato will be hearing the mantra when thinking about possessions for the rest of her life.<br />
<br />
And the mantra, "What's ours is our to share," is 100% faithful to the theology that I believe. I believe that everything I own (including intangible things like privilege) belongs to God and that until shalom has been restored to this world, I have an obligation to redistribute them to folks who didn't get as lucky as I did. I fail most of the time, even though I keep trying. My feelings about this haven't changed much since I wrote <a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/2007/04/seeping-in-through-cracks.html" target="_blank">this essay</a> and <a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/2006/12/recently-my-friend-mark-told-me-that.html" target="_blank">this other one</a> 6 years ago. I don't beat myself up for it but I am constantly trying to do better because I believe I will be happier for it. Like Abraham was told by God, we are blessed with the intent that we will be a blessing to others.<br />
<br />
So, like so many things that Jake and Jess do, it should be a no-brainer to start on teaching this mantra to sweet Esther. I mean, seriously, wouldn't it be awesome if she didn't have to unlearn a sense of entitlement, like I struggle to do all the time? Wouldn't it be a huge gift to start her off understanding her reliance upon God so that she defaults to assuming that the good things in life are gifts to be savored rather than the first in a string of accomplishments to be achieved? <br />
<br />
And yet, I find myself pushing back internally. I keep thinking that if I use this technique, I'll squash her little spirit. If I teach her to be meek, won't I lose the fiesty little spark who makes me smile more over the course of the day than I have since I was her age? I love watching her discover her power, whether it is over her own body as she jumps from the deep windowsill onto the bed a foot below or whether it is over language as she delights in being able to communicate more clearly every day. If I teach her to always turn the other cheek, will she ever fully develop the vibrancy of personality that I see the seed of in her now?<br />
<br />
If she rolls over for bullies in the nursery, will she be forever bullied? Or worse, will she ever be able to defend or advocate for people who weren't born with the resources she was lucky enough to be born having access to?<br />
<br />
I am awake past midnight writing this post because the verdict in the Steubenville rape case came down today. This story has been haunting me for months because two young men carried an nearly unconscious young woman around to multiple parties and raped her for the entertainment of those present, who then gleefully posted about her pain on social media. I am grateful that the men were found guilty but so sick at heart for them because they were raised to believe this was an OK thing to do to another human being and now that they have chosen to act out that belief, it will be even harder for them to accept that God loves them exactly like they are and loves them too much to let them stay that way. My stomach also drops when I think about the other kids at the party. They all have to figure out how to live with not having intervened or even actively encouraged the violation of this young woman's humanity.<br />
<br />
If Esther had been at one of those parties, I would want her to risk her own safety or social reputation to stop those boys from hurting that girl - and themselves.<br />
<br />
Without developing a sense of her own strength, how would she know she could do that? What if little David had been taught non-violence from the moment he could first pick up a sling? How would he have built the skills to defeat Goliath? <br />
<br />
Yes, this is probably a false dichotomy that I'm setting up. There is probably a middle path that I am not seeing. There is probably a way of teaching spiritual power that has nothing to do with that favorite toddler word, "mine." If I truly believe that everything that belongs to Esther is a gift from God to be shared, I should also trust that teaching her this from an early age won't hurt her. Parenting is a crap-shoot. Like my dad says, "We used to hope you kids wouldn't need a therapist; now we just pray that you find a good one." Why should I overthink this one?<br />
<br />
But I can't even imagine how I would do this. Gah! This is where being a follower of Jesus is hard for me. Jesus said nothing about what type of parent I should be. I just have to extrapolate based on what type of human he said I should be and how I have seen God reflected in other people's parenting. But I don't have another option than to overthink this or to go with my gut. When I stopped believing that Christianity was a list of do's and don'ts, I gave up the security of those same rules. When I continued to self-identify as Christian, I gave up the security of getting to follow the rules of society at large. But right now, my two sources of wisdom -gut and head- are in conflict.<br />
<br />
I so often see God reflected in Jake and Jess's parenting. In fact, I see God so clearly in this scenario. I want to be able to trust their example. I just fear that taken out of context and transplanted into the different environment of how Jacob and I parent, I will screw everything up for this amazing creature with whom I have been entrusted. But what has all my angst been for if not to do better for my daughter than was done for me, like each generation hopes to do?<br />
<br />
The only answer to that question that I can come up with is the cautionary tale of Daja Wangchuk Meston Greenberg, whose American mother placed his in a Tibetan monastery at age 6, explaining later, "<i>'I know I haven't been a normal mother, providing you with a normal
family life. But I wanted to give you the dharma, which I honestly
thought was the best thing I could possibly do for you.' Dharma is the
path to happiness and freedom from all suffering, she says.</i>" I remember that quote periodically after reading it once 8 years ago. But that <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/0,,SB111084695948279382,00.html" target="_blank">same article from the Wall Street Journal</a> reports that although he learned gentleness and compassion like his mother wanted him to, Daja was deeply unhappy: "<i>But meals of thin soup left him hungry, he says. Tired from long days of
study, he hid inside empty kerosene drums to nap, so as not to be
caught by his teachers and punished. Other monks teased him because he
was white, telling him he should coat himself in charcoal.</i>" In 2010, he killed himself, leaving behind an infant daughter and wife. This anecdote is terrifying when I consider overriding my gut instinct, which is to let my child discover herself with some guidance from me with my rational attraction to a good idea, which is to shape her more firmly in a way that seems to reflect my understanding of what God wants for her children, possible because it bucks what the rest of American society allows their children to learn.<br />
<br />
If I believe that I am broken and that's OK, then I should hold my beliefs loosely because they are actually the product of a collection of learned coping mechanisms that I call my personality with only hints of truth known; then I should not fall in love with my own blocking, as an old speech coach once taught me; then molding my child in such a counter-cultural way from such a young age is dangerous lightning rod. For who am I to know for certain that this interpretation of Christ's teaching is the right one? What if in my earnest attempt to give her the dharma, I deny her something more important?<br />
<br />
Like everything I have experienced with parenting so far, I will come up with something. Hopefully, the effort of thinking it through and talking about it with other people will help me find a technique for teaching my child to value people more than possessions that is better than it would have been if I hadn't felt challenged by my good friends' technique. But I could get it wrong. What else can I do, though?<br />
<br />
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PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-89307520857945177962013-01-27T16:02:00.002-06:002013-01-27T16:02:25.396-06:00Peace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I think I just spent what might have been one of the sweetest half hours of my life just now. Remember the heady times of young romance when you pillowed your head in someone's lap and looked up, thinking that life couldn't get better? It does.<br />
<br />
At 19 months, Esther sought me out to cuddle with me on the couch. She is right at this cusp of doing things intentionally and responding to internal needs instinctively and this moment was such an obvious blend of those two motivations. <br />
<br />
She jabbered to me and she repeatedly got down from the couch and climbed up again, plopping herself into the crook of my left arm and against the side of my gigantic belly each time that she reached the summit. I kissed her head and sighed a little as I squeezed her or stroked her arm. At one point, she reached out for my hand and used it to rub her own head, so I pulled down her hood and scratched her head. She leaned into it like a dog, writhing a little in pleasure. We had communicated perfectly and she got exactly what she wanted.<br />
<br />
Eventually, she dragged over her bucket of yegos and began bringing them up to the couch with her on some of her visits. We did not cuddle as much at this point but she chattered to me as she built a tower of four-squares, pointing to each one and counting, "two, two, two, two, two." Eventually, she stayed at ground level and used the couch as a play surface, continuing to build with the yegos and retrieving her stacking blocks to puzzle with, as well. I turned on my audiobook and picked up my hand stitching quilt project and we stayed together quietly. We talked occasionally and I retrieved pieces that fell to the back of the couch cushions so she wouldn't have to climb for them because they were out of reach. <br />
<br />
Eventually, she had trouble stacking a block on top of the others, got frustrated and threw them all away in three or four bouts. I asked her if she was getting tired and she said hopefully, "Blanket?" I agreed and carried her to her room, thinking we would sit in the rocking chair and read books before I put her down for a nap. She kept trying to trick me into letting her down with her "fier" to go back and play and was clearly uninterested in books. So, I laid her down in her bed and she did not protest, asking for her kitteh and beginning her self-soothing rhythm of making a loop out of the silky binding of her blanket with one hand while poking her index finger of the other hand through the gap to feel the softness. I told her that I loved her, her papa loved her and that God loved her. I reassured her that I would be there when she woke up so she didn't need to worry about anything as I turned off the light and wished her "nigh-nigh," as I closed the door behind me.<br />
<br />
Life with my indomitable toddler is rarely this quiet. She is usually overbearingly curious about what is in my hands or insistent that I play with her actively. More often lately she spontaneously asks for things I don't want to give her like the iPad, cookies or cake only to fall to the floor bonelessly with a howl when I tell her not now. I think she is poking and exploring me to figure out a pattern for when she can and can't have treats.<br />
<br />
But these moments of quiet retreat are becoming more common, as well. She might be a charismatic introvert, like her mother. She might have a different reason to need the respite. I am grateful for the huge responsibility of being her foil, her mirror, her shaper and her haven. She makes that mantle easy to assume. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-43322569279081711432012-12-28T14:50:00.000-06:002012-12-28T22:09:09.885-06:00Here's one of the women, Tony Jones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">A few weeks ago, a guy in my dungeons and dragons group (who also happens to be a tenured religion professor at a university you might actually have heard of) encouraged me to read a recent post from Tony Jones, who is a fairly visible thinker in the emergent Christianity movement that I am a part of.<br />
<br />
It seems that Tony had recently realized that most of his commenters are men and the statistics from Facebook were telling him that a significant majority of the people who "liked" his page were men. So, he asked, "<a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/tonyjones/2012/11/28/where-are-the-women/" target="_blank">Where are all the women</a>?"<br />
<br />
There were over three hundred comments and I read them all. An interesting narrative developed, with several sub-plots. What stands out to me most interestingly is that Tony seemed honestly surprised that people think the cause for women's absence is Tony. There is a fair amount of defensiveness on his part that reads very much like he is caught off-guard. I would think that if he started with the assumption that it was something about him, his writing style or the community that he fostered in the comments, he would have been able to respond a little more objectively. You know, the difference between calling responses "attacks" and thanking people for their perspective, even if one respectfully disagrees. He also used the classic defense of hyperbolizing his opponent when paraphrasing her, claiming that the commenter was requiring him "to change everything" about himself, even though she was just answering his question as to why she was uninterested in commenting, which did not instruct him to change anything and even if instruction was implied, it certainly wouldn't be everything that needed changing. <br />
<br />
This makes me wonder what his original hypothesis was for where all the women were. Unless someone else can think of something and mention in these comments, I can only imagine that Tony believed that the problem was the women.<br />
<br />
And certainly, some of the reasons were endemic to common female experiences. Many women cited busy-ness, which is backed up by all sorts of research that shows that on average, men have more leisure time for things like Internet commenting than women do. Relatedly, someone pointed out that men are the majority of pastors and seminary students, who have the time built into their workday for engaging in theology. Other women said that they are exhausted from "speaking up" to make their voice heard in the Church that still preferences men as spiritual leaders in their daily non-Internet lives that they were simply uninterested in doing so in the comments section of a blog.<br />
<br />
(As a side note, since I was raised mainline Protestant with lots of female pastors at my church, I have never personally resonated with the struggles of evangelical women who were always told that their calling to teach and lead was not real. However, a commenter brought up the perspective that the Emergent dynamic often treats women thinkers, leaders and speakers as spectacle as response to the evangelical dynamic of women as invisible, and that is almost as off-putting. I HAVE experienced that over beers at theology pubs and I'm glad someone brought it up.)<br />
<br />
The only other cause that could be argued was the responsibility of women was that the type of things he posts are just uninteresting to women. And, I don't know, ugh. That's like saying that women just aren't interested in sports and beer and stuff. It's just not the whole story. However, one commenter noted that Tony's lack of feminist awareness makes his perspective uninteresting. That, I could see as being a valid point for why women aren't attracted to his writing. Female theology nerds (theology nerds in general being a huge part of Tony's audience) do have a wide range of white dudes, dead and alive, from whom to choose for study. Without a new branch from which to speak regarding social politics, why choose him over voices with insight from female, queer, non-Western or racial minority communities?<br />
<br />
But aside from those reasons, which fit the generic answer to anyone asking why women don't participate in something male-dominated, there were quite a few specific suggestions for how Tony himself is the reason why women don't comment. Lots of women said that the types of things Tony posts are declarative (Tony concurred) and therefore did not seem need response. Many people spoke of his patronizing tone, which my friend explains away as a symptom of their shared Princeton educations but others chalked it up to male privilege. As one commenter wrote, "I have not gone to seminary and I am a woman. Do my uneducated thoughts on theology really matter to you? I assume not because of the culture I grew up in…the culture I’m still a part of. You have not put that culture in place, but it’s still there. It will take A LOT of effort on your part to fight this and make us feel welcome to speak. That makes sense, right?" That lack of effort is definitely something Tony could take responsibility for.<br />
<br />
In addition to a patronizing tone, many described a tone that was combative, rather than inclusive. I never got the sense that Tony ever really understood this point. He didn't really address it in his comments, nor did it come up in his response post the next day. A long comment by a man named John that is worth re-printing is representative of several people who tried to give specific examples of how his syntax could be slightly altered to change this tone.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>"If one is truly interested in dialogue then challenges and <br />
interrogations are not the means by which to promote it.<br />
<br />
I’ve heard the tone accusation leveled against me by every woman who <br />
has ever had a significant relationship with me, beginning with my <br />
mother and continuing all the way through to my wife. I’ve also heard <br />
it from a number of men I’ve known. Fortunately, about 10 years ago I <br />
decided to listen instead of ask questions and discovered that if I <br />
simply stopped for a moment and thought back to what I had been saying <br />
up to that point rather than automatically demanding an example as <br />
evidence that what they were telling me was factual the answer was <br />
pretty obvious (and had been all along). The truth is that in many ways <br />
it is about how you put things both verbally and non-verbally, and if <br />
you have a diverse group of people telling you the same thing about how <br />
you communicate in virtually the same language it’s probably time to <br />
stop wondering why others don’t get you or your intent or your style or <br />
your personality and listen for a bit, beginning with what’s issuing <br />
from your mouth or fingertips, as the case may be. Confining things to <br />
online interactions, allow me to offer an example of the difference <br />
between dialogue and challenge/interrogation.<br />
<br />
Blogger: This is something I’ve noticed, and I don’t understand why <br />
it’s happening. Thoughts?<br />
<br />
Commenter: When I read your posts, I notice that you tend to respond in <br />
X fashion to certain issues/topics. It gives me the impression that you <br />
believe Y.<br />
<br />
Dialogue Response from Blogger: Hmm. I honestly hadn’t thought of that <br />
before you brought it up. Can you maybe give me a few more details so I <br />
can build a context for what you’re telling me? What you said kind of <br />
caught me flat-footed so I’m going to need your help processing it.<br />
<br />
Challenge/Interrogatory Response from Blogger: That’s not really how I <br />
see what I do here. What makes you think I’m like that?<br />
<br />
See the difference in the two? Both responses say substantially the <br />
same thing–i.e., “That’s a new perspective for me. I need more <br />
information.”–but each presents a different tone (as much as such <br />
things can exist online) to the commenter as well as other readers. The <br />
former invites the commenter into further dialogue with some degree of <br />
assurance that her perspective is welcome and the blogger is genuinely <br />
interested in learning from her. The latter asks for an explanation, <br />
and it’s very much on a defensive footing.<br />
<br />
If you’re looking to debate someone the latter is a somewhat <br />
appropriate (albeit not necessarily productive) response. If you’re <br />
looking to have a conversation with someone the former is really your <br />
only choice. My impression is that most people are happy to have an <br />
interesting conversation on a substantive issue, but they’re not <br />
particularly interested in getting into a public urination competition <br />
to determine the “right” answer. Simply put, if your goal is to be <br />
right you’re not conversing, you’re arguing, and how many <br />
well-adjusted, gainfully employed adults do you know who are willing to <br />
out of their way for yet another argument in their lives?"</blockquote><br />
Two commenters made good points in Tony's "defense," pointing out that some folks who have been wounded by the Church need people like Tony to speak boldly to make space for their own healing and that he is an <a href="http://www.enneagraminstitute.com/typeeight.asp#.UN4F4az4KrM" target="_blank">Enneagram 8</a> so his tone is just the way he communicates. <br />
<br />
To the former point, I say "Hell yeah!" And if that's what Tony sees as his calling, it may not be necessary to pay attention to his audience. He is making that impact for folks and he should go on doing so. <br />
<br />
However, the latter defense is a little bit of a cop out. We were all born with certain strengths and limitations and as we grew, those strengths and limitations cemented themselves into personalities that can be plotted in charts like the Enneagram. However, this does not mean that we're stuck with those strengths and limitations forever. We can deliberately develop new skills in order to achieve goals that were previously out of reach.<br />
<br />
So, if attracting a balanced audience is a goal of Tony's and not just a thought experiment to discuss, he will be fully capable of changing his syntax like the commenters have been suggesting. It will take some time listening and reflecting how what he hears can be applied to his actions. This would be a break from asking questions in the conversation with his audience and would require a certain amount of vulnerability, both privately and publicly. But it is totally possible without necessarily changing "everything."<br />
<br />
One of the other major sub-plots was an extended exchange spurred because one woman said that Tony's style and tone reminded her of Christian men who had abused her in the past. Other men vociferously came to his defense against that comment and over the course of the thread, it was interesting to see both sides both educate and relent, just like IRL reconciliation. The original commenter realized that the word, "abuser" is often a trigger word, like telling a women she is like a whore, and Tony and some of the men acknowledged the commenter's original point about tone.<br />
<br />
But the boys club that emerged in that exchange was a very clear demonstration of the community of commenters that so many women found objectionable, describing them as argumentative and hostile in their "spirited" debates.<br />
<br />
Also, I think exchanges like the "abuser" one illustrate Tony's blindness to his own position of privilege. In that particular relational discomfort, the fancy-educated white guy with the platform wins unless he deliberately humbles himself. And i never interpreted Tony's responses as humble. At one point Tony referenced Hitler as a snarky response to this thread and then he erased his knee-jerk comment rather than owning it. That is not a humble posture of someone who wants to be pastoral toward a commenter who was clearly hurting. It is definitely not a humble posture of someone who is interested in doing whatever it takes to get equality in the community he hosts.<br />
<br />
And it may be that Tony decides that courting women to participate is not all that important. I hope, though, that he realizes how much he will be able to accomplish of behalf of marginalized folks if he begins down this path with his blog. (I have no idea how far down along that path he is in his face-to-face life). His understanding of the multiple aspects of God will increase as his discourse community's diversity increases. Changing his syntax and tone to be more collaborative and inclusive will allow other folks to share in the privilege that has been his birthright but that was never God's intent for Her children.<br />
<br />
Tony responded throughout the comments and posted a follow-up post. I did not read the comments on that one. I thought the follow-up post didn't say much but interestingly, he put the onus on the commenters for creating unsafe space rather than taking it on himself to moderate comments and deliberately build a community, even though several commenters suggested that he had that responsibility as the host who sets the table for the banquet. <br />
<br />
I only track Tony in my peripheral vision but I'll be interested to check in on him periodically to see if this experience has changed him at all. Despite his protestations, we all sin and fall short of the glory of God. It is a baby boomer/gen x myth that I'm ok and you're ok and that it's the worst thing possible to suggest that someone needs to change in order to stop causing hurt, however unintentionally. We are not yet who God intends us to be and we should all be so lucky as to get the opportunity to have hundreds of people help us get there through their feedback.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-69763532909603605042012-12-03T02:41:00.000-06:002012-12-03T02:41:00.469-06:00Where's the window?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UUIngXHtmCk" width="560"></iframe>
Last winter my brother called me after watching this video to say:<br />
<br />
"F**k you, Rebecca."<br />
<br />
He went on to remind me that when I was in my second trimester, he and I got into a huge fight because he suggested that I might want to stop working in order to be with Esther more and I was enraged that he would think I was that kind of woman. He pointed out that if I were still working, I probably wouldn't have been able to capture that kind of footage of Esther dancing in her high chair.<br />
<br />
I deserved every word of it.<br />
<br />
I have mostly gotten comfortable with being a stay-at-home mom. It was hard in the first few months to let go of my self-image as a professional person. However, I really love the rhythms of my life and I love the benefits for my daughter and our marriage that come with having one person with the time to coordinate domestic stuff. I am fascinated by Esther's development and so rarely miss the intellectual challenges of the work place. It's like being in school all over again.<br />
<br />
That being said, a couple of months ago, I really struggled with my decision to focus on the domestic part of my life.<br />
<br />
I was struggling because - like during my second trimester with Esther - I'm clinging to an idea that is a product of my insecurity, rather than a product of how things really work.<br />
<br />
The context was a wedding that I wasn't going to be able to attend because of a combination of terrible morning sickness and a sinus infection. (I know, I know, this is no way to announce a pregnancy. So, we'll pause for a moment to say, "Yay! Baby!")<br />
<br />
I have gotten to a point in my life where I'm mostly neutral about weddings. When I'm there, I love them. However, I know that my value to the marrying couple as a guest is actually quite low most of the time. My presence contributes to volume, which helps a party and spiritual vibe and the event becomes a shared experience in a continuing relationship, but, really, if you miss it, one's relationship isn't going to be significantly altered in the long run.<br />
<br />
However, I was looking forward to this wedding for more than just my relationship with the bride and groom. <br />
<br />
First and foremost, we were planning on leaving Esther with a babysitter and I wanted so much to dance with my husband, which I had not gotten to do at my best friend's wedding a month earlier.<br />
<br />
Secondly, the invitation to this wedding had made me feel special. Of the 5 weddings that the people in my study group from graduate school had hosted, this was only the second that I had been invited to. I was gratified that my relationship with the groom had been built back up since graduation when we drifted apart, to be invited. He's one of my favorite people on the planet and I'm glad that he wanted me as part of his spiritual and party vibe.<br />
<br />
Finally, I really wanted to attend because it was a chance to see and be seen by other people from school who were also attending.<br />
<br />
Maybe that seems a little shallow but here's where the part about regretting my choice to stay home comes in. None of the other folks in my study group have children, except for one guy whose children are grown, and I feel like we're all in totally different worlds now.<br />
<br />
Who knows if this is true, but I picture them all meeting for happy hours after work and bumping into each other at networking events. Even if that's not happening, if they do see each other, they have work stuff to talk about. Even if I went to the alumni events, who wants to hear about how Esther is an ace at stacking the rings on the spindle now? Who would want to hire me in 5 years if that was the last conversation that we had? I know that I could make more of an effort to keep up with current events and to organize happy hours (actually, 5:00 is a terrible time to try to get a babysitter) but I find that the rhythm of my days just doesn't allow for that easily. The perceived value of being proactive like that doesn't usually seem worth the opportunity cost to the other things that I do with that energy.<br />
<br />
So, we drift further apart.<br />
<br />
And this makes me worry that I'm letting my most valuable professional asset atrophy. I have a lot of professional skills that I can peddle to potential employers when I'm ready to go back to work. But it certainly seems that in this economy, you need an edge to get a job that you want to do instead of just a job where someone will pay you to do something. For most of my schoolmates, they have the quantitative analysis edge. They can run regressions and process the data to make persuasive power points.<br />
<br />
I cannot do these things.<br />
<br />
I passed all the statistics and economics courses (which <i>is</i> pretty badass) but it would be lying to say I could <a href="http://drphilipshaw.com/child.pdf" target="_blank">run a regression</a> to anyone's satisfaction. And it seems like even in policy jobs where you don't have to do that, they want you to have put in the time having done that kind of data work as a prerequisite.<br />
<br />
I have always comforted myself that what I do have to offer is established leadership skills in my work history and a robust network of people who will return my emails and possibly even have lunch with me.<br />
<br />
But since a lot of my network is made up of the folks I went to school with and a lot of those folks are drifting away (and pulling ahead), I am growing much less confident in the robustness of my network.<br />
<br />
Having to miss the wedding where I would be able to reconnect with many folks in my network because of my fertility and non-professional status (certainly I became pregnant again much more quickly than someone who was trying to be sensitive about the spacing of her maternity leaves) created a lot of despair in my feverish brain. <br />
<br />
Like every other anxiety and disappointment in life, I'm coming to terms with it. We close doors when we make choices. I do not regret for an instant my family planning choices and so I just have to get used to the little uff of frustration when I run into that door that I forgot that I closed or that I thought I had left half-open.<br />
<br />
I also know that the exciting opportunities in my life have rarely come about because of my planning and preparation. Most are dropped into my lap.When I'm ready to be professional again (or possibly even before I think I'm ready), there's a good chance that my career goals and policy passions will take a sharp turn from the direction I expected to go.<br />
<br />
Still, I wanted to go to that wedding. </div>
PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-75482198628451235592012-11-28T13:25:00.002-06:002012-11-28T13:25:42.314-06:00An Interfaith Advent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I have had a brilliant parenting idea and I have never seen it anywhere else and it might be the only one I ever have that's worth sharing so here I go.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2007/11/our-winter-read.html" target="_blank">Amanda Soule</a> has a box of holiday and winter books that she pulls out every December and puts away after the New Year to preserve the sense of special-ness and anticipation for these books. (Actually, now that I went back and read the post, she speaks less deliberately about this so my idea must have been percolating even then based on how I altered the memory.)<br />
<br />
My mother did something similar, except more intuitively and with fewer gorgeous pictures. We had our favorite Christmas books that we looked forward to and she had a reason to collect beautiful books for the stack that sat by the fireplace.<br />
<br />
I have been figuring out how to celebrate Advent in my little family and Advent calendars are part of my tradition. But they make Christmas so long! I know, I know, so do Christmas trees and music and special cookies and all the other things I do. But calendars seem to completely obliterate Hanukkah altogether, since they take every single day of December as anticipation for Christmas. <br />
<br />
We believe in keeping our Christian and Jewish holidays separate and that works most of the time. This is the only real situation I can think of where one spiritual practice excludes another spiritual practice, other than when Passover dietary restrictions preclude celebrating Easter through traditional foods.<br />
<br />
I began thinking about holiday books and decided to take Soulemama's and my mother's tradition one step further. I am going to wrap books like presents and number them 1-25 like an Advent calendar. This way, 9 days of the season, the books can be Hanukkah books and 16 days they can be Christmas or winter-themed. Now that I think of it, next year I'll make sure I have non-holiday specific paper for the winter books.<br />
<br />
My hope is that in future years, the kids will anticipate their favorite books, guessing based on size and shape. Reading the books together can spur conversations about both holidays and the thoughts they have about their inter-faithness. If advent means "coming," like the candle-lighting ceremonies taught me, the Advent season can prepare us for both holidays.<br />
<br />
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On a related not, a few weeks ago, I bought Esther a Hanukkah book by Lemony Snicket called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Latke-Who-Couldnt-Stop-Screaming/dp/1932416870" target="_blank">The Latke Who Couldn't Stop Screaming</a>, which is maybe the best Hanukkah book I've ever read. Many pages required me to mock-scream as I read the titular latke's lines. We read it once and then I put it away. I got it out again now to wrap it and Esther pulled it out of the pile and went to read it to herself. Apparently, my dramatic rendition made an impression because she began mock-screaming exactly as I had done. Three weeks later. This kid. Seriously.</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-1239198696804092522012-11-07T16:41:00.001-06:002012-11-07T22:23:24.912-06:00Ginger jelly and ginger pear preserves<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
So, the suburbs may not be all that bad. By my parents' house, there is a gigantic super-store of produce and international foods. In addition to other awesome things, they have this whole shelf of still-good produce being sold in packages that must be at least 5 pounds for $1.49 each. I bought one of fresh ginger roots just for the sheer novelty of it.<br />
<br />
One of our closest friends is a little nuts for ginger and we're seeing him on Friday so if I couldn't figure out what to do with it, we could just take it to him and he would.<br />
<br />
But Tuesday morning, I woke up raring to go and wanting to make applesauce for Esther, the applesauce monster. We had about 8 pounds of apples that turned out to be not-so-good and another 6 pounds that I bought and the super-store for about $3.50.<br />
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<br />
Since I had all of the canning equipment out anyway and the Pandora outlaw country station was helping with the all-around patriotic feeling in the house, I set out to do something with the ginger. I didn't like any of the recipes I found, so I made up my own. My neighbor actually knocked on the door to ask what smelled so good, then asked me for the recipe so she could make the jelly for gifts, once she had tasted it.<br />
<br />
So, I figured I'd share it with the internets, since they have given me so many recipes over the years. This is written for intelligent beginners. I'll include links and encourage you to bone up on food safety when canning shelf-stable foods. My recipe is a derivative of several out of the Ball canning book, so I'm fairly certain the ratio of sugar, acid and fruit are OK, but it certainly hasn't been approved by anyone but me.<br />
<br />
Ginger pear preserves<br />
<br />
4-6 big fresh ginger roots<br />
6 cups water<br />
1.5-2 cups peeled, diced pears marinating in 0.5 cups lemon or lime juice (to deter discoloration)<br />
5 cups sugar<br />
1 package powdered pectin <br />
<br />
1. Rough chop the ginger root into fairly small pieces. There is no need to peel it first. <br />
2. Bring water and ginger to boil in large stock pot. <br />
3. Reduce heat to simmer, cover and let it go for awhile. At least 20 minutes? When you take a spoonfull, blow on it and taste it, it should be HOT (spicy hot, not temperature hot).<br />
4. Pour ginger tisane into a receptacle, using a sieve to strain out the solid ginger.<br />
5. Let cool for a few minutes while you measure the sugar and cut up the pear. This is a good time to set up your canning materials, as well. (Sterilize jars and lids, begin heating water in a bigger stock pot, find way to keep jars and lids warm until needed, set up stations, etc.)<br />
6. Measure 3 cups of the ginger tisane back into cool stock pot and whisk in pectin. Do not turn on stove until after this step.<br />
7. Bring liquid to a boil, then add the sugar all at once. Return to a boil, then turn off heat after 1 minute. Skim the foam from the top.<br />
8. Stir in the fruit and juice.<br />
9. Ladle into jars, leaving about 0.5 inches empty at the top. Attach lid and band and deposit in canning pot.<br />
10. When pot is full, bring water to a rolling boil when covered and process for 10 minutes. Turn off heat and let sit for 5 more minutes. Remove from water to sit undisturbed on a kitchen towel until cool. You will know you have been successful at creating a vacuum when you hear all the little buttons on the lids pop as the jars cool.<br />
<br />
Once the preserves are cool, don't worry if they seem a little runny. Refrigerate before serving to harden the set.<br />
<br />
An alternative is to leave out the fruit for a purer Ginger Jelly. If you do this, stir in the lime or lemon juice when you stir in the pectin instead of after boiling.<br />
<br />
Ginger Jelly<br />
<br />
4.5 cups ginger tisane<br />
0.5 cups lime or lemon juice<br />
5 cups sugar<br />
1 package powdered pectin <br />
<br />
Both recipes should make approximately 8 half-pint jars and excellent presents. The finished product can be served with a cheese spread or over cream cheese. I love savory jelly PBJs on rye and when warmed, it can also be served over ice cream. Do not hesitate to eat straight out of the jar instead of mediocre store-bought hard candy.<br />
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PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-74371154231019527032012-09-28T14:33:00.002-05:002012-09-28T14:33:32.116-05:00What do I do? I'm a writer.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I just sold my first piece of writing. Folks here will find it very familiar but after this one, I'm writing original essays (probably on themes you have heard about) for the same editor.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.interfaithfamily.com/life_cycle/pregnancy_and_birth_ceremonies/Welcoming_Esther_a_Simchat_Bat.shtml">http://www.interfaithfamily.com/life_cycle/pregnancy_and_birth_ceremonies/Welcoming_Esther_a_Simchat_Bat.shtml</a>http://www.interfaithfamily.com/life_cycle/pregnancy_and_birth_ceremonies/Welcoming_Esther_a_Simchat_Bat.shtml<br />
<br />
The website recommends choosing one religion or another for interfaith families but I appreciated that they didn't cut out the bits of our story that communicated that we were raising Esther in both faiths.<br />
<br />
I keep going back to the website because they offer really good resources about how Jews actually go about the business of being Jews, in all the different traditions and this is unique on the internet, as far as I have found.<br />
<br />
You should go. Make a comment. Or come back here and make one. Or better yet, tell me what you'd like me to write about next in 800-1100 words.</div>
PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-6931429456277824132012-09-18T20:38:00.000-05:002012-09-18T20:39:36.645-05:00A good eater<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My daughter's appetite is legen . . . wait for it . . . dary.<br />
<br />
She eats everything you put in front of her.<br />
<br />
Especially fruit. Oh my gosh, the fruit she consumes.<br />
<br />
Her appetite is so epic that my brother likes to hold her and feed her things, just for the pleasure of watching a child eat what he has offered her since his own daughter is a very picky eater.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUZIo6dA_WqZd3NkE5wdIN6DyUs8pMoNZvahxCoA6T8F0MOgzN5EXabmsj-SKyihUwfk367FDszcW_VEPwxnInafM320RHgetju0JiVvSzJ-JHgr68IIYvblue0jLxpYLcfO_DA/s1600/P1010032.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUZIo6dA_WqZd3NkE5wdIN6DyUs8pMoNZvahxCoA6T8F0MOgzN5EXabmsj-SKyihUwfk367FDszcW_VEPwxnInafM320RHgetju0JiVvSzJ-JHgr68IIYvblue0jLxpYLcfO_DA/s320/P1010032.JPG" width="320" /></a> <br />
<br />
Normally, I take very little credit for how good-natured my daughter is. Seriously, I'm not going to take the blame if she goes bad, so I just tell people that she came out of the box that way. I think she's just like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Gilmore_Girls_characters#Rory_Gilmore" target="_blank">Rory Gilmore</a> and basically she'll raise herself right as long as I don't get in the way too much.<br />
<br />
So, although I'll point out that I use the <a href="http://www.babyledweaning.com/" target="_blank">baby-led weaning</a> method in introducing solid foods, I have no idea if that had any actual impact on the type of eater she turned out to be.<br />
<br />
However, because she was never spoon-fed baby food, she has some very well-developed manual dexterity when it comes to handling her food. She has almost complete control over the food on her tray and is actually getting pretty good with a fork.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0-gewiZfMdOAjih61RESltZ2qlf27gqEspUtq56jGgPYI05fn1PD8tC4jcMGoWgRjFdsEieDUt78KgDEaUbL5X3WONAelBtD4mlT3wLFaL5TmZpaf70LLoFcqGRfDx1uHyP8jg/s1600/IMG_1510.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0-gewiZfMdOAjih61RESltZ2qlf27gqEspUtq56jGgPYI05fn1PD8tC4jcMGoWgRjFdsEieDUt78KgDEaUbL5X3WONAelBtD4mlT3wLFaL5TmZpaf70LLoFcqGRfDx1uHyP8jg/s320/IMG_1510.JPG" width="320" /></a> <br />
<br />
She does deliberately throw her food from the tray to indicate that she has completed her meal and we're working on that ("Can you hand it to Mama when you're all done?") but since she's only 15 months old, my expectations for this sort of behavior moderation are low. When reminded, she'll often hand it over. Unless she is smiling mischievously and racing me to throw it as I'm racing to clear it from the tray. 15 months. Totally normal.<br />
<br />
So, last night, neither Jacob nor I were feeling very well so we decided to be bad parents and sit on the couch watching Battlestar Galactica while Esther was still awake. She played by herself over in the corner very nicely for about half of the episode and then began to want our attention.<br />
<br />
We decided to just lean into the bad parent thing and stick her in her high chair with a larabar, followed up with some honey cake that Jacob's mom sent us for Rosh Hashana. Seriously? We didn't even put the effort into cutting up some fruit for her. An energy bar and cake while strapped into a chair facing the TV where sci-fi violence was being portrayed. Totally normal. Actually, she was perpendicular to the TV so that if she looked left, she could watch Cylons seduce humans and if she looked right, she could see us. We're not monsters, even if when she looked right, all she would observe were slack-jaws and dilated pupils instead of her normally scheduled attentive parents.<br />
<br />
At some point, she uncharacteristically fumbled some of her cake and dropped in on the floor. We know this -not because we were monitoring her- but because she began to pointedly make eye contact with us while pointing at the floor. I've never seen her do this before. The kid was in a panic. She was pointing with her hand through the leg opening to better illuminate for us when the cake must have gone, rather than a more generic over-the-tray point. She was articulating her gibberish with an intensity that I have never heard before.<br />
<br />
We laughed and ignored her.<br />
<br />
Seriously, she had a full half of the cake still in her other hand. She was going to live. Plus, it was pretty tense waiting to see if the Cylons had followed the colonial fleet through this faster-than-light jump, too.<br />
<br />
She began to insist.<br />
<br />
Her gibberish was distinctly cadenced to communicate, "I don't think you understood me. I DROPPED my CAKE."<br />
<br />
She was pointing with her arm fully extended.<br />
<br />
I swear to you, people, we ignored her pleas for another five minutes.<br />
<br />
That's an ETERNITY to toddler. Unless the forget about what they wanted and move on to other interests, which is what we were hoping she would do.<br />
<br />
But she was persistent. She was not only upset that she was missing out on cake, she was also clearly upset with herself for fumbling it. What kind of terrible parents would not hit pause to soothe their child's wounded pride?<br />
<br />
Us.<br />
<br />
Finally, I got up to find the dropped cake since she was so focused that she would not even eat the cake that was in her hand any more. She was not crying her proto-tantrum cry of frustration. She was not whining her usual bid for attention. If Esther can advocate for herself with this much dignity and tenacity as she grows into an adult, she will do very, very well for herself.<br />
<br />
And when I found it? It was the size of a pea.<br />
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It's good to know we've all got our priorities straight.<br />
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<br /></div>
PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-85475163403177955462012-08-01T13:10:00.001-05:002012-08-01T13:10:56.000-05:00Chick-Fil-A and me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Someone very close to me, whom I love and who has my express permission to hold me accountable recently write me this email:<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: verdana,sans-serif;">your words of facebook come across
to me as very harsh, very condemning, very exclusionary, very barrier
building, and - most of all - very unlike you and how you live your life
- in my opinion. </span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="messageBody" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.38;">"One
of the <a href="http://scottpaeth.typepad.com/main/2012/07/chick-fil-a-gay-marriage-and-why-anyone-should-care.html" target="_blank">better articles</a> on why it's not Dan Cathy's personal feelings
about gay marriage that is offensive: people are allowed to have those
and pursue them; it is the money his tax-exempted foundation gives to
political groups trying to deny people equal rights that is offensive."</span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="messageBody" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.38;"><h6 class="uiStreamMessage uiStreamHeadline" style="color: black; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.38; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">
<div class="actorDescription actorName" style="font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; padding-bottom: 4px;">
<br /></div>
</h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" style="color: black; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="messageBody" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.38;">"Shut
up already about how liberals are tolerant of everyone but intolerant
people. Seriously. Like everything else, some liberals are like that,
but a whole lot of us are trying to be better. Like <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/2012/07/30/progress/" target="_blank">Glennon</a>. Go ahead,
my conservative friends. Read it."</span></h6>
</span></h6>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="messageBody" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.38;"><span style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto;"></span></span> </h6>
</div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<div>
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">
<span class="messageBody" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.38;"><span style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto;">You
have modeled for me these last few years your personal life of loving,
of tolerance, of inclusion, of forgiveness, and - to me - the written
words are none of that. I've learned much from you - because of what
you do and how you live your life - about following Jesus who was loving
and tolerating and forgiving and including.</span></span></h6>
</div>
</blockquote>
And this person is right. Something about this Chick-Fil-A thing has me angry. It has me not quite being myself. So, this post is more about figuring out what's going on in my head and my heart than a defense. Because, as I have said, my friend is absolutely right.<br />
<br />
I wonder if some of the harshness of my posts is a response to the more conservative things I see being said on Facebook. (And remember, a lot of my professional life is spent in the evangelical Christian world so there's a pretty good balance of left and right showing up in my Facebook feed.)<br />
<br />
I suppose there are two aspects about these posts that strike me: the first is the general gleeful tone of catching up liberals in their own hypocrisy and the second is their assertion that their rights are being infringed upon.<br />
<br />
So, this gleeful tone. This image is a good example.<br />
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Honestly, I don't know what to say. I have a million and one arguments but don't want to go down the rhetorical rabbit-hole. I suppose folks could even argue with me that this picture is neither gleeful nor pointing out hypocrisy and those folks would be right, as well. I just know that so many people in my news feed have said they are buying multiple meals today. Maybe the better word is enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
Why does my sense that this is the way folks on the right feel about this make me upset?<br />
<br />
Because at the core of this, we're talking about people. We're talking about people that God loves as much as he loves you or me.<br />
<br />
Every time someone posts in support of Chick-Fil-A, they are communicating, intentionally or not that gay people do not deserve the same rights that straight people have.<br />
<br />
And why would that be true unless they thought that gay people weren't as good as straight people?<br />
<br />
So, that makes me mad.<br />
<br />
The second thing is this statement that freedom of speech is at stake here. This is patently ridiculous. I asked my friend why he would post about eating multiple meals and he talked about how wrong is was that politicians were saying that stores would not be allowed to open in their districts.<br />
<br />
He makes a good point here. That does seem a little distasteful, IF that actually happened and IF it wasn't just election year posturing (yes, posturing invites response) and IF the laws of a particular district actually allowed that type of discrimination to happen.<br />
<br />
But the majority of people who are upset with Chick-Fil-A are not politicians. They are individuals who support equal rights for gay people. And our Constitutional right to freedom of speech only gives you the right to say what you want. It does not give you the right to say what you want without consequences.<br />
<br />
And the consequence for Chick-Fil-A is that people who support equal rights for gay people do not like Chick-Fil-A and do not want to eat there. Boycotts are not a new thing for the right wing. They are just usually on the other side of it.<br />
<br />
So, again, talking about the rights of Dan Cathy to people who legitimately are not allowed to do things that other people are allowed to do, simply because of who they sleep with, is a little angry making. (What things? Hospital visitation, social security benefits, tax breaks, adoption, etc.)<br />
<br />
I don't the answer to the question as to why this has me acting outside of my usual patterns. I know that there are times when conversation has to stop and people who are being hurt have to be protected, if those two things are at odds. I don't know if this is one of those times. I did not deliberately set out to draw a line in the sand.<br />
<br />
The compromise I made with myself today after my friend sent me his email was to give the cost of lunch to <a href="http://www.themarinfoundation.org/" target="_blank">The Marin Foundation</a> and to post about on Facebook: <br />
<blockquote>
"I just donated the cost of a chicken dinner (with Coke because let's get real) to <a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/page.php?id=135159119829975" href="http://www.facebook.com/TheMarinFoundation"></a>The Marin Foundation,
a nonprofit that works with Christians -regardless of their beliefs
about the sinfulness of homosexuality and without judgement of them- to
treat members of the LGBT community as beloved children of God through
reconciliation and relationship-building."</blockquote>
I do love the people in my life who are conservative and I respect that many of them have come to their beliefs about homosexuality through prayer and study. I do not think that many of them actually live out their maxim that they love the sinner and not the sin. Posting enthusiastic support for Chick-Fil-A doesn't communicate love for gay people. Posting harsh comments of my own probably doesn't communicate love for conservative people, either. I don't know what to do with that. Do you?</div>
</div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-5005464571314156112012-07-17T16:01:00.003-05:002012-07-17T16:01:55.337-05:00But you weren't born Jewish, were you?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some conversations on Facebook inspires me to write just a little bit more about our intents for Esther's religious upbringing.<br />
<br />
Mostly, it was mentioned that because of the heavy emphasis on Jewish practice, it seems to readers like we're raising a Jewish daughter who has some exposure to Christian practices.<br />
<br />
In fact, when we were discussing Jewish conversion, Jacob's main concern was that people would come to that conclusion.<br />
<br />
Let me start by saying that the premise of our choices is that all kids find their own language in which to communicate with God. A Modern Orthodox family that I grew up with has two children who practice Judaism to varying degrees and one child who is raising his own child completely devoid of Jewish upbringing. For awhile, the reigning ladies' semi-professional wrestling tag-team champions were named Lane and Nevaeh. Nevaeh was a name popular with conservative, evangelical Christians because it it Heaven spelled backwards. I'd bet money, that's now how those religious folks thought their daughter would turn out.<br />
<br />
Kids are given a religious line by their parents and they spend their early adult lives jumping back and forth across that line, bouncing off of it first one direction and then the next until they find a line of their own. Sometimes it's close to their parents' line and sometimes it is very far away. However, their explorations all start in that specific place.<br />
<br />
The line my parents' laid down was basically mainline Protestant, with some evangelicalism thrown in because the church we attended was geographically close to Wheaton college. They modeled a certain social liberalness that was grounded in a sense of love and respect for the situations of people down on their luck that was born of their understanding of who God is. They also modeled certain practices, such as a love for traditional hymns, how we celebrate Christmas and what kind of relationship to have with the pastor. This was explicitly grounded in the orthodox beliefs that Jesus was God's son, who saved us from our sin by dying, rising from the dead and ascending into Heaven.<br />
<br />
All four of us have ended up parallel to that line in some way or another, with varying degrees of formal participation in institutional religion, behavior towards others and belief in that theology. <br />
<br />
My parents did not push their line on us but did insist that if we didn't want to go to church with them, we had to find a place where we did want to go. When I look at families that take active steps to make sure that their kids choose an exact copy of their own spiritual lives, yes, sometimes they are successful, but often those kids bounce even harder off of that hard line, with sometimes tragic and/or ironic results.<br />
<br />
Understanding that children find their own paths regardless of parental desires, Jacob and I would like to do something a little radical and give Esther tools that will increase her chances of success in finding her path. We are not going to tell her that she's Jewish or that she's Christian. We are going to give her Jewish experiences and Christian experiences. We are going to support her when she wants to experiment with wearing a cross necklace to the high holiday services or when she insists on keeping kosher as a teenager and acts disgusted in the presence of the ham on the table. We will insist that she be respectful and engaged but we will not expect her to assume any identity other than the one that feels most authentic to her and this includes experiementation with her aunt's Catholicism, her other aunt's Hinduism or some other religion altogether.<br />
<br />
Like all other things in parenting, we will just try to do our best.<br />
<br />
So, with that philosophy lined out, let me talk a little more directly about our choices for Esther's Jewish practice.<br />
<br />
As far as I can tell (and I've studied a lot), Jewish identity is a three-wheeled bicycle. If there all three aspects are there: fabulous. But you are included by the community is only two are present, as well.<br />
<br />
You can be considered Jewish by your birth or your conversion, by your religious practice and by your cultural trappings.<br />
<br />
Thus, totally secular people are still Jewish if their parents were Jewish and if exhibit certain characteristics which are hard to pin down but most people know them when they see them. A fondness for lox, a certain sense of humor, particular cadences of speech, a story about making out with a girl for the first time at Jewish camp are all popular examples. Remember the classic Seinfeld episode where they were horrified that the dentist had converted possibly just so he could make better jokes.<br />
<br />
Or, if you convert to Judaism and practice religiously, you are part of the in-crowd even if you never speak a word of yiddish.<br />
<br />
It's tougher for culturally Jewish people who are pursuing an active spiritual practice but who don't meet parentage standards and who don't want to convert. My friend's husband is an atheist but shares her Jewish practices with her and has promised to raise their children Jewish but their wedding was not celebrated by their synagogue as joyfully as the two kids who were both born Jews with culturally Jewish identities but who never went to shabbat services and holidays. <br />
<br />
So, if Esther decides that she wants to be accepted by the Jewish community, we want to make sure she has her bona fides. The more orthodox communities will require her to jump through even more hoops, but raising her eating kosher, converting her and surrounding her with other Jewish people who consider her part of their tribe so that she develops some of the cultural markers will go a long way to making that choice easy for her, if she wants to make it.<br />
<br />
If she decides that she wants to identify as Christian, the infrastructure is totally different. Still, for the vast majority of churches, all she needs to do is state that she believes certain things and they have a long history of accepting her regardless of her upbringing. My church and other churches in the emergent movement are working to make more safe spaces for people who believe lots of different things but want to follow Jesus's teachings and to draw upon the Christian tradition of spiritual practice. At one of those churches, bona fides are considered anathema anyway. So, we have been less concerned with making sure the groundwork for being accepted by others as a self-proclaimed Christian. It's the dominant religion of our country and she will learn the appropriate shibboleths without much effort on our part.<br />
<br />
Judaism, as a minority and historically persecuted community, is a little harder to feel like one belongs. I was finally won over to the idea of converting Esther to Judaism<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">
mostly because the rabbi wanted us to. But I agreed with the choice in the end because I
believe the frequenly-asked question, "But you weren't born Jewish, were you?" belies an
insecurity in those who ask it. I think they are really asking, "Are
you safe because you've had the same experiences as a Jew that I have?"
When Esther can reply, "No, but my parents converted me when I was a
baby," she opens a door to these folks to be in relationship with them
because she's really saying, "From my infancy, I have been raised as a
Jew and probably have some common ground with you." Since we want her
to feel at home in the synagogue and the synagogue is full of people who
ask that question, it was the best thing we could do for her.</span><br />
<br /></div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-82300134336468519202012-07-11T16:19:00.002-05:002012-07-16T14:30:45.818-05:00Welcoming an interfaith baby<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On Saturday night, the family we spent the week with in Kansas City treated us to an amazing French dinner at <a href="http://www.cafedesamiskc.com/">Cafe Des Amis</a>, which I cannot recommend enough if you are ever visiting the area.
Because our hosts are friends with the owners, they made several special dishes for my husband's family, including a kosher bouillabaisse that Esther LOVED.<br />
<br />
I, however, had the scallops.<br />
<br />
When I put the first forkful into my mouth, I moaned a little and my sister-in-law laughed, remarking that every dish so far seemed to be a religious experience for me. She was not wrong and I turned to Esther and joked about how sad I was that I would never be able to share the experience of scallops with her.<br />
<br />
But that sacrifice is such a small one to make. There is so much good food that IS kosher plus it is about the only sacrifice like that I will make in raising our interfaith daughter.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Now that her first birthday has passed, I want to document the choices that Jacob and I made for how to welcome Esther into this world in the traditions of our families.<br />
<br />
We began with a Jewish naming ceremony when she was about 2 months old. This Simchat Bat ceremony has been gaining popularity in the last decades as an equivalent to a bris, which happens for a boy on the 8th day after his birth. Thus, there are very few guidelines for how they are structured. Some communities do them during regular Shabbat services but both the bris and the naming that I have attended were intimate ceremonies held in the home of the grandparent, which is slightly more traditional for brises. Since my parents had been willing to host the bris if Esther turned out to be a boy, we followed the same plan for her naming.<br />
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Our rabbi sat down with us before Esther was born and then again after her birth to talk about our intentions for spiritual life and the origins of Esther's name. He leads a congregation of non-denominational folks in an <a href="http://www.mitziut.org/faq.htm" target="_blank">inclusive congregation</a> focused on Jewish spirituality. We gather with them for the holidays and occasionally for Shabbat services in his living room, which lots of folks to whom I describe this to assure me is how every synagogue started. Our rabbi would have co-officiated our wedding but he was busy creating a Jewish community at the <a href="http://www.burningman.com/whatisburningman/" target="_blank">Burning Man</a> festival. If this does not give you enough insight into his persona, I will share that he asked during preparation, "Do I need to wear pants?" which was a humorous question I understood to mean, could he wear his kilt? He wears one daily and actually, he has a glorious three-piece kilt but he didn't want to offend anyone in Jacob's family. I was so glad he wore it.<br />
<br />
<br />
Our rabbi is actually a little bit more inclusive than we are when it comes to ceremonies. He has the luxury to do this because he is all-Jewish and a rabbi. Since we want to keep our spiritual practices separate and distinct, our conversation with Menachem are often about finding a balance between making an event feel authentically Jewish and making an event reflect our spiritual advisor's desire to explore a new Judaism. I love this tension.<br />
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<br />
The service itself involved a procession of the grandparents and each held Esther for some part of the ceremony.<br />
<br />
We said many blessings and our rabbi gave a sermon on the origins of Esther's name, the Torah portion for the week and the Torah portion from the week of her birth. These sources led him to talk about tithing (which is a value Jacob and I share) and the word, "nistar," which is the root of her first name and means hidden and her middle name, which means tree in Hebrew.<br />
<br />
I had asked Menachem if we could give thanks for a healthy delivery and I had meant that he would give thanks and he thought I mean that I would give thanks so I was put a little on the spot with nothing planned and blubbered my way through it. I was still healing on both the physical and emotional level from Esther's <a href="http://www.princessmax.blogspot.com/2012/02/esthers-birth-story.html" target="_blank">birth</a> so I'm OK with being that much of a mess in front of the people I love.<br />
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<br />
We also totally forgot to bring the cash for Esther's first tithe of her gift money to the <a href="http://www.ounceofprevention.org/" target="_blank">Ounce of Prevention Fund</a> so had to wing that part of the ceremony, as well. This is the story of our lives, isn't it?<br />
<br />
Also, we had the timing a little off for Esther's sleep cycles and so she screamed through the entire thing.<br />
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<br />
But people were so loving and the food was amazing. It was exactly what I wanted to say to the world -and to her when she got older- that this child was welcome in the Jewish community, which is theology that I have come to believe is true through a lot of studying. Actually, we liked her name because it would help her fit in at a synagogue, as well as a church. I try to explain this with many more words all the time and Jacob cuts in and says, "We named her after a strong woman in the Bible." That's true to and so much more succinct, don't you think?<br />
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<br />
When we discussed a possible bris if the baby had been a boy, our rabbi expressed that he would be happy to do it and his conversations with his favorite mohel indicated that it would be fine to perform a conversion when the child was a little bit older and able to handle full immersion in water. Earlier in my marriage, I would have bristled at this implied statement that the baby would not already be considered Jewish. Didn't this non-denominational guy know that the Reform movement has recognized <a href="http://joi.org/bloglinks/Twenty%20five%20years%20of%20patrilineal%20descent.html" target="_blank">patrilineal descent</a> for 25 years? But maybe pregnancy mellowed me or maybe marriage had, but in that moment sitting at an outside table at Cafe Sel Marie, the condition of conversion didn't raise a single hackle. I trusted our spiritual advisor and was willing to follow his understanding of what was necessary.<br />
<br />
So, when Esther was 11 months old, we had her formally converted by meeting with a beit din, a jury of three Jews, who asked us questions about our intent and then went through the immersion in the mikvah, which is a ritual bath that is maintained to strict kosher standards. The make-up of the beit din was a compromise with the rabbi. He believes that Jews should go back to the scriptural requirement that only specifies that the jury be made up of Jewish people. We wanted to observe the current custom of having Jewish clergy, again so that Esther would later know that we had observed all of the customs on her behalf if she chose to identify as Jewish. However, as the rabbi said, "Since I'm not Orthodox, Israel won't recognize this conversion and if she want to marry a hasidic man someday, God forbid, she'll need to be re-converted anyway." So, our beit din was made of our rabbi, a mohel (who is also a cantor) and one of Jacob's friends. It was just coincidence that they were all dudes. The mikvah lady explained that immersion marks a time in one's life between who you were before something important happens and who you are after. People visit the mikvah before their marriages, before trips to Israel and Orthodox women go after their periods are over every month. What Christians call Jesus's baptism was actually a mikvah and it was only after Christianity was established as a separate religion that it was seen as what we now call baptism.<br />
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Jacob acted as a divine surrogate for Esther and showered, brushed his teeth, cleaned under his nails and took out his contacts to be sure that nothing would come between him and the spirit of God, represented by the water. He put on paper slippers so that he wouldn't pick up any dirt between the shower and the pool.<br />
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While that was happening, I undressed Esther and handed her to him when he came out. They stepped down into the pool and the doors above it were opened to the beit din and Jacob's mother so that they could witness.<br />
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Esther screamed the whole time. I have no explanation for why since we took swim lessons and she loves the water. (By the way, the swim lessons were totally for my comfort level in watching someone dunk my baby.)<br />
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Jacob whispered a blessing in her ear from both of us, read a special blessing for the immersion from a card on the wall and we all said a shehecheyanu, which thanks God that we have lived long enough to see a special event.<br />
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Afterwards, the was much joyful kibbitzing while Jacob dressed and our beit din signed Esther's certificate of conversion and naming. I created my own certificate since all of the ones I could buy were aimed at female adult converts. (Boo to that truth revealed through capitalism.) I hope to frame it with pictures of the event for Esther's wall. For reference, if you are considering a similar ceremony, here is the text of her certificate. The rabbi also wrote in her Hebrew name to reflect her earlier Simchat Bat.<br />
<blockquote>
This is to certify that Esther Alanna has been dedicated to live by the principals, values and practices of Judaism. She has fulfilled the Mitzvah of Tevilah and we, the undersigned, have found her family to be of sincere intention. We do hereby accept and welcome her into the Covenant of the Jewish people on May 23, 2012 and the corresponding Hebrew date, the 2nd of Sivan, 5772, in the community of Wilmette, IL. </blockquote>
A week later, we had Esther blessed during the regular Sunday service of our church. We considered baptism and attended a joint naming and blessing for our friend's baby facilitated by the <a href="http://www.theinterfaithunion.org/theinterfaithunion-chicago-baby-naming-baptism.htm" target="_blank">Interfaith Union</a> but found that individual ceremonies reflected our spiritual life better, in addition to being more comfortable for many members of our families, who are still getting used to our inter-faithness. I made Esther a bonnet out of the same fabric from my wedding dress to mark the occasion.<br />
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Our <a href="http://www.gracecommons.net/" target="_blank">Christian congregation</a> is founded on inclusion of people with any beliefs to participate with us as we explore Christianity and how to live out the teachings of Jesus. Our pastor and I worked together to create a liturgy that would make everyone present feel like an insider, even if they weren't Christian. <br />
<br />
The portion of the service with the blessing took my denomination's traditional elements and tweaked them a little. Esther was introduced by a member of the Leadership Co-op, questions of commitment were asked of us as her parents and as a congregation, she was prayed over by the pastor and her hands were anointed with oil.<br />
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We asked people to write blessings on fabric and I was so pleased that every single person in attendance did so, many of them stepping outside of their comfort zones to do so. We displayed the wedding quilt that I made from squares contributed by guests and this might have helped people participate since they could see an end result. <br />
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We applauded for her and she tucked her head in pleasure at the sound. <br />
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Then, anyone was invited forward to have their own baptism remembered by having their foreheads anointed or to have their hands anointed like Esther's if they had never been baptized.<br />
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We sang many songs, including my request of "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing."<br />
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I have the bulletin in PDF form if anyone is interested, but this text represents the flavor of the liturgy:<br />
<blockquote>
Jacob and Rebecca plan to continue practicing both of their religions as a family, encouraging Esther to participate as she is able so that as she grows and discovers her own with relationship to God, she will have the spiritual resources of both communities available to her to determine her own identity and the practice that brings her closest to God. Although infant baptism is part of Rebecca's religious heritage, out of respect for Jewish customs and laws that Esther may one day value, her parents have decided to let Esther choose that step for herself in the future, if it seems right to her. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
Today, we welcome Esther into a gathered community of Christians to ceremonially declare that she -like all of us- is loved by God simply because she exists. Recognizing this helps us to remember that God also loves us simply because we exist and not for anything we do or do not do, can or cannot accomplish. God's love is unconditional. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
We also gather today to promise that we will teach Esther about our own experiences with God, however God has manifested Godself to us. This storytelling and sharing of our own lives and experiences will give Esther not just words, but inspiration and guidance that will shape her life.</blockquote>
I had to negotiate a little bit with my pastor for this, as well. She has been part of a national committee of the denomination that is learning from rabbis about how to live together in the world and they said that one of the ways to be respectful was to stop baptizing their babies.<br />
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And apparently, I'd been having these very sophisticated discussions with all sorts of people about how our family is an interfaith family but I had failed to explain it sufficiently to my pastor. She had been thinking that we were raising her as a Jewish kid in a house that celebrates Christianity, as well.<br />
<br />
So, when we were still considering baptizing her as part of my tradition's way of welcoming her into the community (rather than for conversion or as a ticket to heaven, which are problematic rationale in the history of Jewish-Christian relationships), she was very uncomfortable with the idea. Symbolic acts are powerful for a reason, after all.<br />
<br />
So, over the course of those conversations, I convinced her that Esther is like a bi-racial kid and when she asks, "No wait, what am I: Jewish or Christian?" we will answer with a third option. Hopefully, we will have done the hard work to make sure she feels at home in each community, rather than an outsider in both. It's the best we can do.<br />
<br />
And over the course of those conversations, she convinced us that blessing Esther would accomplish better things spiritually for our family than a baptism would.<br />
<br />
So, it was a lot like the scallops. In a perfect world, it would be nice if I could share that experience with her. But she probably won't miss it much since there are so many other good experiences that we will share.<br />
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After the ceremony, we shared a potluck meal, like my community always does. My mom brought a ham because -much like we want our Jewish experiences to be authentically Jewish- we wanted this Christian ceremony to be comfortable being totally Christian.<br />
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As I ate my ham sandwich, I reflected on how powerful it had been for me to be asked, "Rebecca, do you promise to live following the example of Jesus, to renounce the powers of evil in the world and to teach Esther the life and Way of Jesus?" This is a standard question for rituals in my denomination and I have answered it before. This time, I was surprised at how important this ritual had been to my personal practice: to my own relationship with God.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Esther contributes to the communion liturgy. This is my favorite picture of my fierce daughter.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It was a powerful thing to dedicate my own daughter to the rhythms of my own spiritual life. It is what Christians do and what I have watched Christian parents do my whole life. My own parents had done it for me. I was brought closer to God by doing it.<br />
<br />
I had been so focused on what was best for Esther and my marriage that I hadn't even thought about what was best for me. What a surprise to find that what's good for those two turned out to be the best thing for me, as well.</div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-3148879954466389392012-06-13T09:27:00.004-05:002012-06-13T09:27:57.252-05:00Work! Turn to the left. Work! Turn to the right.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have a confession to make.<br />
<br />
I have been holding out on you.<br />
<br />
I have been having adventures that I haven't shared with you.<br />
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For instance, I have become a Stage Mom.<br />
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I'll give you a minute to let that sink in.<br />
<br />
Ok, I'm back.<br />
<br />
You see, enough people told me that Esther was just like the Gerber baby that I began to think that they might have a point. The tipping point was when the dermatologist that my family has been seeing for 35 years insisted that she could make money as a model.<br />
<br />
So, money AND an adventure into a culture that I have not experienced before?<br />
<br />
Yes please.<br />
<br />
So, I began somewhat half-heartedly doing some internet research and sending her pictures to the agencies that seemed to have fancier websites.<br />
<br />
We got an immediate response from a company that turned out to be a scam. Of course, I didn't look it up on Yelp before we drove 45 minutes both ways on a Saturday morning and save myself the trouble. However, I am pretty proud of myself for going with my gut that although I expected talents agents to be a little skeezy, these guys were too skeezy. On the way home, I also puzzled out that I didn't really respect a business model that couldn't make enough money off the percentage they would make. I used my University of Chicago-honed economic analysis skills to realize that they had to incentive to actually find us work if they made a big chunk from me up-front.<br />
<br />
Apparently, my research had not turned up the old chestnut that you should NEVER pay up front for any kind of representation.<br />
<br />
Yup, that's me there: with the fancy degrees?<br />
<br />
It was another 2 months before I heard back from anyone else. Then, it was the last agency that I expected would go for us. Seriously, this is a direct quote from their website: "Quickly the news spread amongst the soccer moms of Chicago's suburbia. . ."<br />
<br />
You might need another minute to compose yourself.<br />
<br />
(At this point I need to clarify in case our agency is reading this, the joke is that I am the last person my readers would expect to be chosen by an agency who normally appeals to soccer moms. And that is not disrespect to suburbanites. I totally tried to be that and failed abysmally. So, I am - without sarcasm - excited to be part of your group.) <br />
<br />
So, of course, I let the call go to voice mail since it was an unknown caller and then promptly forgot it was there and didn't listen to it until 3 days later. What I DID pick up from my internet research is that you have to be super-available to talent agencies. So, I had already failed my daughter by not returning their call immediately. I was amazed at how anxious this made me. I called the next morning 4 times before their office actually opened. When I spoke to the nice woman on the phone, she gave me a date and time in six weeks. I was sure the lag was punishment for my slow response.<br />
<br />
The morning of our audition, I tried to keep Esther's schedule totally normal, which would result in her napping and waking up just in time to leave. Of course, she had other plans. So, we hauled ourselves into the soft industry warehouse loft offices groggy with no nap.<br />
<br />
It turned out that it was a group audition and we were directed into a well-lit waiting room with white and chrome eames-style chairs around the perimeter of the room. On the way up, the elevator had so much cuteness in it that I definitely feared it would exceed capacity and we would all plunge to our fiery deaths. A man was waiting to take the elevator back down with an empty stroller and warned us that strollers weren't allowed in the office.<br />
<br />
Duh. That was clearly stated in the confirmation email. Did they really not read it or did they just think it didn't apply to them?<br />
<br />
I'm a fanatical rule-follower. (Did I ever tell you about the time when I was waiting for a ferry and watched tourists decide that the "Wait here to embark" sign didn't apply to them? I watched the other tourists fight conflicting herd instincts: do I obey the sign or follow the others? Since I was a native, I knew to obey the sign and got to feel smug when the crew ordered the folks back up the hill. Rule-following always pays off. Except when it doesn't. But don't ask me how to tell the difference.)<br />
<br />
I assume that the guy had been early enough to be warned. I have no idea if it was a coincidence that the other two families that brought strollers were both sent home without contracts. However,you weren't supposed to bring more than one child per adult or be late and all of the families that broke those rules passed the audition. So confusing when rule-following isn't consistently rewarded. And when things like merit actually could for something.<br />
<br />
So, everything about the audition experience, from the email full of rules to the waiting room that we were asked not to wander out of when comforting crying infants to the attitudes of the employees seemed to be designed to communicate that they had all the power and, as the "talent," we were in a position of supplication. They did not need us; we needed them.<br />
<br />
This totally makes sense and I was prepared for it. No one was mean and if it makes their life easier, then I can play by their rules. I don't need their affirmation to feel good about myself.<br />
<br />
But that is certainly interesting when thinking about most stage parents, isn't it? I spent a year teaching kids in three different theatrical productions and I have to say that their parents totally fit the stereotype. The only one who handled it well was a child of a successful 60s musician and had been on tour herself as a teenager. Again, she had enough self-confidence that she didn't need her daughter to get it for her.<br />
<br />
But as they took the kids one by one into another room to see how they would respond to strangers, I admit that I felt nervous and actually asked one of the other parents if it had taken this long with the other kids that had gone before. Here's hoping that little bit of visceral sympathy with those parents of my students keeps me centered and hospitable to the parents of Esther's peers.<br />
<br />
There were 10-12 families there at the same time we were and the agency had scheduled several other appointments like this throughout the day. From their identity signals (clothes, haircuts, etc.), most were upper middle class status-y types with one pageant mom and one young working class family. Only one other family seemed like me by being dressed in casual clothes that were practical rather than expensive.<br />
<br />
In the past, I would have archly described these characters, hoping to sound a little like David Sedaris, and many of you would have laughed along with me, loving that God made a world where people have idiosyncrasies. This is not that post, somewhat because I don't have time to do it right and partly because I'm feeling a little tender toward those folks.<br />
<br />
I have only told a few people about this adventure and when I do, it's with a little bit of embarrassment and a lot of self-mockery. I mean, many of the posts on this blog are as good a testament as any to my desire to live a life of meaning and passion for the things that God loves. And here I am feeding the capitalist, materialist monster because my daughter gets a better billable rate than I do? <br />
<br />
But I have never been led astray by the heuristic of asking the question, "Will this make a good story?" God is in every workplace and I will not belittle folks who are called to fields other than fields of service by saying that I am supposed to be taking a nobler path. Making my life into a good story has always moved me toward God, even if sometimes I feel more like Jonah or Hosea than like Sarah or Rachel.<br />
<br />
Back to the story at hand, each family was either asked to wait until after the audition to fill out necessary paperwork or to resubmit new photos in 3-6 months because their child wasn't ready yet. I thought this was supremely well-done diplomacy and made me comfortable with the prospect of working for them. Five families, including us, were asked to stay. No one had a meltdown when their kid wasn't chosen and no one was weirdly triumphant.<br />
<br />
We were offered the chance to pay for a special workshop, pay for an upgraded online account and pay for a portfolio but no one implied that we would get less work without paying for those things. In fact, children under 3 years old don't even need professional head shots since they change so quickly. (Esther's comp card is the image above.) So, all I needed to do was create a couple of online profiles, print out comp cards and get a work permit, which required a trip to the Board of Education, finally getting a copy of her birth certificate and a note from her doctor. The work permit experience heightened my sense of ridiculousness to new levels.<br />
<br />
And then we waited. A month after officially becoming clients of our talent agency, I got a call. I had even made the effort to run across the house to get it before it went to voice mail without knowing who was calling, which is unheard of for me. So, today, we will drive out to Roselle, with an armful of Christmas-style clothing, and have our photo shoot with a slew of other children whose names are all prominently monogrammed on personalized items in the Land of Nod catalog. Like the audition, though, one family might be similar to us because their daughter has Esther's middle name, with the same spelling. Since we got that name from the character in a young adult fantasy novel, there is hope we won't be the odd ones out. Still, hospitality is my main spiritual practice so I will try to move myself out of my comfort zone with the other parents to befriend them.<br />
<br />
I'll let you know how it goes.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-73135757260986011542012-05-19T13:27:00.004-05:002012-05-21T07:22:27.679-05:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A few people have now asked me what I think of the Time magazine cover. That's how they say it: "the Time magazine cover." They know that I know what they are talking about. Apparently folks think that I will have an opinion.<br />
<br />
Let's start with the facts. The kid is 3 but his 4th birthday is in June. The mom is 26 and she was breastfeed until she was 6.
(Let me know if I have any of that wrong; I didn't read the article but no one is talking about the article, only the cover.)<br />
<br />
Now, what do I think? I think it is totally fine if Mom wants to breastfeed her kids for as long as they are interested. Yes, even if they are in 2nd grade.
Because, you see, they are not my kids. So unless she is undeniably hurting them, I don't get to have a say in the matter.<br />
<br />
Some folks have argued with me that she is hurting them, usually claiming that the other kids will make fun of the boy once he is older.<br />
<br />
1. Kids will always find something to pick on another kid for. Letting 8-year-old assholes influence your parenting choices is a terrible idea.<br />
2. This mom in particular was breastfed in a similar way so she knows a little bit more than most people what it's like to have grown up with that experience.<br />
3. They are not the only family to be doing this; this kid will have plenty of peers.<br />
<br />
I have yet to hear an argument that there are psychological or physical harms being caused that is anything other than: "It just seems unnatural." So glad we're using scientific standards for health and not letting our socially imposed sense of what's "icky" guide how we treat people. Also, let's think about the childhood experience and think about how many other unnatural things are acceptable. Sour Patch Kids, anyone? <br />
<br />
We also cannot know what good this might do for their family. The world is a scary place to raise kids in. Predators, the attractiveness of violent video games and Internet porn, bullies both IRL and online, hard drugs available in the suburbs, sexting, "juicy" clothes for 2-year-olds and abusive teachers, coaches and caregivers are just a handful of influences that parents feel helpless to 100% protect their children from. It can make us edgy and fearful, which leads to parenting choices that are actually bad. If extending the intimacy of nursing into toddlerhood helps a parent to feel more secure that she has done everything in her power to protect his innocence, who am I to tell her she's wrong?<br />
<br />
Finally, let's please notice that Time is doing what the media does: it tries to sell audiences to advertisers by generating controversy, even if that controversy is bad for society as a whole.
The headline, "Are you mom enough?" is insulting. Parenting should not be a competition. Who benefits from that? Trying to keep pace or pass up other parents takes our eyes off the real goal, which is healthy, happy children. As with any attempt to measure the ineffable, we start doing things that increase our scores without actually increasing our success.<br />
<br />
Unless she is extremely damaged, every mom is mom enough. I have not met a parent yet who has said to herself, "You know what, I'm only going to do a half-assed job raising my kids."
We are all doing the best we can and all of us come up short.<br />
<br />
And I have to say, it's become pretty clear to me that there is very little correlation between parents I would judge to be good parents and how well their kids turn out and parents I judge to be bad parents and how well their kids turned out. Don't you know amazing adults who had shitty parents? Don't you know assholes that are breaking their parents' hearts with the choices they make?<br />
<br />
All we can do in the face of that is the best we can. And when we know better, we do better, to paraphrase Maya Angelou.<br />
<br />
So, acting like people who are doing their best have earned our scorn because we wouldn't make the same choices their making? Not cool. And let me be clear, I am going away for 4 days in two weeks and Esther will be weaned by the time I get back so I definitely would not make the choice the cover mom is making right now in my life. But it would be astounding hubris for me to declare there would never be a circumstance in which I would not make that choice. Remember that if you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans, right?<br />
<br />
Giving people the benefit of the doubt? That's the same grace that God extends to us. That's the mercy that helps us move us all forward even we should be paralyzed by past mistakes. That's what will bring about peace for our children.<br />
<br />
Time magazine can suck it for trying to stick a wedge between me and another parent. Between your child and that mom's child. These are the kinds of differences that we are striving to overcome when we sing camp songs and celebrate multi-cultural week by eating tacos and naan. Because different cultures are not solely created by geography and politics.<br />
<br />
Time can also suck it for their predictable gendering of the situation and for their predictable choice of a pretty, young, thin, blonde woman as cover model. Expounding on those opinions here will probably wear us all out, though. But let me say that men make parenting choices, too; and people of color, older moms and moms who do not fit the unrealistic standard of beauty our society insists upon can also be paragons of parenting. I know that sounds a little bit like the old joke about the wedding where the food was terrible and the portions were too small but I think that shit needs to be called out whenever possible.<br />
<br />
Parents are amazing. It's a waste of time to nitpick about how we disagree about parenting. Outside of a close relationship with the parent, judgement will only gunk up the gears of our society because it's not going to change how the choices that parent makes and might prevent other parents and future parents from trusting their own instincts. Is there any benefit to a parent who parents hesitantly?<br />
<br />
In conclusion, support each other. Support each other. Support each other.
And, Time can suck it.</div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-54473536802483220962012-05-09T09:26:00.001-05:002012-05-09T09:26:14.872-05:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Since this blog was named 8 years ago as an allusion to Maurice Sendak's most famous book, I want to take a moment and honor his passing. I heard this anecdote on NPR awhile ago and I repeat it all the time. God is great to create artists like Mr. Sendak and to create cranky old men, as well. If you haven't watched the Colbert Report interview or listened to the Fresh Air interview, I suggest you take some time this week to do so.</div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-80272358489656479932012-03-08T21:19:00.000-06:002012-03-08T21:19:41.192-06:00But my best friend is Jewish so it's OK that I said that.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Jacob and I have fought manymany times about some joke I made that I thought was pretty funny that turned out to be more than a little bit offensive according to most Jewish people.<br />
<br />
Now, let's be clear, sometimes when we fight, it turns out that Jacob was being over-sensitive and my joke would be fine in all but the most conservative of gatherings. However, often, like say 90% of the time, it turns out that I shouldn't have made the joke. Like, really. I have made some huge mistakes.<br />
<br />
So, I'm admitting up front that my learning curve has been and continues to be steep. STEEP. And, like Louis C.K. says below, it can be tricky knowing what is and isn't OK.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" height="340" style="background-color: whitesmoke; color: #333333; font: 11px arial; width: 512px;"><tbody>
<tr style="background-color: #e5e5e5;" valign="middle"><td style="padding: 2px 1px 0px 5px;"><a href="http://www.jokes.com/" style="color: #333333; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Jokes.com</a></td><td style="font-weight: bold; padding: 2px 5px 0px 5px; text-align: right;"></td></tr>
<tr style="height: 14px;" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding: 2px 1px 0px 5px;"><a href="http://comedians.comedycentral.com/louis-c-k-/videos/dvd-exclusive---louis-c-k-----jew--is-a-funny-word" style="color: #333333; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">DVD Exclusive - Louis C.K. - "Jew" Is a Funny Word</a></td></tr>
<tr style="background-color: #353535; height: 14px;" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="overflow: hidden; padding: 2px 5px 0px 5px; text-align: right; width: 512px;"><a href="http://comedians.comedycentral.com/" style="color: #96deff; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">comedians.comedycentral.com</a></td></tr>
<tr valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding: 0px;"><embed allowfullscreen="true" allownetworking="all" allowscriptaccess="always" bgcolor="#000000" flashvars="autoPlay=false" height="288" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:cms:item:comedycentral.com:370265" style="display: block;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" wmode="window"></embed> <embed allowfullscreen="true" allownetworking="all" allowscriptaccess="always" bgcolor="#000000" flashvars="autoPlay=false" height="288" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:cms:item:comedycentral.com:370265" style="display: block;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" wmode="window"></embed> </td></tr>
<tr style="height: 18px;" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" height="100%" style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr valign="middle"><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a href="http://comedians.jokes.com/louis-c-k-" style="color: #333333; font: 10px arial; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Louis C.K.</a></td><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a href="http://comedians.jokes.com/" style="color: #333333; font: 10px arial; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Comedians</a></td><td style="padding: 3px; width: 33%;"><a href="http://comedians.jokes.com/" style="color: #333333; font: 10px arial; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Stand-Up</a></td></tr>
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But I have been thinking about allies lately. Allies work to re-establish God's shalom in the world by speaking on behalf of marginalized folks because they will take relatively less social, financial and physical damage for saying the unpopular thing than the person at the receiving end of the injustice would.<br />
<br />
I have a friend who was in a situation where no ally stood up for her. She is amazing because she's trying to figure out how to become the ally she wished for on behalf of other young people like herself who haven't achieved her level of confidence yet. She's letting me help her brainstorm how to do this.<br />
<br />
While I have been thinking about allies, <a href="http://www.interfaithfamily.com/holidays/shabbat_and_other_holidays/Purim_and_Intermarriage.shtml#.T1YrWtuRvOQ.facebook" target="_blank">this article</a> from InterfaithFamily.com came across my screen about Purim, which is the story of Esther, who was in a position to help the Jewish people because she was married to a non-Jew. The rabbi writes about other ways that intermarriage might be good for the Jewish community as a people, saying, "Perhaps in all the intermarriages that are happening today, we are acquiring allies for the Jewish people. Perhaps we now have hundreds of thousands of non-Jews who are also committed to the survival of the Jewish people, its customs and teachings, and to raising Jewish children. "<br />
<br />
Interestingly, I had just acted as an ally in a way that I would not have before Jacob started teaching me about anti-semitism and before Esther's birth caused me to <a href="http://www.princessmax.blogspot.com/2011/08/raisins-and-almonds.html" target="_blank">start seeing the world </a>through her eyes. I clicked through a Facebook post to <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/phil-shepherd/god-hates-who_b_1310551.html" target="_blank">an interview</a> in the Huffington Post that was about a guy who kept his homosexuality in the closet while he worked as a high-level producer in Christian TV, which is for the most-part anti-gay. The tone of the piece was edgy, funny and just a little bit fabulous. Then, the interview subject signed off saying, "Transformation of any kind will only come from being in a relationship with [Jesus] - and if there is anything he wants you to change, HE will let you know. I mean, he is Jewish, remember!"<br />
<br />
Four years ago, I would have thought nothing of that. Today, it struck me as weird that a Jewish joke would conclude an article about homosexuality and Christianity. It's mostly just out of place. It also made me uncomfortable because the humor in the rest of the piece was mostly self-deprecatory jokes about gay people or conservative Christians, both of which came across fine since either the interviewer or the subject belonged to those communities in some way or another. Since neither claimed Judaism, I realized that the joke was offensive.<br />
<br />
How?<br />
<br />
The premise of the joke says that BECAUSE Jesus is Jewish THEN something is true. If the joke said that BECAUSE someone was black, THEN something is true, we would see the racism immediately. The only way for that logic to scan properly is if that thing is true for every person of that community to possess the characteristic and that's always a stereotype.<br />
<br />
Whether they are negative or positive, putting stereotypes into print adds to the weight of that stereotype, which hurts members of the stereotyped group, since they don't get known as individuals, as well as keeping the stereotyper bound by his or her own ignorance.<br />
<br />
Without debating it too much in my own head, I called out the anti-semitism in a comment on the Facebook post and a little later, I sent a message to the interviewer to open a dialogue. He was really gracious and very willing to listen to my perspective and acknowledge my points. As a Christian, I spoke from my safe position as family to another Christian about how he was inadvertently hurting the Jewish people. I acted as an ally, just like the rabbi on interfaithfamily.com wrote about.<br />
<br />
As I was explaining my perspective to the author, I realized that this is a joke I have seen before. Mainstream Christians have a funny relationship with Judaism. Almost all of us are well past blaming the Jews for Jesus' death (because it's not true) and more and more, people are studying the historical context of our scriptures, which necessarily means studying Judaism, at least of the ancient sort.<br />
<br />
And that's where the problem comes in. Starting with the bumper stickers declaring that our boss is a Jewish carpenter, Christians claim intimacy and familiarity with Judaism because our roots are there. Unfortunately, too often we conveniently forget that in 2,000 years, Judaism has changed quite a bit from what we read about in Acts, much of it as a result of persecution by Christians. Our knowledge of ancient Judaism does not translate automatically to knowledge of modern-day Jews. This means that our knowledge of modern-day Jews is most often supplied by pop culture, which is still largely informed by deliberately intentional negative propaganda against Jews. Even the humorous self-loathing of people like Woody Allen is SELF-loathing and not to be appropriated by folks outside of the tribe. I know it sometimes doesn't seem fair that Black people get to use the n-word and white folks don't but really, do you want to use it that much? Isn't our sense of unfairness just based in a desire not to be bound in any way?<br />
<br />
Also, as strange as this sounds, we often forget that Jewish people don't read Old Testament scripture (also, think about the solipsism involved in that nomenclature) believing that the prophecies are referring to Jesus. Remember the movie Clue? When it first came out in theaters, different theaters ran different solutions to the mystery and it wasn't until it came out on VHS that people could see all three endings.<br />
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The end of the story for Jews is different than the end of the story for Christians and that changes how we interpret the beginning and middle of the story.<br />
<br />
So, we don't realize that it is insulting to host a Passover seder and talk about how Jesus was foreshadowed as the paschal lamb, whose blood was painted over the doorframe. It's like adding salt to the wound of 2000 years of persecution to then take one of their most sacred celebrations and twist it to reflect our own beliefs. Yes, the past 30 years have been a relatively safe time for Jews all over the world but 30 years isn't very long in the memory of people that are over 3,500 years old. Judaism teaches continuity and a sense of belonging to the tribe that is not necessarily a part of Christian culture. Our emphasis on a personal revelation of our individual relationship with God de-emphasizes our sense of belonging to community. It's not gone - many of us are certainly aware of the Church or of being brothers and sisters in Christ - but trust me that it is not nearly as intense a sense of global belonging as being Jewish feels for even the most secular members of the diaspora. These are, of course, sweeping generalizations and I recognize the irony of making them in a post that began with condemning humor based on stereotypes. Still, the naivete I encounter of so many Christians seems to necessitate that I start with the basics.<br />
<br />
There are very few Christians who are anti-semitic as an identity. Please don't think that. However, even non-bigoted people make both unintentional or deliberate decisions that are reflective of larger forces that hurt folks in minority populations. (<i>Actually, there is a whole sub-set of evangelical Christians who are <a href="http://www.city-journal.org/2008/18_1_evangelicals.html" target="_blank">dispensationalists</a> and support Israel somewhat blindly based on their belief that Jesus won't come again to take them to Heaven while leaving the rest of us behind until the Jews are all back in Israel. Seriously. That's a whole different kind of objectification that's too gross to talk about in this one post.</i>)<br />
<br />
So, I am excited by my new-found role as a non-Jewish ally. I don't want a world where my interfaith daughter feels like half of her people are willing to throw the other half of her people under the bus for the sake of a good joke. I'll try to share some of these adventures as we go along. </div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-87225533653332624432012-02-07T17:26:00.001-06:002012-02-07T17:27:37.931-06:00Esther's Birth Story: it's a long one<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbRgzMfWr4XuEYPkiufEf_N1NjnygfwO2KTOfvDhwEfZnY2f5UCLFVZeHwXDf8vqMbLFaUzAVtzyl6ovWsDCpGPiQBC7w9kjZLiiNJZ5U9Qp4NXDcZYfB1uz47YaSAUU_Zxo1wg/s1600/CIMG1373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbRgzMfWr4XuEYPkiufEf_N1NjnygfwO2KTOfvDhwEfZnY2f5UCLFVZeHwXDf8vqMbLFaUzAVtzyl6ovWsDCpGPiQBC7w9kjZLiiNJZ5U9Qp4NXDcZYfB1uz47YaSAUU_Zxo1wg/s320/CIMG1373.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.28117588358385626" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">On Wednesday evening, the 15th of June, I began to feel pressure in my belly that I recognized as labor, although I couldn't tell you what it was that made me certain. Still, since I wanted Jacob to get a full night's sleep, I kept my suspicions to myself and we kissed each other before heading off to our separate beds for the night. I woke up periodically, smiling and checking the clock, sleepily calculating that I was having 3 or 4 contractions an hour. In the morning, I went to Jacob and told him that he needed to call in to work because I was probably going to have this baby today. Then, I called my best friend, Susan, who lives three hours away. I told her that when she got close to Chicago, she should call to find out whether we were still laboring at home or whether she should meet us at this hospital. She was very excited and since it is part of her core nature to be excitable, I was happy that it was such a scattered conversation.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I called the midwives just to let them know to expect me at some point and they were also excited. My midwives always make me feel like a rockstar. Then, as Jacob got on the computer to pass off his work projects and go on paternity leave, I called my younger brother Daniel and my parents, basically crowing that Grandma was going to love me best because my baby was going to be born on her birthday.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Yeah. These things have a tendency of biting one on the ass.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It was a gorgeous Chicago summer day. Not very hot at all and brilliantly sunny. Jacob and I went for a walk and then settled down to labor in the house. Contractions were between 7 minutes and 13 minutes apart and, although painful, they didn't quite take my breath away yet.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Susan called from the hospital, asking where we were because it turns out that in her excitement at receiving my phone call, she forgot our previous conversations about laboring at home and didn't really listen to the current conversation with my instructions to call when she got close. Her adventures at the hospital would make for an essay all it's own.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We labored together some more. Susan brought ice cream at my request. We gleefully picked out episodes of Firefly and Buffy to watch and reveled in the strength of those women. Contractions continued to be about 7 and 13 minutes apart.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We moved into the evening and Jacob and I had a fight about something. I remember saying tearfully, "We are not going to fix that part of our relationship right now! That's going to have to wait until after the baby is born." He went for a walk and I told Susan that if he pulled that shit in the delivery room, she should kick him out. Looking back, I'm not sure who was right in that situation or even what the issue was. The anecdote illustrates for me that my mindset was still set in early labor mode. I knew that I was still having it pretty easy and that there would come a time when I would have to focus everything on the baby.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We realized that we should probably go to bed rather than waiting up for active labor to start. To be honest, I can't remember who slept where. Did Susan go on the couch? Did Jacob come back to the marriage bed so she could have the guest room? I think I remember verbally directing her to clean sheets with a sense of comfort that we had that kind of friendship. Actually, now that i'm reconstructing it in my mind, we went into the hospital to get an Ambien at the suggestion of the midwife before we went to bed. That helped for a few hours but otherwise it was just short naps between contractions. While we were in the hospital with the midwife, she swept my membranes but said I was a little less than 2 centimeters but most of the way effaced. This was about the 24 hour mark.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This is where things start to get really fuzzy in my mind, where I wish I had an easier delivery so that my recovery would have been faster and I could have written this down while it was still fresh. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I think I called into the midwives on Friday morning, just to check in since my contractions were still 7-13 minutes apart. I think I talked to Gina, who always gave me a hug after every check-up. She told me to stop timing the contractions, to treat myself gently and to do things that were relaxing, like taking a bath. She said that vigorous activity to speed things along would be counter-productive. I think I cried a little in relief when she said this.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So, as much as I can remember, I spent the day eating ice cream and watching TV. My brother, his wife and his daughter came over to keep us company and we went on a walk. (This may have happened on Thursday, though.). We walked to the nearby dog park and back and I watched Susan charm my 14-month-old niece. Shashi communicates quite clearly with gestures and at one point when Susan and I were trailing behind the pack, she turned around and patted the ground while looking right at Susan. My sister-in-law explained that she did the same thing when she wanted the dog to come to her. A rare honor bestowed upon Susan.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Contractions continued as before. When walking, I would stop and lean on something. When home, I think I grunted a little at the peak of the waves. I know we ordered in a lot of food throughout the laboring and that I ate some of it. At bedtime, I took anoth Ambien but this one did no good. Again, I can't really remember where we all spent the night. Bedtime marked 2days of labor.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I can't tell you anything at all about Saturday. Trying to write out this timeline is actually making me realize it was much more grueling than I acknowledge when I tell people how long it took. Usually, I laugh and make empathetic noises when other people express shock. But no. Really. It seriously sucked.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I just asked Jacob if my mom came to visit while were laboring at home and he said, "Oof, you'd have to ask Susan that." In consultation, we think maybe she did come by. Before I went into labor, my dad specifically requested that I not have the baby on Saturday since he had been invited to play golf at his favorite course and he didn't want to have to cancel. Little did when know when laughing about this together how it would actually play out.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">On Saturday evening, we were watching the new BBC Sherlock Holmes. When I went back to watch them again later, many visuals were familiar but I couldn't remember the plot at all. I think is shows my mental state pretty well. I was absolutely present in the moments without any sense of narrative: past and future.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As we watched, I began to feel like I had gas that I couldn't pass. Evil, malicious gas. I know there was a lot of loud groaning and I kneeled on the couch with my ass in the air trying to pass it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When Jacob suggested that he go down to the Walgreens and get an enema for me, I actually considered it. In a final triumph of squeamishness, I said, "Let's call the midwife first." In retrospect, I can hear her laughing when I earnestly described the terrible gas that was filling my pelvis. To her credit, I felt nothing but grateful relief that she was taking the decision out of my hands when she suggested that I come back in for evaluation first. And if she had actually good-naturedly laughed at my naïveté that could not equate pain in my lower abdomen with a baby moving down, I would have felt embarrassed. Since I wasn't, she was probably very kind. Anyway, since we had been stuck in this fugue state of 7-13 minutes contractions with almost no sleep, I think we all kind of forgot that things would progress eventually.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The drive to the hospital is only 15 minutes. It was brutal. The meanmean gas made every tiny bump feel gigantic and I believe that I fantasized out loud in a demanding way about the features of the next car that we buy so I would not have to experience this gauntlet of a journey again.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My midwife was so good to me once we got to the hospital. In general, I loved all 8 midwives in our practice during our pre-natal check-ups because they gave me information to make my decisions and then supported my decision. In the condition I was in when we arrived on Friday night (3 days of labor at this point), I really wasn't able to come up with my preferences for, well, anything. I was both disengaged spiritually to avoid the trauma of extended pain and engaged purely in the present minute because the pain required it of me. My midwife knew this and started by making a recommendation rather than asking what I wanted. I remember the exact words: </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">"I think we should administer some IV drugs so you can sleep."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Yes. Yes. Yes.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She said I was still only 2 centimeters and when she swept my membranes, I went up to 3 centimeters so she could admit me to the labor and delivery floor. I had been warned that manual exams and membrane sweeping could be really painful at this point but, honestly, I barely noticed that those things were happening. I think that must be telling of how much my contractions hurt.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I woke up after a few hours, I feel like the first thing I said to Jacob was, "I want to talk with the midwife about getting an epidural. Is that OK?". I was getting disappointed vibes from Jacob and spent a whiff of thought to realize that normally I would stop to figure out what was bothering him but a second breeze of thought came along that I had other things that were more important to do right then. After Esther was born, he explained that since I had asked him to take responsibility for encouraging me to remember that I wanted a non-medicated birth, he felt like he had failed in that role. He must have pulled it together like a champ, though, because he was nothing but supportive after that.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I did the math in my head, I examined the assumption that an epidural would make me less spiritually present for the birth of my child. I still believe that would be true for a labor than lasted less than 24 hours, like I was expecting. I had also considered negative health outcomes for myself and the labor of future children when making the decision to try for a non-medicated birth. Given the new variable of a 3 day labor, I realized that an epidural would actually help me to be more spiritually present and that this was worth the medical risks at this point in order to have the best possible birth experience.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When the midwife arrived, I said, "I would like to talk about getting an epidural." She said, "Would you like to talk about it or would you like an epidural?". I smiled and said, "I would like an epidural, please."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And with that, the waiting ended and it felt like everything shifted into drive after we had been sitting in the driveway, letting the car warm up. She suggested a little pitosin since although it was good that I had gotten to 5-6 centimeters while I slept, I still needed to get to 10. I quickly agreed.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My parents had been in the city on Saturday night and when they called to check on me after their dinner, we were headed into the hospital. I think they must have come over but I was asleep by the time they got there. When I woke and felt so much better because the sleep and the IV drugs had cleared my head, I remember explaining to my mom about wanting an epidural: "I thought it was going to be all girl power and hot baths. . ."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When the anesthesiologist arrived, he announced that he was on Hour 18 of a 24 hour shift. I think Jacob blanched at that but the implications barely registered for me. When we tell this story, Jacob also points out that the doctor had to leave in the middle of set up because he had done so many epidurals that night and ran out of a necessary supply. This was when we really realized that the hospital was over capacity for mothers that night and continuing into the next morning.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I slept again and when I woke, it was morning. Total labor: 3 and a half days. My parents had gone back to our house and slept. Jacob slept in the awkward reclining chair for partners and Susan had another slapstick comedy trying to find a comfy spot on the floor. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I felt amazing.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">If I have another child, I will try again for a non-medicated birth. However, I will not pretend that an epidural is not magic. Seriously. Abra-cadabra.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Oh, it was weird. No doubt. My legs were numb and my feet were cold. I asked someone to put on the fuzzy socks my other sister-in-law gave me. The right side of my body wasn't totally numb at first but my awesome labor and delivery nurse knew to turn my body so that the drugs could flow to that side like sand in an hourglass.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Have I mentioned how awesome Barb, my nurse, was? She consumes the same media that I consume, so we had that common ground and was just all around laid-back, cool and a little sarcastic while being utterly warm and competent. She also laughed at my jokes. Susan has said since then that it must have been God who wrote the nursing schedule that week. Barb had a trainee who was also very nice.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So, the sun is shining in the windows, my contractions no longer hurt, my brother, sister-in-law and niece joined my parents and we are all listening to my Delivery Mix on my laptop. James Brown's "Get Up Offa That Thing (And Dance 'Til You Feel Better) is a decent example of the playlist. Barb liked it. I definitely heard someone on staff admit that we were breaking some rules by letting Shashi be there but I think they were smiling while they said it. So, basically, we were having a party with my most favorite people surrounding me. It's all like some wonderful dream in my memory.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I was told that I was 10 centimeters and completely effaced and could vaguely feel the contractions that I saw on the monitor but I had no urge to push at all. They say that the urge is unmistakable, like having to vomit. I was not overwhelmed by said urge. So, we made the decision to harsh my mellow by turning up the pitosin (I think it was only at 2 or 3 at that point) and turning down the epidural. I assume that this is when my family disbursed to the waiting room, leaving Susan, Jacob and I to work and wait with Barb and her trainee. Barb reminded our midwife that the anesthesiologist would need to be called back to turn the epidural down even though they could turn it off entirely without him. She then asked again what the midwife recommended. It was a subtle bit of advocacy that I was grateful for later since I can’t imagine what delivery would have been like with no epidural at that point.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There were other babies being born in every other room on that floor. We could see their fetal monitors on our computer screen for some reason and I remember we had sympathy for one of the moms and were excited when Barb came back from a short break to tell us she had a healthy baby. Our own monitor continued to show that I was having “good” contractions that I was now beginning to feel more and more sharply, but still no urge to push. Since our midwife had at least one other birth to attend to, we actually waited 3 hours from the time I was declared to be 10 centimeters to the time we started just giving pushing a try, like it was a lark our something. That was how casually Barb suggested it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So when I started feeling a contraction (or seeing it on the monitor), I pushed. This did seem to kick-start something and by the time the midwife was able to join us again, we were in active labor.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">At some point I closed my eyes and really did not open them again until Esther was born. My knowledge of the past did not inform my experience with the present. For instance, my hips would begin to hurt so much that I wanted to cry but I would have to logically think, "My hips are hurting so this must be a contraction." All I could register was the pain. We would try different positions to accommodate the pain in my hips but finally only being flat on my back was at all bearable. Susan stayed up by my head while Jacob must have helped with my body's positioning. Susan has known me for almost 15 years, compared to Jacob's three-year tenure so she knows me better than anyone but my parents and my brother; plus, our relationship has lived through any emotionally loaded fears that either of us will leave the other. This made her the perfect person to let go with and do what I needed to do.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I won't lie: this stage of labor and ultimately delivery was violent and hard. There should be another word for the physical sensation because it was not related to any pain I have felt in the past. (I have never broken a bone though and I imagine that would also be pretty painful.) I think that if Susan hadn't been in my ear, encouraging me and letting me make jokes, I would have given up and needed a c-section. After three and a half days and almost no sleep, I believe that's a real possibility. And I'm not sure that I would have had the same dynamic with another woman or Jacob that I would want to tell jokes as a coping mechanism. I remember thinking about Winnie the Pooh being stuck in the hole after eating too much honey, imagined Esther like that and worried that we’d passed the point of no return and that I would not be able to have a c-section.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So now, I feel triumphant and powerful that I and my body accomplished this amazing act. In the first few months after, though, I just felt wounded and traumatized. Luckily, my spiritual life up to this point has prepared me to respect how I feel and not to beat myself up for what comes naturally. So I paid attention to what my body and soul were asking for and ate a lot of ice cream as therapy in the first three months and didn't worry at all about losing weight. I told this story in an entertaining way to people who visited and called but I definitely needed to tell it in a slightly horrified and sad way once to my therapist to really face the truth of how little control I had over that situation and how bad it was. I feel like hospitals should provide post-partum events for small groups of women to be able to do this with one another with strangers who don't need them to put on a happy but-now-I-have-this-beautiful-baby face on it. I only needed to mourn my expectations once and now I am completely at peace with it. It was so transformative that I definitely wish it for other mothers.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So, I pushed like that for three hours, feeling rising pain in my hips, intellectually recognizing that it must be a contraction, then making the decision to push. I remember opening my eyes at one point and realizing that I was in a sit-com. There were literally five people around my bed, looking at me, and the one between my legs was a total stranger. I believe that I made a joke about that. Apparently, my blood pressure spiked, so they called in an obstetrician to help. It was really neither here nor there to me at this point. Most of the time, I kept my eyes closed, although I remember them encouraging me to open them at some point. I suppose I was losing focus and they feared I was retreating mentally. But Susan and Jacob kept me going. At one point in the middle of a push, I asked Susan how many more, both knowing that she could not know and hoping fiercely that she did. Whenever I talk about “living in the tension” from now on, that question is what I will remember. When Susan told me, “Seven,” I said, “You lie!” I think that Barb held my hands at one point and pulled away from me as I pushed the baby while pulling away from her to give myself momentum. That helped move things along. They asked if I wanted to touch the baby’s head but I knew that it wouldn’t be able to discern it as anything special at that point, so I declined. I have no idea if I yelled, grunted and swore or not during this time. I assume that I did.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How to describe Esther’s actual birth? Think about the most difficult bowel movement you have ever struggled for and multiple that by 15. There is triumph and severe relief after the moment of intense pain. It feels exactly like you think it would feel except that the context for the sensation is so thick that it is not nearly as bad as you would think it would be. Jacob actually caught Esther and I tear up a little bit thinking about it now. I remember being angry at the time when the midwife was instructing him how to do it in the minutes before it happened. For some reason, I thought that it was prolonging my struggle for her to stop focusing on me. But it was totally worth it, looking back. Also, I think probably she knew (because she’s a professional, right?) that we were in the end game and nothing could prolong the inevitable in any meaningful way. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They handed her up to me and I sobbed. Susan took some pictures at that point and I have kept them private, pondering them in my heart from time to time. They are so bloody and Esther is so beautiful. They took her from me shortly after that to measure her and such even though we had in our birth plan a request to delay that until later. I assume that the nurse who did that stuff was available and since the hospital was overbooked, taking advantage of her presence trumped my desire not to be separated. Jacob went with her to the warming table and I do not think I stopped asking for her back the entire 10 minutes she was gone. I remember feeling pretty desperate as I asked. It’s probably more likely that I demanded, since that’s how I normally deal with being powerless when it’s important to me. And it felt primally important.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Of course, I got her back and everything was fine and I was so tired and so proud of my little girl. It was a little after 4:00 in the afternoon on Sunday, June 19. Father's Day. Jacob and I asked her if her name was any of the several names we had on a short list, and sure enough, her spirit agreed that she was an Esther and not a Golda or a Ruby. I got to show her off to my family and Susan just beamed at me.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We stayed in that room awhile since there weren’t any available recovery rooms. Susan went back to our house to sleep and visited in the morning before heading home. Jacob’s brother and sister-in-law visited and brought the most amazing gift. They stopped at Whole Foods and got a warm loaf of multi-grain bread and a half pound of Irish butter. I needed so much nourishment and it was such a wholesome way to get it. I woke in the middle of the night that night, ravenous and thankful for their consideration. It was all gone by the time we were discharged.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The nurses were amazing throughout our stay. I never knew that nurses were so amazing before this. They have to be book smart AND have the humility to clean my body of gore. They are thoughtful enough to bring water every time they come into the room for something. Seriously, the room was littered with styrofoam cups with lids and straws that had been full of ice and water. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And then they cleaned them up.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I think this is an extremely rare combination of skills. So often book smart people (myself included) think they have risen above menial tasks. Nurses make the rest of us look selfish and small in that thought. Or, they would if they weren’t so busy making us feel cared for.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I have such a fondness for our recovery room. My best friend from high school lives near the hospital and visited that first night. My other sister-in-law visited there the next day. It was a handicapped room so I just walked into the vast shower without impediment and used the luxurious French soap my mom had brought me from her trip there. Word of advice to pregnant moms? Take luxurious bath gel and shampoo. Never will you feel so much like you have earned it. Jacob learned to love letting Esther fall asleep on his bare chest in that recovery room. So much so that we had to scramble when we got home to figure out safe co-sleeping after vowing that we would never be THAT family when we were still pregnant. We took as much skin-to-skin time as we could in that warm room. We struggled to establish breastfeeding but the amazing lactation consultant was so patient and persistent. She finally produced the magical nipple shield and gave us info on how to find more help. Pragmatic: that’s how I like my lactation consultants. None of that fundamentalist, judgey crap that I got later for not being “pure” in my methods of feeding my daughter.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But that’s not the tone on which to end this story. Let’s try another one.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Birthing my daughter was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It is also the thing over which I have had the least control once it came down to it. I did a lot of preparation. I educated myself. I found the right practitioners. All of that helped. But in the end, Esther came into this world as a force of nature. Literally. My body stumbled a little, but ultimately did what it had been designed to do. To me, this is my relationship with God in its purest form. I take so much comfort in the fact that I am not God: that I do not have the ability to control what happens to me. Because if I did? I would screw a lot of things up. Instead, when I let God be God, I can work hard alongside her, doing what she designed me to do and I get something as beautiful as Esther not for for my efforts but as a gift. My efforts were a gift in themself like all hard work is. All of the things that went wrong. All of the things that hurt. I include them in this narrative because they make the final climax and denouement that much more satisfying. Life is painful. Life is also stunningly beautiful.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-9335356649041880872012-01-16T11:48:00.002-06:002012-01-16T11:49:49.136-06:00Vance Gilbert and a lot of metaphorsDearest Esther, <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am behind in updating your milestone book and I don’t want to wait until I have written up my notes on months 5 and 6 before I put last night’s adventure in writing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(As an aside, here's a video of how much you like your Obasan right now.) <iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6_CoqAwetXo" width="560"></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Your Obasan and I have been through a lot together. As freshmen in college, she taught me to laugh out loud, even when it would make people turn to look at us. Junior year, she broke my heart and transferred schools. We stayed on the phone and she came back to see me graduate; then I returned the favor a few years later. We have evaluated each other’s boyfriends and comforted one another through break-ups. She has answered the phone often to nothing but silence as I gasped for breath through my sobs. She was my maid of honor and she went with me to the courthouse when I finalized my divorce. She signed the ketubah when I married your dad and she helped me give birth to you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Through all of this, we have had <a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/search?q=vance">Vance Gilbert</a>. Tonight, we took you to his concert. I was very nervous that people would give me the stink eye for bringing a baby to a concert but since your Obasan loves spending time with you and you are such a pleasant child, I was willing to try it out. You know, because <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Urban-Babies-Wear-Black-Book">urban babies wear black</a> and go to concerts. But they sit in the back, just in case. We had taken you to a klezmer concert during Hanukkah and you were brilliant. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Obasan and I spotted Vance when we walked in with you and giggled to each other, “There he is!” He smiled at us but I worried he would think we were being disrespectful of his talent and hard work by risking the effectiveness of the performance and communication with your potential cries.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we took our seats, though, people smiled at us, chucked you under your chin and called you sweet pea. Most of them were grandparenty in age and I wonder if they thought that life was too short to waste on worrying if a show will be ruined by a cute baby. Because seriously, there’s a cute baby to smile at. And there are never enough chances to do that in our short lives. Concerts come and go, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I wanted you to behave. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, you sat on Obasan’s lap and watched the stage as Vance walked up on it. Rapt. The word is, “rapt.” I wanted to take your picture because it was such a perfect image. But I’m a terrible photographer and the lighting would have never translated. So, I resolved to tell you this story the way I know how. You dipped your right hand into the little bowl of cheerios like you were eating popcorn in a movie theater. You were like an adult in miniature, perfectly replicating our mannerisms even though I know that you were just being yourself. I love imagining how you must be experiencing these situations so differently than those of us who have completed the language acquisition stage of development. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although you have the pincer grip to get cheerios to your mouth most of the time, eventually, you just let the slobber on your right fist pick them up for you before you jammed the whole thing in your mouth and sucked off what you could. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After awhile, you turned to me and patted my upper arm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It kills me when you do that. Just one or two pats while you look me in the eyes, as if to say, “Yes, you are my mother and here you are.” Usually you turn back to whatever else had previously had your attention. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This time, you made it clear that you were ready for me to hold you. We nursed and your Obasan and I passed you back and forth until you landed in my arms, standing on my lap while turning turning turning like you do because you know I’ll help you get your 360 degree observation of any room we sit in for an extended amount of time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like it that you are cute but I am so relieved that you are curious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During quieter moments between songs while Vance talked, you began growling at him. Sometimes your dad and I call you Grumbledore because of these growls. I was really nervous when you started doing this because there is no way to quiet you since you’re not upset. You father and I began preparing to take you out into the hallway.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But Vance laughed and started talking about you. He asked your name and connected it to Eostre, the goddess of rebirth. This type of exchange actually happened a couple of times and I began to relax. He hummed a Vancified version of Brahm’s lullaby and pretended to speak with your voice in disgust that he wasn’t a bigger star. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">However, as you got more tired, you got more cranky and when it seemed like you were going to start crabbing at me, I got up to go out into the hallway until I could rock you to sleep in your Ergo carrier. I knew it had to be me since you won’t fall asleep with anyone else. At least, not quietly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Vance actually stopped me and asked me not to go. “Don’t take her out,” he said. I’m terrible in improv situations and couldn’t say anything witty in response. Finally, I managed to protest, “But it’s going to be a pretty song.” Since he had asked, though, we stayed, standing near the stage because that was where the exit was. The pretty song that he had already begun playing while he told the story was one that he had written for the children in his neighborhood, so it was particularly apropos. He called it a tone poem and it’s called <a href="http://www.vancegilbert.com/index.php?page=songs&category=Old_White_Men&display=2260">Come Here My Love</a>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, I cried as he sang, “And my eyes linger too long on your face / It’s like staring at the sun / And you see a good in me / The world don’t seem to recall.” You have given my life such direction and purpose, even in the midst of my dithering about my changing identity from professional to homemaker. He kept looking at us as he sang and all of my fears about whether or not I should have brought you finally melted away. That’s what it actually felt like: a hard candy shell was melting away and I could relax. <br />
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I remembered that part of why Vance Gilbert concerts are so special is that each one is unique. He is really engaged with his audience and the space he's playing in. One day, I'll tell you about the show with his good friend Ellis Paul and how they had to improvise the second show since most of us from the first show just stayed through. We keep going back because he's not just doing a set. He's communicating. <br />
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I mouthed, “Thank you,” when the song finished and we went back up to our seats where I stood in the aisle and rocked you until you fell asleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Esther, my love, you will stop needing me so soon. We will not be this entangled in each other for very long. I have been the protagonist of my novel for 34 years. Right now, you are a supporting character but soon, you will have your own novel and I will become <a href="http://moongadget.com/origins/myth.html">some archetype</a> to help you in your own hero’s journey. I know this. You will not always have the burden of being the sun that lights up my life. But you’ll have lots of little narrative cycles before the big trip to the cantina in Mos Eisley to find a pilot with a ship that has made the Kessel Run in under 12 parsecs. I intend to notice and be present for every one of them. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEavBsx8yh42G_ElpMYqQvrRVPBZa5CxBWNcRd5M0ZYmBmTk74aAJN9Wk0GUFubXXivYPFiTpTMjEcAIu6aMoxPMY-7wR_gNlxQW22qXrh_ghlZsohkmfppUynIIlP4xh_5v3Mng/s1600/2012-01-15_21-11-47_368.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEavBsx8yh42G_ElpMYqQvrRVPBZa5CxBWNcRd5M0ZYmBmTk74aAJN9Wk0GUFubXXivYPFiTpTMjEcAIu6aMoxPMY-7wR_gNlxQW22qXrh_ghlZsohkmfppUynIIlP4xh_5v3Mng/s400/2012-01-15_21-11-47_368.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Vance shifted that song to sing directly to you, wishing aloud that you will grow into a good girl and clarifying in verse that good didn’t mean doing what was expected of you but meant being good to other people. He also riffed on an earlier joke that we were setting your partner preferences by exposing you to him this early and that you’ll probably marry a black man someday. He also blessed you, saying you will be special since your parents take you to see “cool shit.” So, as you begin venturing out from my lap, I’m so gratified that Vance Gilbert – who has meant so much to your Obasan and me- affirms that what I can do is show you some of the settings that my own story progressed through and give you access to many of the other characters I know. After that, I promise let go and simply read the parts of your novel that you share with me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12pt;">And it will be good enough to be a bestseller.</span>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-86620507663714147572011-11-23T15:06:00.001-06:002011-11-23T15:09:09.689-06:00Left-handed<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am still brooding over the </span><a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/2011/10/first-world-problems.html"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">existential crisis</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I had a few weeks ago. I feel like it needs a more definitive response than the anecdotes I've shared <a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/2011/11/better.html">here</a> and <a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/2011/11/bright-spots.html">here</a>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.22416265956916492" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As I talked about my feelings with my friends and family, as well exploring the tension inside me that was sapping my joy, truth began to emerge: I was denying my desire to give my energy in a focused way to being a stay-at-home mom.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Apparently, just like when I play Dungeons and Dragons, I have no desire to play a multiple-class character. Just like I'm not interested in being a roguish monk or a warrior priest, I do not want to have to wrap my brain around the two sets of rules that govern the life of a working mom.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That desire for simplicity is what I have been denying. I think it would be too easy to say that twisted ideals of being a super-mom led me into my emotional tangle. That identity has never been one I would crave. It's too much like the over-achieving AP student in high school or the management consultant in her twenties. When given those options, I chose to be an average student and to work in education and non-profits. Enjoying life and feeling balanced has always won out over working my fingers to the bone in order to </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">achieve</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Rather, I think that my delusion that I wanted to continue to self-identify as a professional comes from habit more than anything else.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Sometimes, I run into people that I haven't seen since high school. Acquaintances, parents of friends, members of my home church or teachers, their questions rarely deviate from a theme. All of them want to know if I have continued to pursue music.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It surprises me every time. I left behind my identity as a musician in college when i was too shy to figure out how to audition for the choir at the beginning of my freshman year. I took some private lessons and have held two recitals since then, but at most, I am a vocalist with a pretty voice who can still sight-read passably. I haven't been a musician in over a decade.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But as a child, I sang a lot and I sang a lot in front of a crowd. I had solos in church and most choir concerts. I was in small ensemble groups that got out of class to sing at events. I had lead roles in the musicals. I had a group of friends who sang harmonies for fun while infesting someone's house as part of a larger group of loitering teenagers. I was in at least three choirs and even sang in my Dramatic Duet Acting competitions.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Music was such a part of my public life that I remember realizing one Sunday after church that I needed to figure out how to accept a compliment about my singing that was theologically appropriate while also being social gracious to the complimented. Nothing is more annoying that being corrected by someone that "it's God who should get the credit," as if they were kind of a dolt for suggesting otherwise simply because they were inspired by the performance or wanting to communicate appreciation or to foster confidence in a young kid.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But I have become such a different person since then. It is totally understandable that people would assume that music would determine the trajectory of my life. At yet, it did not. Something altered my flight path.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I think something similar has happened since Esther has been born.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I have spent the last 15 years actively pursuing social justice as a career. Like the people who knew me for the 15 years previous to that, people that know me now (including myself) don't imagine that my life would not continue along the path it has been traveling. A life that did not include professional work on behalf of oppressed people would not be recognizable as mine.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So, everyone asks when I will go back to work. Some of that is that most moms do go back to work these days. A lot of what motivates the question, though, has to be that I have been so passionate about my work before Esther was born.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I have been listening to old Rob Bell sermons lately and in one he discusses the passage where Jesus says, "When you do good works, do not let your right hand know what your left hand is doing." One of his points was that we often try to control how other people perceive us and that this commandment of Christ's was also a commandment to stop worrying about who the right hand thinks the left hand is.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I have been desperately trying to live up to the expectations of others (and myself) that I will continue to work outside the home as a social entrepreneur. Their expectations are not unfounded. Nor are they malicious. Their expectations are a natural conclusion based on what my life has been up to this point.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But yearning for who I might be again in the future is keeping me from fully immersing myself in who I am right now. Right now I am a mom. Just a mom. Breaking the habit of thinking of myself as a professional was holding me back from the joy that was waiting for me on this different path. I’m glad I figured that out.</span></span>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-79173750402856649882011-11-06T15:32:00.001-06:002011-11-06T15:32:09.057-06:00Bright spotsI think that it's possible that I have never felt more joy in my life than when my four month old daughter pauses in her nursing to look up at me, smile and put her hand on my chin. I don't think that I knew she would be so much <i>fun</i>.<br /><br /><br /><br />PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-38810891250048195322011-11-02T12:57:00.001-05:002011-11-23T15:09:41.372-06:00Better<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I a</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">m on the mend. It turns out that I have had a sinus infection for who knows how long but,of course , the ER doctor in </span><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Danville,+IL&hl=en&ll=40.124291,-87.626953&spn=2.28494,4.938354&sll=41.833733,-87.731964&sspn=0.556629,1.234589&vpsrc=6&hnear=Danville,+Vermilion,+Illinois&t=m&z=8"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Danville, IL</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> didn't diagnose it two weeks ago when I went in with a severe bout of vertigo and a splitting headache on one side. (I should tell you someday about sitting in that waiting room with my grandma on a Sunday when she didn't believe I was really all that sick because I had eaten a good breakfast.) So, looking back on the last two and a half weeks, I realize I have felt deeply despondent about my life because my energy was being sapped by what my doctor called a "horrendous" infection in my left sinus.<br />
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Since I started the antibiotic two days ago, I feel much less conflicted about being a homemaker. <br />
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In fact, today and yesterday, I have been making bibs.</span></span></span>PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-57286685112444739062011-10-27T14:24:00.000-05:002011-10-27T14:24:02.836-05:00First world problems <i>Warning: You might not want to read this one, Dad, because it might come across as a little bit whiny. I say this because, well, <u><b>I</b></u> think it's a little bit whiny. However, in the interest of full disclosure to achieve the goals of this blog, I figured I'd post it anyway.</i><br />
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Yesterday, I was walking to my car from Whole Foods and wondering why I should keep making the effort to drive all this way if I no longer really cared about fair trade and organic purchasing, or at least, the causes behind them. On my way to return the cart, a giant SUV entered from the Exit and the driver stopped impatiently to let me pass. When I returned to my subcompact economy car, I found the SUV parked next to it, almost blocking me in, it was parked so crookedly.<br />
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I had my answer, of course.<br />
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I don't want to become that asshole.<br />
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But the fleeting thought made me realize I had to go deeper. What did I mean, I don't really care anymore about fair trade and organic purchasing or the causes behind them?<br />
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Lately, when I examine the things that I care about, the list does not much resemble the list that existed before Esther was born. This is a hard thing to say.<br />
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I have been kind of drifting, a little despondent, without motivation or enthusiasm for the tasks at hand. I have been aware of this for awhile and have chalked it up to the transition from seeing myself as a professional to seeing myself as a homemaker.<br />
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But Esther is four months old now and at some point here, I have to get back on that horse named Life and go somewhere. This means that I have to stop thinking of myself in transition and start figuring out who I have become. Because once I know who I am, then even the laundry and calling the plumber can have a vibrancy to them that they don't have right now.<br />
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Identity can often be determined by learning what motivates a person to act. What do they want? So, I have been thinking about what I want. I'm defining the word, "want," here as a visceral desire. What does my gut move towards? There are things I still affirm intellectually, like opportunity for all people, an end to the degredation of our environment, religious access to God in community for folks who are fed up with religion and a broad social network, but what I am willing to put creative energy into each morning is much less lofty.<br />
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I want to play with my daughter and watch her smile.<br />
I want to be held by my husband and to watch him care for Esther.<br />
I want to read books.<br />
I want to eat good food.<br />
I want to bake.<br />
I want to spend time with my own parents and with my siblings and nieces.<br />
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I no longer want to go swimming.<br />
I no longer want to change unjust systems by working on spreadsheets and intra-office systems.<br />
I no longer want to meet my good friends for coffee.<br />
I no longer want to work on refining and strengthening my marriage.<br />
I no longer want to go to church or be a part of the church leadership.<br />
I no longer want to host parties and make people feel welcome in my home.<br />
I no longer want to quilt.<br />
I no longer want to build community. <br />
<br />
Again, I still believe that all of the things on that second list are good things. I think I would be sad if I had to live with the consequences of not doing them. But before, I felt passionate about digging in and getting to work. About challenging the status quo to make things better: for myself, for others and for society.<br />
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Jacob and I were talking about this and he helped me see that now I'm tired of dancing to the beat of my own drummer, of swimming upstream, of going against the flow, of coming up with anything other than cliches for constantly rejecting the easy way in order to do the right thing.<br />
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I don't know how to rest from this. I don't know how to let my life take a nap. I know that people will tell me that I must if I am to go on trying to "be a blessing." That sustainability is crucial. But I don't actually know which actions to take so that I end up refreshed. I don't want it to be like when you get home from a vacation and you feel like you need another one before you can actually be productive again. So, I worry that simply not doing the things I don't want to do is the wrong tactic.<br />
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Of course, I could just suck it up, rub a little mud in it and do the stuff anyway. Most people have to live that way; what makes me so special that I can naval-gaze like this?<br />
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This seems to be one of the central questions of my life and I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with any of the possible answers. However, recently it occurred to me that although privilege is probably 94% of the reason why I feel entitled to wait until I "want" to do something before I do it, I can take maybe 5% of the credit for consistently making choices in my life that allow me to actually take breaks. It can't be a coincidence that I took a break from teaching and got the opportunity to go on tour with a theatrical production plus I took a break after my failed marriage and got the opportunity to live on an island in the Pacific Northwest plus I took a break after finishing my degree . . . wait. Scratch that last one. Although I did not have a job immediately after graduating, it never felt like a break. I planned a wedding and did a shit-ton of relationship work to launch a marriage. Jacob and I both mourn our <a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/2009/09/pacific-northwest-adventure-or-not.html">disaster</a> of a honeymoon since I couldn't wind down enough to enjoy it. Then, back to the grind and finding a job and the rest of life from then until now.<br />
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I'm a little afraid to ask for a break, though. Jacob doesn't get one. How could that possibly be fair? But I would keep Esther with me however I rested. But I have just thought of something while writing this post. What might happen if, instead of bemoaning the fact that circumstances have taken over agency in my life, I rejoice in it? If I figure out how to take a break, won't an adventure present itself to me in time? If the history of my life repeats itself, won't that adventure teach me new lessons and re-set my life course toward a more Godly one?<br />
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I have set a pattern for my days. I have established habits. That should be enough for maintenance of my basic values until I can get back to directly monitoring them. I don't think I'll actually become that asshole in the SUV. Right? If that's taken care of, I probably should figure out how to make some space to take God up on her offer of a radical change.PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7942601.post-32841210648965156142011-10-20T19:32:00.003-05:002011-10-22T13:09:13.504-05:00I'm OK; Nipple shields are OK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zyYP844DnNl2VtJ0jtWa64RveYG2M5XiB-rK3spviVPbBdaWp3WyaM6fmxVQh5_041EmG7qspJkE_OQmoGiUyJEcEh5kC6ZOqFK0gSPm95E5ZckNUSPndwEJ2AxEFpb-TJtQ_g/s1600/CIMG1598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zyYP844DnNl2VtJ0jtWa64RveYG2M5XiB-rK3spviVPbBdaWp3WyaM6fmxVQh5_041EmG7qspJkE_OQmoGiUyJEcEh5kC6ZOqFK0gSPm95E5ZckNUSPndwEJ2AxEFpb-TJtQ_g/s320/CIMG1598.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Last week, I posted about the<a href="http://princessmax.blogspot.com/2011/10/cha-cha-cha-cha-changes.html"> major changes</a> in Esther's eating life. I posted something similar on my Facebook page and got these responses:<br />
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<blockquote>MM: Yeah, just when you think you got the little pishers figured out, they throw you a knuckler. Hang in there!<br />
October 3 at 9:00pm · Like<br />
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MS: Expect the surprises to keep coming along...for years! Enjoy every adventure!<br />
October 3 at 9:40pm · Like<br />
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MMS: We drove ourselves crazy trying to figure this stuff out!<br />
October 3 at 9:50pm · Like<br />
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MW: They tend not to get as much milk with the shield-she may start to gain more weight (and your supply will increase) now that she is off of it.<br />
October 3 at 10:17pm · Like<br />
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Rebecca: Actually, there's no research to support that statement about shields.<br />
October 3 at 11:55pm · Like<br />
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Rebecca: Let me rephrase, when I was bewildered as to why everyone but my doctor and lactation consultant acted like using the shield created a "less than" nursing experience, I could not find any citations to any research supporting those claims, even though I really wanted to so I could give in to peer pressure and wean her off before she was ready because of the inconvenience and because I was feeling vulnerable to the sheer weight of public opinion. All I could find was one study of less than 20 moms done with rubber shields rather than the now standard silicone ones. Luckily, this snapped me to my senses so I could stand up for my (and my doctor and lc's) decision to well-meaning but insensitive folks from that point on.<br />
October 4 at 12:10am · Like<br />
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SR: We used a shield for a little while with Ian. Trust yourself and your little one -- listen to advice from people who know and understand *your* specific situation -- and whom you trust. Know that no matter what you will all be ok. We've got your back.<br />
October 4 at 12:18am · Like<br />
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MW: I guess I also heard the inaccurate info about shields, Rebecca. Sounds like you are working with a good lactation consultant who can help you with any problems you might have!<br />
October 4 at 8:41am · Like<br />
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KG: What is a nipple shield for? I had to supplement with Jack from the begginning, it took me a long time to come to terms with it. It made me feel like a failure as a woman/mother that I couldn't provide all of his nutrition like I was supposed to be able to do. What kind of formula are you using? Maybe that is why she is spitting up more.<br />
October 4 at 10:17am · Like</blockquote><br />
I'm sure you noticed MW's response and my response to her. Normally, I'm not that confrontational, especially on Facebook. However, I thought long and hard about it before I posted that rephrase because 1) she offers lots and lots of unsolicited advice so I figured she would be able to handle a little push back and 2) I feel very passionate about the misinformation out there regarding nipple shields.<br />
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Luckily, my friend was really gracious. Based on the curiosity of other folks, I also figured I would elaborate a little bit more here.<br />
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A nipple shield is a piece of molded silicon that fits on top of a woman's nipple so that the muscles of a baby's mouth don't have to work quite so hard to mold the nipple to the shape of their own mouths. Preemies often need them and Esther needed one, too, for whatever reason. The lactation consultant in the hospital worked with us in a couple of good sessions before we went home and Esther just wasn't getting the hang of it so we started using the shield. Without it, I wouldn't have been able to feed my daughter.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixTirPOBqTEh491ZG8wgeg43gnNDhT-YfrJq-Z4BnLU0QJ9n4uZw_tA2hTiCNVnWW7cXNJN46UPZgn-sCsuQd95wtnTW0kjvP6RinMl2h3cIoe9uKxdeVfdv47oOhZyUJBhjDVQA/s1600/nipple-shield-contact.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixTirPOBqTEh491ZG8wgeg43gnNDhT-YfrJq-Z4BnLU0QJ9n4uZw_tA2hTiCNVnWW7cXNJN46UPZgn-sCsuQd95wtnTW0kjvP6RinMl2h3cIoe9uKxdeVfdv47oOhZyUJBhjDVQA/s1600/nipple-shield-contact.jpg" /></a></div><br />
However, lots of people had a reflexive response that the nipple shield was a bad thing. I often got asked, "When will you wean her off of it?"<br />
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The first few weeks of a new mom's life are incredibly vulnerable. She's having a severe case of withdrawal since her <strike>dealer</strike> placenta is no longer pumping her full of hormones. She's physically wounded and has usually depleted her energy reserves that are usually used for healing. She's not sleeping very much. The patterns of her day are totally altered and she must think about what the baby needs every time she considers doing something for herself, like going to the bathroom or showering. The autonomic responses are all that are left to her, life breathing and having her heart pump. All of her stress-coping mechanisms and her defense mechanisms are disabled so attacks that could normally be deflected hit hard.<br />
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One of the easiest targets is feeding this new child because it is one of only 4 needs that must be fulfilled by a mom: eating, sleeping, being cleaned and being touched. So, any comment that feels at all like a criticism takes up an inordinate amount of space in a mom's spirit.<br />
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Being asked repeatedly when I would wean Esther from her shield felt like people were asking when I was going to <i>really</i> start breastfeeding her because didn't I know, breast is best?<br />
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So, when I realized that the money I spent on a second lactation consultant was wasted because she was fixated on the shield rather than on the problem I went to her with, I began searching the internet.<br />
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(As an aside, I ultimately made a rule that I could not research any parenting questions between the hours of 9:00 pm and 8:00 am on the iPad while nursing. To much hostility out there and no filter to figure out whose solution is right for my family.)<br />
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What I ultimately found out is that there is no reason (other than inconvenience) not to nurse your baby with a shield for the entire time that you breastfeed. However, lots of breastfeeding advocates like La Leche League disagree with that statement, both vehemently and inferentially, even though the only proof that nipple shields are bad is anecdotal at best.<br />
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Even Kellymom, which claims to be <a href="http://www.kellymom.com/evidencebased.html">research based</a>, cites nipple shields when discussing <a href="http://www.kellymom.com/bf/supply/low-supply.html#causes">decreases in milk supply</a>.<br />
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The reality is that there is no research that supports this advice. All of it is about the old, rubber version or has a tiny sample size. When I was talking about this with my friend who is studying to be a lactation consultant, she sent me this <a href="http://theleakyboob.com/2011/08/nipple-shields-life-saver-supply-wrecker-or-just-another-tool-for-nursing-mothers/">great article</a>, which debunks the myths. <br />
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The problem is that La Leche League and folks like Kellymom are the only folks out there advocating for breastfeeding and they are fundamentalists. Fundamentalists, by <a href="http://www.thefreedictionary.com/fundamentalist">definition</a>, believe that there is one true way to do something and that all other versions are inferior to that one true way. In the case of La Leche League, they believe that the one true way for all infants to be fed is that every meal be taken skin to skin at the mother's physical breast. There is a hierarchy of deviations from this ideal; some are better than others but all deviations are seen as a slippery slope toward all babies being fed formula with bottles from their viewpoint. Take a look at <a href="http://www.llli.org/llleaderweb/lv/lviss1-2009p12.html">this document</a> that they publish for local leaders on how to convert bottle-feeding mothers to feeding directly from the breast. It reads to me very similarly to literature advising conservative Christians to befriend folks in order to get them to say the Sinner's Prayer with paragraphs like this: <br />
<blockquote>Working empathically [sic] with a woman, respecting her and her authority as the mother of the baby, we build rapport. Whether over the phone, by email, or after a meeting, when we work one-on-one with a mother so that she feels heard and respected, she may become receptive to hearing other ideas about how to handle her situation. Perhaps she isn't aware that there are means of feeding her baby other than a bottle, such as a cup or spoon, a periodontal syringe, or a supplemental nursing system at the breast. Perhaps a mother who called for help with the bottle will be moved to come to a meeting and gain a new perspective there.</blockquote>This section does not encourage leaders to be empathetic to a new mother in a vulnerable state simply because it's the right thing to do. There is an agenda to the act. Also similar to evangelizing Christians, there is an assumption that the object of their help is ignorant of the one true way. If they were knowledgeable, then why wouldn't they see things like we do? Basically, formula-feeding women are the pagan babies of the Breast is Best crowd. This condescending paternalism continues in a section a little further down: <br />
<blockquote>Although teaching a baby to take a bottle isn't why we became Leaders, helping parents become sensitive to their babies' cues is a part of what we do. By helping parents with the bottle we may not only preserve breastfeeding, but also promote cooperative rather than coercive parenting. Perhaps the approaches and attitudes used here will carry forward to introducing solids, weaning and toilet training.</blockquote>Clearly, if a family is feeding their baby with a bottle (even if feeding pumped breastmilk), then they won't raise their children right in other areas like toilet training. Because feeding with interventions or formula is mutually exclusive to being sensitive to a baby's cues. (Catch the sarcasm here.)<br />
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I understand and even appreciate why La Leche folks are like this. Societal change is generally only accomplished by extremists, the "small group" that <a href="http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/33522.html">Margaret Mead</a> lionizes, although I disagree that they need to be thoughtful. (Tea party, anyone?) There are plenty of studies out there showing that people who are politically active above and beyond voting are closer to the ends of the ideological spectrum than the majority of the population, which is fairly centrist. Counteracting status quo requires force and an absolute ideal gets more folks behind it than a a diffused vision of more choices for more people. The pendulum of public policy swings back and forth and society generally benefits from the majority of time it spends close to the middle.<br />
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This societal change is definitely necessary because corporate influences have totally sabotaged breast feeding as a valid option in a variety of ways. The Feminist Breeder describes this well in her <a href="http://thefeministbreeder.com/why-im-a-feminist-and-a-lactivist/">recent post</a>. It is unconscionable that our society overwhelmingly thinks of breastfeeding as dirty or inconvenient or any number of other descriptors that aren't true but influence women and their children who would otherwise benefit from breastfeeding to use formula. I love efforts like the <a href="http://www.ounceofprevention.org/programs/doula.php">Doula Program</a> at the Ounce of Prevention, which helps women in poverty overcome that influence of the corporations.<br />
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Also, folks are often drawn to groups like La Leche League because in their vulnerability, it provided resources to meet their needs. This kind of rescue can inspire an honest zealousness in well-meaning folks to help others experience the joy they have experienced. Although leaders of the political movement may exploit this emotion in participants of the movement to ensure self-perpetuation of the organization, the individuals are simply trying to help others in the way they have been helped. I respect that impulse.<br />
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However, I am a feminist because I believe that all women should be supported in the choices that they make and that society should be changed so that all choices are available to all people. I believe that people are generally capable of weighing variables in a situation and choosing the best option for themselves. If they aren't, it's because they lack information or they lack the emotional IQ to determine what is best for themselves. Both of those can be solved without condescension or paternalism. Maybe that's the University of Chicago-trained economist in me but I just think folks are <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rational_choice_theory">rational actors</a> in their own lives.<br />
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I object to the fundamentalist viewpoint when it comes to breastfeeding because it can be a major impediment to the very goal it seeks to achieve. By setting a goal that most women cannot achieve, some - or maybe many - women will turn away from a choice that might have been right for them because they don't feel like they really belong in the community. They are not like "those mothers" so they just won't try. For instance, La Leche suggests that working mothers find childcare that is close enough to work that the provider can bring the child to the mother for all of his meals.<br />
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Right.<br />
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There are so many assumptions about who that mother is, I could write a whole essay on that recommendation alone. She has a flexible job, she can afford a caregiver who only looks after her child, he and the child are physically capable of nursing, etc. Those types of prerequisites tend to be available only to privileged upper-class folks. <br />
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When I was able to analyse the situation and figure out why everyone was acting so weird about the shield, I could relax and even do a little education when I started to feel insecure because of someone else's mis-education from the Breast is Best advocates.<br />
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As it turns out, Esther mouth muscles just needed to get a little stronger. At around 3 months, she batted the shield out of the way and latched on all by herself. The latching was new since she often accidentally knocked the shield off before latching. She stayed on for about 4 minutes but needed the shield to finish the session and then didn't want to latch that way again for another week. I kept offering her the bare breast at the beginning of sessions and eventually she latched on sporadically for greater and greater periods of time, until the point when she protested when I offered her the shield. We no longer need the shield at all at mealtimes.<br />
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I was fully prepared to use the shield the entire time she nursed, buying 8 shields and stashing them in the glove compartment of the car and in every bag I had, so that we would never be caught without one. Because, with it, I could feed my daughter. Let me repeat that. With a shield, I could feed my daughter. Everything else is irrelevant once that's been said. I made the choice that I didn't want our early life together to be a struggle to get her to latch without it. Trust me, it was ugly every time I tried. Milk everywhere. Both of us sticky and crying. I am certain that the psychological damage this would do to her and to our relationship greatly outweighed any trumped up harm that breastfeeding advocates could cook up as caused by the shield. Nipple shields are OK; you are OK. End of story.PrincessMaxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09197008991622181061noreply@blogger.com3