Lighting a candle for Gram

Always between Christmas and New Years I think of Gram, since that's when her birthday fell. So I am posting today for her again what I had posted at MDC:


I light this candle for my Gram. I grew up as a military brat of divorced parents, so I didn't see her much until I was on my own.

But she was the only one that ever showed me true and unconditional love. It is her seed, planted and watered with her joy for me, that allows me to try and be a better mother to my children; to be what I never knew.

Just a few months before she passed I was able to visit and share the joy of motherhood with her. She met my son and although she never met my daughter, we can see her shining through. Some of the mischievous spirit of my Gram is alive and well in our little pixie.

When my father called to tell me Gram had passed, I just fell to the floor and cried, denying it to myself. I think part of me is still denying it. I haven't really admitted to anyone else how much it hurts to lose the person who loved me so much, understood me and found joy in me like nobody else did.

The Moon

So, last night we spent time as a family looking at the moon. I noticed something. With the naked eye, there is a huge contrast. There are definite shadows and areas of light. Through the telescope, you see more. You see the trenches and the craters and the gouges, marks of events that changed the landscape of the moon. But you don't see the dark and the light.

I feel like the moon sometimes. When I am right with myself and letting God in, moment by moment, I can see the gouges and craters that have made me. I can appreciate them for what they are, even see a small shadow here and there. But there's not the huge demarcation between light and dark. I've been feeling that evenness for almost two months now. I've been amazed at how much of a change there has been. I have also, frankly, been on the verge of terrified that my old self will come back. Knowing that it is likely is why I have been putting my support network into place. The pieces are lined up, but the slowness of life during the holiday season has dictated that they aren't actually in place yet.

So the contrast came back Friday night. I kept trying to hold onto the areas of light, but the shadows kept creeping up. I began feeling like I hated myself. I began to feel a hurt so bad it was physical. At one point, I scratched my arm to try and distract myself. Usually there's a sting and a dull ache after that. It went away too quickly. By the next morning there was no evidence, until I took a shower and the dull sting was there when the water hit. I was relieved to be reminded, but more relieved that while the pain had been just as intense in my heart, my reaction had diminished. I focused on the whole of my landscape, not just my shadows. I went there and managed to come back, maybe not unscathed, but certainly not battle scarred as was so often the case before. My fear had been realized and I moved through it. I walked it out. And that will give me strength the next time. The shadows will always be there, it is just in how I see them and respond.

For a smile, here's a pic P. took of the moon last night through the telescope- it's not great, camera phone pics never are. But the moon shines brightly. Today during church, I noticed during a song that so often the pictures that represent God are of the sun and sunlight. I started thinking the male and female perspective, old traditions, Apollo, the Goddess as represented by the phases of the moon...and I know that for now, to me, God is seen through the moon. The light and dark, the push and pull. The reflection of the sunlight.

Some Christmas Hilarity

Go Elf yourself!
Here's J. Here'sC's elf!

What's the Flip Side?

So, there's a lot of stress going on in my life right now. The totally amazing part to me is that I am not falling apart like I usually do. Oh, I have my moments. But they are not as low as my lows used to be. I am in total amazement and it honestly feels like a little miracle to me. Where are all the self recriminations? the tangible pain inside?

For instance, yesterday was a low day. Sad thoughts followed me around like a cloud of annoying gnats. They annoyed me, there was some small pain, but they weren't the hornets they would have usually been. after awhile, I realized how those thoughts were affecting my attitude, I was getting short with the kids and not doing the chores that needed to be done. So I said a short prayer and took a deep breath, acknowledging that I needed to let go. And I did. The effect was almost immediate. I was smiling and joking with the kids.

Guys, this feels so good. It's like when I have a migraine and it finally goes away. The non-pain I used to take for granted is such a blessed relief. I can't go back to before. I want to hold onto this forever. I am amazed at the miracle that has taken place in me and intend to hold onto it.

There's a bit of St. George in me- and in you too...

So often, my posts about depression have been whining. It takes control of me, and it's easier to let it than to fight it.

You're about to read a very personal confession (yeah- I hold back in my other writings, right?). I hope it helps or gives a ray of light to someone. During one of my evenings of pain, I came across this site. Please share it with anyone you think needs it. I apologize in advance for the mixed metaphors.

Think of depression as a dragon. Traditionally dragons have to be conquered and vanquished. Reading the myths from other cultures and some fantasy novels, they can also be tamed and even companions.

My realization about my chronic depression is that I cannot vanquish my depression totally. But I can tame it. If it touches you, you can too. It may not feel like it now. But at some point you will come to a precipice. You will look down into bottomless pain, or look across and see the edge of hope through the misty distance. I have been near that precipice many times over my life. I have nearly jumped a half a dozen times, but I was not close enough yet to go over the edge.

One day, about a month ago, as I was reeling from a painful experience, I cried alone in the bathroom. It was the hour of the night where you're not certain if it was night or morning. I should have been asleep, preparing for my always challenging day of being a SAHM. But instead I was awake, intense sorrow as my only company. As I wailed soundlessly- a truly horrible sound if you've ever felt it in your heart, I tried to beat the pain out of myself. I had found that if I position my knuckles just right and hit in the right spot on my breastbone, I could cause enough pain to make myself forget just a bit of the pain on the inside. I was tormented, yet trying to keep quiet so my family would not be disturbed. At that point, I truly believed for the first time in Satan.

I don't know what got me to that point. I can't even remember fully why I was so devastated. I have had worse incidents in my life. But there was something about that precipice, that time. After that, I began seeking help. Each time before I had sought out one aspect: faith, therapy, medication. I slowly began gathering all my tools. For me, faith has been a wonderful first stop. It has given me somewhere to turn even when I am alone. Next I sought out therapy. I am still seeking someone to see regularly, but the people I have turned to in the meantime have been invaluable in affirming that not only can I be helped, I deserve to be helped. My next step is the medication. I am hesitant on this one, but I see it as the safety net if the other two become weakened for some reason. When you have a dangerous dragon lunging at you, you need all the possible measures you can take in place.

I have been almost totally honest about my depression in past posts. I have only touched some of the deepest, most shameful aspects for me, but there are there. The intense self hatred, the desire to commit suicide but feeling too scared or loving my children too much to even think of what their lives would be like with the thoughts of what I did and me not there to answer their questions. The wanting to cause myself outward pain in order to reduce the intensity of the inward pain.

Because of how intense this ride has been, it makes this part of it all the more miraculous to me. Two months ago, I would not have been able to see the hope through the distance and the mist. But somehow, getting close enough to the precipice that I could finally jump also allowed me to get close enough to see hope. I am building the bridge as I go. I have confidence that while the going may be terrifically hard and excruciatingly slow, by the time I get to the other side, I will have the tools and strength to tame the dragon of depression if a complete vanquishment is not possible.

Have faith in something. If not in yourself, in something outside of you. It will bring you strength, hope, commitment and maybe one day deliver you from depression.

know thyself

I posted before about leaving a group for my own good. I know that it sounds crazy to love a group of women as individuals, even as a group, yet not want to be part of the group. But there it is...when have I ever done anything completely sane?

Anyhow, knowing who I am has paid off. As soon as I cut ties to these wonderful ladies as a group, I allowed myself to venture out to other groups, nearer to me. I cut my safety net away and I have high hopes that it will pay off for myself and my kids.

What will rock even more is having my old friends still, but letting myself make new friends too.

It's not the waiting!

(first let me warn you, although this is the last of three entries today, it will show up first, so get ready for a blogfest)

After taking steps and making calls yesterday, I realized that my impression of my impatience was wrong. I always thought I could not stand uncertainty, couldn't stand waiting and not knowing. That's not it! It's the waiting and not doing. As soon as I start taking steps, preparing for the future one way or the other, my heart settles.

I am starting on a path and I am content to see where it leads me. I am not dragged along. I donned my hiking boots and grabbed a water bottle and set off with enthusiasm. This has happened before, and is certain to happen again. But whether it's moving, career, family, love...if I feel I am preparing myself for the future, I have no fears of it.

Because of a conversation with a former advisor, I learned all preparation doesn't have to be tangible. It can be spiritual and emotional also. I'm am learning where to go to find my peace, what liferaft I can cling to. I won't even stop and regret not asking for the help long ago. I will only rechoice that I have asked for it, and found it now.

Dear Mrs. Williams,

I've been meaning to write this letter for awhile now. You made my first year teaching high school harder than it needed to be. Instead of a mentor you were a tormentor.

I don't need to recount all the wrongs. They don't matter. What matters is the realization of your motivation behind them. Many mentors would say they needed to be tough to make sure a rookie teacher has a solid start. You took it to a whole new level. There were rumors of teachers before me falling apart and the teacher after me being on the verge of quitting. The faculty knew what you were, yet were powerless to stop a tenured teacher. Maybe you had terrorized them in the past, because surely co-workers that had known you for years would have spoken up as friends to point out your folly. Maybe there was fear there too. I have no idea what was happening in the county offices. They said they had many complaints about you, yet their hands were tied until a more egregious offense.

My theory about you is that you are a small person in search of power. That's why you enjoyed the horse races so much. Imagine those tiny jockeys just controlling those massive animals. You were short, you were a woman and you were black. I can only imagine what growing up in the decades before mine were like. They left you with a taste of resentment that you had to pour out on those you had power over. There was a limit to what you could do to the students, because the parents in that county had all the say. So you brandished your power over the fledgling teachers.

What did you accomplish? Did you weed those that aren't meant for teaching from the herd? Or did you do the scholastic community a disservice by leaving us with a bad taste in our mouths for teaching?

I loved teaching, and I loved the students. What turned everything sour was my experience with you and the resulting realizations about the power of the faculty. If you don't have their support, a hard job becomes a burden instead of a challenge. Teaching is indeed a career where dinosaurs rule. If you happen upon an 'old skool' school, the tenured have the power and refuse to see any new ideas as good.

Even now though, years later, I smile at the memory of what my students accomplished. I feel that it reflects on me as a teacher. And nothing pleases me more about my relationship with you than to know that the students I taught, many of them your former students, passed the Standards of Learning under my care after they had failed through you. Somewhere, I managed to give them a spark of learning you couldn't impart. Napoleon has her Waterloo, she just doesn't know it yet.

Healingway Part two

I have been doing a lot of thinking about a Healingway, even if I haven't written about it here.

I've realized that just like labor, there will be a path that is different for each person we celebrate in a Healingway. I had also started thinking about the Healingway as an ending, when it's really a beginning, just like the Blessingway. Imagine the power of your closest friends and family setting you out on the path to healing! Knowing that they have helped you give birth the to process, and if you feel you steps falter, they are there to steady you.

Don't get me wrong, you still have to find your own way, but you won't be doing it alone. I recently talked to someone who has been a blessing in my past. She told me about counselors that actually worked on healing those old wounds instead of opening them up over and over. People who helped you remove the residual cancers of sadness, regrets and pain. How come help like that is so hard to find? It reminds me of a quote from Harry Potter, where Harry asks Ron, "Are these doctors?" Ron answers, "Doctors? Those muggle nutters that cut people up? No, these are Healers." Forgive any liberties, I know it's not an exact quote, but you get the idea.

For those that can't find a Healer, I want to continue learning about the different paths to healing, and maybe one day anyone will be able to start on their journey with a Healingway.

Walking through the gentle autumn day, so many sensations float past me. I'm infused with a sense of happiness for the moment. As I lift my daughter to my shoulders, it hits me again that I am the grownup. My time of the heady joy of someone sweeping you along, higher than the world on their shoulders is long past. Instead of regretting that it didn't happen often enough, I smiled at the thought of carrying my children high so they could reach for the clouds.

As I turn the corner, the acrid sent of burning leaves fills my nostrils. I'm reminded of an assignment from my 9th grade English teacher, Mrs. Evans. One of the options was to describe newly mown grass. I chose the simpler task of describing the state I had lived in the longest until then, California. But now, I understand. I'm still not sure how I would describe freshly mown grass, but I would describe the smouldering smell of the leaves as chances gone. The smell of burning leaves still swirling through my senses, another familiar smell pushed its way in. The smell of fresh laundry, hot in the dryer. The smell of promise and futures. Preparing for the days ahead with crisp clothes, comforting to all of your senses.

The sharp smell of the leaves, while not unpleasant, served its purpose. It made me appreciate the clean smell of laundry all the more. The two smells swirled about for awhile, then disappeared. The memories stay for much longer though.

Four Times a Rule Breaker

No solid food and no milk products after midnight-
whoops, she nursed. Although breastmilk is technically not dairy so I'll let myself slide. It isn't on the list of acceptable clear liquids though.

Notify surgeon if symptoms of a cold appear-
we had a ped check up on Monday, she was free and clear. Tuesday afternoon a runny nose started. I didn't feel she was too sick, so I didn't call. I was right, her lungs were checked and cleared.

No siblings please-
with P. out of town and us leaving at 4:15 am, there was nobody to watch C. So to the hospital he came with us.

Please note women who are pregnant or breastfeeding may not enter the operating room-
uh, ok. I wasn't actively breastfeeding. That counts, right? What- my breasts were going to spread diseases just by having milk in them? Next on Dateline: More dangerous than a runny nose, more infectious than an open sore- it's the lactating breast!

It was a hard, scary experience. But J. sailed through it and C. was a trouper during all the waiting. What was it? Fixing of the teeth. You can see her modelling her new choppers above. While dentists are hesitant to confirm it, I am convinced bad teeth (esp. baby teeth) run in our family. I believe it's enamel hypoplasia (or something like that). I had the same problems with my top 4 teeth, so did C. and J. From what I understand so did two of my brothers and at least one neice. Most dentists blame it on 'bottle-mouth' but not all of us were bottlefed (C. and J. sure weren't). I'm just glad this one was able to fix everything for J. Two of her front uper teeth were chipping away from the inside, one of the center teeth was rotting away (you could see a black circle). C. had the same problem, the same cavities. His dentist said it was because of night nursing, I still don't get that. The nipple is pulled back to the soft palate (well behind the front teeth) and only releases milk when sucked. Since neither child is a tummy sleeper, there's no way they didn't swallow milk and it pooled in the front of the mouth.

C.'s dentist also papoosed him (tied him down to work on him) since he was 3yo and uncooperative. He then yanked two teeth and filled the other with metal amalgam, finishing off with two ugly side caps. With this dentist, we can't even tell these aren't J's teeth.

I love my little girl, and now I can love her smile!

what i am doing right

With all my negativity lately, I thought maybe I should think about the good things.

I have been allowing myself more creative outlets. Writing more, even if most of it is for this blog.

I have been keeping the house orderly, although every surface could use a good wipedown.

I'm accomplishing more and making less excuses for what I don't do. I allow myself lazy time without guilt.

I am recognizing in my head (if not my heart) that I deserve to be loved. That I deserve time to myself. That I deserve to be an individual.

I am letting go of some resentments, some slower than others, but still, it's an accomplishment.

I am going out and doing things of my own accord; over the years, moreso in the past two, I have made myself a shut-in off and on. Doing things that don't have to be done is a big step.

I suppose, what is most hard to hold onto, is looking forward to a better future than my past (I have always lived under the assumption that things would get worse- woah- I'm a pessimist- who knew!) Even though the past is hard, there is the chance of a brighter future as long as I don't let anyone, especially myself, stand in the way.

Happy Feet, Sad Mom

With the husband/father person out of town, I decided we deserved a couple of hours off and we set off to the movie theater. Both the kids have been loving the previews for Happy Feet and it looked like something I could enjoy (with the bonus of the Harry Potter trailer in the previews).

It is a very cute movie. I honestly didn't even recognize Hugh Jackman's voice, he did such a good job at being the character "Memphis". Nicole Kidman was back in her Moulin Rouge glory and Robin Williams was...Robin Williams. I think he could have been better (see the Genie in Alladin) but he still added quite a few laughs to the movie. Catchy songs, cute penguins a great initial message: it's ok to be different.

Both kids (6yo and 2yo) were good through it. At one point, J. had happy feet of her own, tip-tapping while the music played. C. just had a happy bum...wiggling because, as he said, "This is loooooooooong."

There came a point where the message wasn't just the quest to find your heart song (whether vocalized or tap-danced) but also about people encroaching on animal habitats. It felt awful to see how we're making an impact, even in Antartica.

There was a point where I thought- how can this end happily? Not only are they teaching us it's ok to be different, but they're lecturing us about our impact on the planet. From that I can see why Steve Irwin was involved (he did the voice for an elephant seal). But it resulted in me leaving the theater filled with guilt. Maybe justified, but not what I expected to feel after a kids movie called Happy Feet.

What might have felt better was to have some solutions included at the end. I waited in vain through the majority of the credits for that- and some sort of dedication to Steve Irwin, but saw nothing. The kids could have distracted me during a crucial second, but overall nothing came of the heavy message.

saying goodbye

One more post for the day (on a roll, huh?)

Recently I left a group I have been in for years. I got to the point that seeing interactions/non-interactions was a negative experience to me. Let me emphasize: to me. It's all about my perception and what I could handle. Individually, they are fantastic women. Even as a group, just wonderful. But the particular dynamics weren't something I could handle in my life at this point.

I didn't want to leave in a huff of drama, like I have seen others leave email loops. The melodramatic good-bye posts are often really a ploy to get others to beg them to stay. So I just quietly left, figuring nobody would notice/comment for awhile.

What was there to say? No matter how I say it, it would seem like an accusation. Ya'll aren't meeting my needs at this point and I would like to move on instead of trying to live in the past and recapture the golden years. But that reads wrong, since (as the old break-up line says) its not you (all), it's me. It's my lack of the social ins and outs that other women seem to have. It's my fear of asking for help while intensily longing to have very close connections. I don't expect anybody else to meet my needs as I often don't even know what my needs are.

I just wanted to leave while leaving was a strength for me. While I was doing it for the right reasons, to decrease the negative feelings I have. The only problem, is because I have seperated myself so quietly, and I already have a habit of not reaching out, I fear that I have cut myself out of their lives completely rather than just this aspect of it. And par for the course, I don't know how to fix it.

Coda: Who I am

I just wanted to make clear, I am not throwing a pity party. Part of what throws me about myself is the fact that things could have been so much worse, yet I am still so messed up.

I know and have seen people who had so much more go wrong in their lives, and yet they are so together. I just don't get what is in me that I can't do the same.

My heart goes out to all the little children in people that went through so much more than I did.

one step forward, two steps back

Somehow, no matter what steps I try to take to make myself healthier, it seems like I just contribute to staying as I am.

I accept who I am. I don't like it, so I try to change. The problem is the act of change when habits are so deeply ingrained.

Do I purge, letting everything out and wash over me like a tidal wave? Will that release and cleanse me in such a way that I can move on, move past? Or do I find the right building blocks to contain who I was and on the other side of the dam create who I want to be?

To some extent, I have tried both ways, and they haven't worked. I still sometimes hate who I am to my very core. I'm puzzled, how can I look at what has made me, me; know the influences, know the patterns and yet still not fight myself free from them. Devil's snare I suppose- the more you fight it (a bit of a HP movie reference there ;) ). I hesitate to go to someone for help, because the hope hurts worse when they don't help. I have known one person that gave me toold that worked, but mere months later I had to move away.

Right now I have two options of promising churches, and after this weekend I will pick one. Here's hoping it will help, it did once. Meanwhile, I think I will email my old pastor and get some perspective, and unconditional love like my Gram used to give me. That's always a good thing.

The Precipice of a Choice

You know how it feels when you have a big choice to make, right? The kind where nothing feels right, there's no real answer?

Well, I get so wrapped up in the act of making the choice itself that I forget what it feels like when the choice is made. It's a huge relief. You know you'll have second thoughts later and maybe regrets, but until then, nothing feels better than having the weight of choice making off of your shoulders.

You feel confident, you feel like you have a direction to take in life. You feel like you have flown off of the precipice and all that's left is the waiting to see how you land.

That, on the other hand, is a whole other weight to deal with. But for now, you're flying and free and you can live in that moment.

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part Four)

I look at the women in my life, past and present, to discover who I want to be.

I want to be like my Gram, who had so much affection in her marriage, even as her life faded from her, her love for Boompa was still strong. She saw who I really am and still loved me. I still hold her unconditional love to my heart. Her life was sometimes the only thing that kept me alive and her death nearly broke me. Knowing that she saw the reality that I lacked a childhood still touches me to no end. She loved me enough to notice, even living thousands of miles away for much of my life.

I want to be like my third grade teacher (well, one of them, the second one I had after moving to Alaska). Her self confidence and strength were uplifting.

I want to be part of a close-knit family like my close high school friend, B. It could be frustrating, but she knew there was always someone there for her. I want to be interesting and have many topics I can talk about like my friends C. and I. They are women who have lived, who are intelligent and witty and not afraid to be themselves.

I want to be a patient mother like J. and R. Also, R. is just so accepting of who her children are, and works with them at their need levels. She also has the patience and fun attitude that I admire in G.

I want to be confident as a wife and businesswoman and mother like K. She knows what in her life works.

I want my faith to shine through me like T's does. She is the embodiment of what a Christian is to me. She lives the Word and holds it close to her heart. S. is striving for that too, and I just admire her so much for finding a resting place in her life and letting go of the torment of a sad childhood, so much more than I have ever been able to.

I want to be like M. She can be negative (er...a realist), but has such a zest for life that it more than makes up for negative spells. Of all the people I have met, she comes closest to reaching back to me. To just accepting me as I am.

I want a marriage with steady companionship like C., she's married to her high school love and it has not faded with time. I want a marriage like I's, who found the strength to leave an abusive husband, even with two children. And then found even more strength and loved herself enough that when a good man came along, she was able to accept that she deserved love and joy. I want a marriage like M. She can talk to her spouse about anything and not be judged. When they are feeling weak, they lean on each other and grow stronger.

I want to deserve love- and know that I deserve it. I want to stop hating myself, my very being. I want to one day celebrate the day I was born and mean it. I want someone else to celebrate my life and mean it.

I want to create. I want the confidence to put myself out there. I want to know what I want to do when I grow up. I want to find my bliss, instead of just taking the safe path. I want to go to my death knowing that I have found as much joy as I could. I want to wash away my regrets, or at least have fewer in my future. I want my children to look back at any point in their lives and think, "I really liked my childhood."

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part three)

At barely 19, I started out in this new, parent-free phase of my life. They didn't contribute anything to my life, material or otherwise at first. It's actually sad how easily detached we all were. But again, there I was, starting an entire life over with new people and new responsibilities. I was overwhelmed and that's when the depression really started to grow. It was like a snake, each stage of my life it shed its skin, but only to grow and change slightly, just enough to keep me off balance. I remember when I was really young, learning the concept of suicide and thinking that was actually a good idea. I became obsessed with the idea of what happens after we die. It's the great mystery that nobody knows until they experience it. The first time I tried to commit suicide I was twelve. My mom had sent one of her BS "I care about you enough to guilt you" letters. My dad had me write a letter stating exactly how I felt then throw it away. It was later that night. It was dark and I was in the living room. Crying quietly enough not to wake someone, but loudly enough that anyone who was awake with concern over me could hear. I wanted to be held, I wanted comfort. But I couldn't go ask for it for fear of rejection. I realized my entire life would feel like this, over and over. So I wrote a tearful goodbye note and placed a plastic bag over my head. I lasted until I was very close to passing out, then ripped it off in fearful panic. I crawled into my bed, huddled in the fetal position and cried myself to sleep.

That's who I am now, still. Hurt easily by those I love, afraid to ask for comfort because I am certain it will lead to more rejection and pain.

We went through a year of college. I paid for the first semester on my own, by the second I had earned my financial aid back. At the end of the year, we decided we were in love and didn't want to be separated for the summer. We decided to get an apartment. I suppose I should have seen the sign that he was reluctant to be with me when he drove off with a friend the day of the move leaving me to move the contents of our dorm rooms to our apartment all by myself.

I got a job at the local fabric store and that when the see-saw of bills and resentment began.

I don't think that at this point in my life it is productive to go over what happened in my marriage. I just know that I built on old patterns over and over again. I expected and hoped for love and compassion from someone who couldn't give it to me. I was afraid to ask for it because of rejection and because I believed that showed me as weak, yet another awful trait I wanted to erase.

Even now, I ache to be held but hold myself back from asking and reaching out. I tell myself not to be a burden only to find out that's all I am. I haven't grown much past the 12year old that was convinced life was pain, love was a hopeless dream and she was worthless.

I have felt successful as a mother. There I have been able to give all the love I know how to and have it reflected back to me. Where I stumble is falling into the pattern of being one of my parents. And the guilt from doing such wonderful souls wrong. They started out pure, lit with love and needs. I try to keep them like that for as long as possible, yet my own past gets in the way. I hate one more thing about myself, just because I fear my past is making their future.

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part two)

One Christmas, after Dad was remarried, we went for a visit. Suddenly he was more present and even my stepmom was fun. I wasn't someone to be tolerated or packed away to be ignored. I remember getting on the plane, crying. Watching dad through the window, his head in his arms sobbing. I was loved- well, we were loved, but for once I felt like part of it.

That summer, I experienced what other kids did for one of the first times in my life. Girl Scouts, summer camp, family kite flying. Things I thought were only in TV shows. When I got back to moms, I knew I didn't belong there. I begged to be sent back to Dad. I don't know what had to happen, lots of grownup negotiations. I do know that a month later I was being packed up while mom threw every guilt trip in the book at me. She wouldn't let me take all of my cherished possessions. This was to be a one month trial, she would send them to me after the month was over.

I loved being at my Dad's. It wasn't just being an only child. Suddenly I wasn't in trouble as much. Suddenly my 'parents' were doing things for me. I moved there around Halloween, my stepmom sewed me a beautiful (to me) Halloween dress from pink gingham. Puffy sleeves, ribbon trim, full skirt, complete with a hoop petticoat. Her hairdresser friend did my hair in a bun with ringlets and flowers, and I was beautiful. It was a stark contrast to when my mom used to dress me up in pink and curl my hair in Kindergarten (every day) telling me, "Your sister is a natural beauty, you need some help." I wore the dress again when we visited Calico Ghost town, and again for the Thanksgiving dinner with Janet's family. Never before had I been with people who used special plates and multiple utensils for dinner. The worst things I got in trouble for were for manners (I had never been taught about them before) and speaking too loudly while inside.

Of course the month came and went and I wanted to stay. Because of that, my Dad's transfer to Clark AFB in the Philippines went through. It had been on hold until he had full custody of me. We packed up and moved to the Philippines. Well, I packed what I had. My mom claimed she had packed my treasured books and toys into garbage bags to store them and then accidentally thrown everything away. So my life was to start completely new. New things, new parents, new country even. But the same fear, deep inside, that I would screw up and not be loved.

I adjusted very well to the Philippines. Maybe not so well to being a nuclear family. I started avoiding homework, not doing well in school. They called me lazy because they knew I could do the work but wouldn't. I know I'm not perfect, but looking back, there was a chance I was a child trying to adjust to a completely new life. It was at this time that Janet started taking me to my first of new counselors. I was now a problem child for them. Besides the schoolwork, I wet the bed and the ever present messy room. Obviously I had issues.

I was nearly 11yo and getting into fights with my stepmom and not hearing from my mother most months. Yes, I was the awful person that other people didn't love- even people who should automatically love you. Janet would yell at me that I loved my father more. Of course I did, but I felt guilty. I got a post card from my Great Nana Mann. She had visited the family not long after I left and was so sad to miss me. I kept that postcard as a badge of guilt for years. Finally, many years later, I discussed the visit with my sister. Only there had never been a visit. She confirmed the postcard was a fake. Too bad the guilt that lived within me was real.

Then came a time when Janet was pregnant. We were all thrilled. But after Matthew was born, I did even more things wrong. Rather, they were the same things, but the pressure of two kids made any little thing harder to take. Now, as a mom of two kids and a husband that is at work often, I understand that. I would commiserate with all my heart, maybe write a letter to Janet that was full of apologies and thanks. Except she had live in help in the form of a housegirl that not only cleaned, but watched us. Or, there was always the 12yo to watch the baby. One night, in a knock down drag out fight, I locked myself in the bathroom. Hoping to retreat from the pain, anger, fear. Janet banged ton the door until the cheap wood reverberated. She threatened to call the fire department to break it down. I dared her, knowing full well she would never want to admit to them she couldn't control her child. I think that's when the dance of anger and guilt and retreat began for me. Another time, she was holding baby Matt, yelling at me because I had shaved my legs without permission. The fight kept growing and growing. I was growing and growing and she wanted to control every aspect of my life, even person hygiene. I said something snotty for her, and she said, "I should slap you for that." In the snottiest preteen voice ever, I told her, "You wouldn't dare, you're holding your precious baby." She promptly put her precious baby on the edge of the bed and smacked my face as hard as she could. The world dropped from under my feet and I learned I was now step-daughter. I had been replaced by a biological child. I was Pinocchio, screwing up time after time and he was the real boy, longed for heart and sole.

During all this time, I was a project to be fixed. I was too smart, must be bored in class, that's why the school issues. So I was tested and moved up to a Talented and Gifted class. But I still fell short of expectations. Where I excelled didn't matter, only where I faltered. She spent time reading self-help books on how to fix me. Then Matt had his first seizure. Suddenly he was the project to be fixed. Sadly, I missed the attention. Because any child needs attention, even if all they can get is the negative kind.

I bounced from being Janet's friend and confidant while Dad was away to being the pain of her existence. Just like Mom, I never quite knew when I was going to mess up. I never quite knew what behaviors would tip the scale one way or another. I honestly tried to be good. I was true to my friends and heartbroken when their 12yo selves couldn't return the fervence. I helped out other kids, stuck up for what I thought was right and spent all of my allowance on other people. It was like I was trying to buy love with good works. I had a pattern of befriending people and expecting things. If they were more wounded than I was, I was the person there to help. If they seemed to have it together, I expected them to understand and be there for me. But most kids are too young to understand someone needs help if they never have. It's like there's a mark on you that you can only see if you have been marked yourself.

Finally, our tour in the Pearl of the Orient was over. I had my last weeks with the two close friends I had made. I wanted every moment I could. Calonte was staying, as her dad was a DoDDS teacher and she didn't move as much. Susan's dad was transferring out also. I wore myself out walking miles just to go to my school the last days. Since there was a nearer school, I was supposed to go to that one. But I hadn't wanted to switch and lose my friends, so when we had moved (after being allotted a larger house after Matt was born) I asked to be allowed to bike to my school. My parents allowed me. But our belongings were packed in those last weeks, including my bicycle. The trip took longer and I slept harder. One morning, after sleeping through the alarm, my stepmom woke me much later than I should have been up. She was almost gleeful as she told me I was late for school. When I shouted at her for not waking me earlier, my Dad barged in, picking me up by the collar and slamming me against the wall, feet hanging helpless in the air as his forearm pressed against my neck. We had come full cycle. Now he was doing for my stepmom what he had done for my mom. I was only Daddy's girl as long as his woman was happy with me.

We moved to North Carolina, my ego shrinking as I realized how out of place I was. I was clueless in the feminine ways, while living in the South, the core of feminine expectations. I was struggling to find friends in a place where everyone had known each other their entire school careers, some for generations. Their parents had been friends with each other while I hadn't even lived with the same set of parents my entire life.

I found my niche, mostly. But if I had a hard time figuring out how to balance friendships with girls, boys were a complete mystery. I just knew I wasn't pretty enough (hadn't mom told me often enough?) and I couldn't see what other qualities I had that a boy would like. After all, I had surely been told I was lazy and messy and had no idea how to make a future for myself. I was afraid to put myself out there, because if my life taught me anything, it was that the more people knew of me, the less they loved me. Therefore, I must make sure not to let myself be seen. I must be what other people expected and wanted.

The problem with that was that my stepmom complained that I must have more help. When I got upset, I built a wall and shoved everything behind it. She could see my face go from anger, sadness, fear to nothing and it scared her. But what else was I to do with those feelings? Letting them out brought negative reactions and so did hiding them. I was at a loss, even after weekly conversations with the school shrink and more still with one of Janet's picking. Those became doubled when my sister came to live with us for a brief period. Then he got cancer and died and she ran away, back to my mother and her life of welfare, mooching and pot. Knowing how my sister lived with that and what attitudes she had at the cusp of her young adulthood, I am even more proud of who she has become now. But I just wonder, what is wrong with me that I can't make the same strides. What is the difference between the two of us?

In school, while I had shining moments, my parents kept telling me it wasn't good enough. So with a GPA on the high end of 3.something and an SAT score of 1200, I was convinced enlisting in the Air Force was the only outlet for me. I wasn't fit for anything else. My step-grandmother was determined I try college, so she paid for a year as my graduation present. It was too late to apply and be accepted, so I applied for later acceptance at the school my best friend was going to and waited out the time going to community college while working night shift in McDonalds. Nights until 3am sometimes then getting up for school was hard. The days I didn't have school, I was still expected to be out of the house by 8am. I spent many days, bundled in my junker car, coat, layers of clothes and blankets, trying to sleep through the winter morning so I could stay awake on the drive home from work that night. I paid for most everything on my own. It was ok, a habit I was already in. After all, I had to pay the SAT fees and college applications with my own money, painstakingly earned at $2 an hour babysitting. It sure set my expectation level low when I went to college.

The problem with trying to continue going to college after that first semester was that financial aid assumes if you have parents, they will help in some way. They didn't know my parents. In addition, I had picked the wrong classes for my first semester in college. Latin? Seriously, I was at least thinking it would give me a good base as a writer while fulfilling my foreign language requirement. Then, I also fell in love. And for the first time I was loved back. I couldn't believe my luck. He was so handsome, so smart, so good with people. I let it consume me.

During this time, I rarely heard from my parents. Other kids had weekly calls and some care packages. I had the rule I wasn't allowed home on weekends unless invited. To tell the truth, I didn't want to be back there. I was loved, I was learning, I was free. Until the semester ended and it was time to go back home. The rules were set again. If you live with us, you pay rent, do a third of the housework and yard work and take care of yourself (feeding, cleaning and material needs). Oh, and be out of the house during the hours 8am-5pm. They expected that on top of that, I would be moving with them the Washington state when Dad retired from the Air Force. That somehow, I would move to a new state and find out how to pay for college with no financial aid and out of state tuition.

I decided to stay with my friend's parents. They had less rent for me to pay, less rules and they wouldn't require me to 'play the field' on my boyfriend while he was in boot camp. I still remember standing on the bench in my dorm lobby, hugging him and not wanting to let go while his friend shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. I promised him I would be faithful, what was there for me in that country town anyway? I proudly wore my silver band, a promise ring. We were too young to be engaged I thought, so instead of an engagement ring, he bought us matching silver bands.

I knew the only way I could earn the funds to go to college in that area was to work at the local pickle plant. I got a job there, operating the huge machines that processed the pickles on their way to being jarred. It was 12 hrs a night, 7pm to 7am, six days a week. Drudgery and boredom. The only thing that I could hold onto was the promise of the future- my education, my love. For Father's Day, I got off work and went to my parents' house. I crashed onto my old bed, in my room which had been redecorated and turned into a sewing room my first week. It seemed like only minutes later my stepmother was screaming in my face. Apparently, my brother had come in to wake me up for breakfast and I yelled, "Get the fuck out of my room!" I was no longer welcome in their home at all, sleep deprivation and lack of memory of the incident didn't count. Even after a long talk with my dad about it, I just knew I was an unwelcome guest. So I walked to the nearest phone and called for a ride to my 'rental' family and their home. I clung to the only sign of love in my life, sporadic letters from my soon-to-be-a-Marine boyfriend. They were filled with his misery and occasional dirty talk. No sweet nothings there, but I still knew there was someone out there loving me and thinking of me and holding onto my memory as a raft in adversity, just as I was doing with the memory of him. When it came time for my parents to leave, I hardly missed them. I had stepped fully into the newest stage of my life. Who I am now. The strange mix of confidence and self-doubt. The yearning for complete love while absolutely certain there is no love for me. Self-hatred but too afraid to end things. Hopeful for the future but scared that it would be just like the past.

While living with Dad and Janet, I was constantly told that they didn't want me to grow up to be like my mom, leaning on everyone. Asking them to carry her. In their quest to make me independent, they made me afraid to ask for help. I don't know if the lesson I learned is the one they intended to teach, but either way, it has not worked well for me. We are not islands. We are not rocks. We are people and need to lean on each other occasionally. In being strong, I have only weakened myself.

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part One)

When my parents were married, I remember being a normal kid for the family life we had. I tried hard to make my parents happy. Mom never seemed pleased. Dad did, but then he was rarely home. Words like TDY and graveyard shift only meant, to me, that I didn't see daddy. Back in those days, there wasn't a phrase called "quality time", so when I did, he was hanging out with friends, working on cars and motorcycles, drinking beers and smoking. I knew early on that Marlboros and Coors were what we kept in our house. I would fetch the beer, when I got old enough, I would open it and sneak sips from the can. I didn't get why they liked it so much, but I wanted to try. Once, I remember getting ready for bed without being told and Dad was so proud, he swung me up in the air and hugged me. So I kept trying to get ready on my own but that never happened again. By the time I was in Kindergarten, the fights were full force. I did my best not to anger mom, she would strike out at a moment's notice. But even trying to be good didn't work, because she would punish me for things I didn't do. Once she accused me of eating her chocolate mints. I knew I didn't, but she smelled my breath and pronounced she smelled them on my breath and punished me. I have vague memories of hiding in an old dog house, but none of a dog.

I know from stories from dad that I was stubborn and precocious. I remember trying hard to be good, but it was impossible. I wanted to run and jump and play. I wanted to be swung in the air, to be cuddled and held. I wanted to feel special. But there was my big sister and little brother, always being more right than me. Not too long ago, Dad told me that mom made me the "bad one" and he went along with it. That I took more punishment than the others growing up and it sure felt like it.

When the fights went all out, more fear started. Mom taking us out, late nights bowling with her friends. So late we were the only kids there, sitting at the bar trying to mooch maraschino cherries and olives, anything to snack on I suppose. It was the same with dad, except with him, we were at Amvets. Not always at night. Sometimes they had barbecues and family parties. I remember they had a post outside, cinder blocks leading like steps up and down. I would walk those over and over, waiting for dad. Playing in the back 'yard', loving how the doors to the ladies room were western style- you just had to bang them open like a gunslinger in a saloon. Of course, after dad's seizure in our bathroom at home (Stace also had a fainting spell there) I was afraid of all bathrooms and the loud flushing and the mirrors. Scary things happened in the bathroom, just listen to the tales of saying "Bloody Mary" to the mirror in the dark.

My parents' marriage culminated in us sleeping over with mom's "friend" Jim, curled up on a narrow bed in complete darkness, a tiny window what seemed like miles above and afraid to make any noise. One day, we come home to the coffee table chopped to bits, Dad's machete thrust deep in the remains. After that, it is a blur of things. Dad driving us through the desert, deep darkness surrounding us and he railed about mom taking his kids to that man's place. A near fight in front of Jim's place, sleeping at the baby sitter's house, I never liked going, there was something there that made me feel bad. I still can't remember what, but maybe it was sleeping on the floor instead of in my own bed. Dad had us for the longest. I think mom had truly run off. But then there was the courtroom. Being asked to choose, crying about wanting both. Mom not wanting me, but getting me. The memory of a display about coins and indigenous Indian baskets. Years later, when I was13 or 14, we came back and Dad got a ticket there and we went to the courthouse. There, from the shadows of my memory were the displays. Oddly, I felt comforted, knowing there was a real memory in there rather than one from the recesses of my retreat of choice, my imagination.

We sat at a friend's house, watching The Fog, scared and lonely and wondering why mom left us out of her wedding. Why weren't we a part of the love? Soon, we moved to Alaska and my retreat became even more complete. I buried myself in books. The only time mom took notice of me was to lock me in my room, sans breakfast/lunch/dinner until it was clean. I remember eating tubes of toothpaste because I was so hungry, stealing coins from my mom's purse to buy snacks at school. Standing in front of the washer that seemed so huge, wondering how I was supposed to use it, yet knowing I had to- because mom told me to do the laundry. I was only eight. Instead of cleaning, I spent that time reading Amelia Bedelia and the Oz series. I wished and honestly thought that if I thought and imagined hard enough, I could be taken to another world. I loved on my doll, crying into her matted hair and truly believing she was alive and had feelings- that she felt for me when nobody else seemed to.

All this time, I always second guessed myself. I loved people, but was afraid I was unlovable. Every friend and act of friendship was a gift. Every act of anger, cruelty and school child thoughtlessness was a betrayal and evidence that I was unlovable. Somehow, I was this person embracing life, wanting to live out loud yet afraid of what would happen if I did.

disquiet

Some days, when I appear all peaceful inside, underneath feelings are churning so much I can't even tell one from another. It's when I want to connect with someone else, but I don't know who or how. When you can't even name what's going on to yourself, how can you talk about it with someone else?

I've been told I overthink things, and I'm sure that's right. I suppose though, that I would rather overthink things than be a person who never thinks about anything. I've seen those people and their lives seem incredibly boring.

mix tapes

So when we were young, the thing to do was make mix tapes. I remember taping directly from the radio, pausing between songs, trying not to have duplicates. As I got older, they became jokes, "What, you made him a mix tape?" *sneer*

Now, in these days of technology, we make mix CDs, or possibly mix iPod playlists. Gone are the days of going through tapes, syncing up and trying to rewind those three seconds to make it perfectly timed.

A friend of mine recently made me a couple of mix CDs. I listened to them, now and then reading a bit of the notes she sent along with them. Today was the first day I listened all the way through, reading the entire letter. Let's just say I am glad I was having a strong day. Her life and mine had parallels, we've thought and felt the same things. It's funny how music speaks to people and creates a pocket of a memory you can call up at a few notes. Some of the songs totally made me feel the same way. Others, I had strong memories of my own.

"Losing my Religion" will always be a parody song to me. In our HS, we had the requisite high achiever. He happened to hook up with one of the 'easy' girls. Rumor had it that one night he lost his virginity to her. Then spent an hour in the shower trying to wash everything off to assure he didn't catch anything from her (no word on what she felt about this post-coital sterilization attempt). So, among my friends, the song lyrics, "That's me in the shower. That's me in the spotlight, losing my virginity. Trying to wash the stank of you...but I don't know if I could do it..." became almost as popular as the song.

I'm glad I had those moments to make me smile, because just knowing my friend cared so much, that she knew I hurt often, that my self-esteem is so low, that I need to take care of myself more, it made me cry in a bittersweet way. I knew I wasn't calling out into the darkness with nobody hearing. There is someone there who cares.

Moonscape

It's that time again. I already have one Fyrebranded Kozy up for auction, this is a preview of one that will be ready at the end of the week. Inspired by my time looking out our upstairs window while living in Hawaii, I wanted a moonscape, yet I kept the colors the sea breathes during the daytime:

Here we go again...

I decided on a simpler Fyrebranded Kozy this time. It's a panel, the hardest part was getting the dye right. Why so simple? Because I have a harder one set out, waiting for the onerous job of stitching every line ;)

The colors are very much richer IRL:

Gotta Love Dove!

http://www.boardsmag.com/screeningroom/commercials/3421/

There are more and more "the man behind the curtain" sites these days, but I think this video from Dove really makes it real, esp. for the younger crowd. What got me is the photo editing of an already beautiful woman.

I shudder to think that my daughter will grow up in a world that compares her to these hybrid cyber-models. I can only hope the pendulum is swinging the other way- and soon.

Other before/after sites:
http://www.fluideffect.com/ (Select potfolio and then before and after)
http://homepage.mac.com/gapodaca/digital/bikini/bikini1.html
http://demo.fb.se/e/girlpower/

the string around my finger

While searching for 'treats' to add to this blog, I came across some of my favorite pictures of the monkeys. Just as a reminder of what makes everything worth anything, a photo post:

a la peanut butter sandwiches

I wish I could just do that and take care of things. I am so tired of the day in day out taking care of other people- other people who seem bent on undoing everything I accomplish.

Never a clean house
Never a full nights sleep
Never a request listened to
Never alone

It's the last one that gets to me. I'm never alone yet usually lonely. I don't have whatever connections I need to feel complete. And yes, this is a bad day. It's worse because there have been so many good days lately. But I am so tired and feel so behind. I don't get at all why I can't do what the other moms can. What is lacking in me that doesn't desire to spend more time just entertaining these hairless monkeys?

Not to mention I start a thousand diets a day, only to 'reward' myself with a treat for being patient, or to swallow food when I am frustrated. I want to be beautiful inside and out, but I feel like neither.

I have dreams of homeschooling, living an environmentally friendly life, being able to invite people in without having to shove things in corners, bedtimes, alone times, just feeling for once I am caught up and it will stay that way for a day. Instead, I just feel stuck.

Carry Me! Good for you, good for your baby. So why don’t we do it more?

I am 'reprinting' the following article, because often articles like this vanish from cyberspace.

Carry Me!

Good for you, good for your baby. So why don’t we do it more?

By Teresa Pitman

Lenore Kilmartin is convinced that carrying her baby saved his life. “OK, maybe the doctors who did the surgery also had something to do with it,” she concedes. “But I have no doubts that being carried around helped him.”

Liam, her fifth child, seemed healthy and normal at birth. Kilmartin took care of him just as she had her older children, carrying him in a sling or soft carrier most of the day while she did housework, went shopping and helped her other children.

“He did seem a little quieter than the others, but I thought that was just his personality,” she comments. “He nursed frequently but for short times — and that was easy to do with the sling.”

During a visit to the doctor when Liam was five months old, Kilmartin was shocked to discover that he had a serious heart defect. They went straight from their family doctor’s office to a paediatric heart specialist. The diagnosis? Liam had four holes in his heart and would need surgery to repair them.

“The doctor asked me, ‘Didn’t you notice his lips turning blue when he cried?’” Kilmartin recalls. “And I realized that he really never cried. He was always close to me, so if he started to fuss or squirm around, I could quickly shift his position or burp him or nurse him if that was what he wanted. He really never got to the point of crying hard.”

The doctor was also very impressed by Liam’s weight gain. “Most babies with heart problems like Liam’s, because they tire so easily, have problems gaining weight,” Kilmartin explained. “But Liam never tired himself out with crying, so his weight gain was very good. That meant he went into his surgery in good shape.”

He also made a rapid recovery — heading home six days after the operation. “I tucked him back into the sling and he continued to do well,” Kilmartin says.

Being carried has also been shown to be helpful to tiny premature babies. With these infants, it’s often called “kangaroo care” because it mimics the way mother kangaroos carry their babies in a pouch until the joey is more mature. The system originated in Colombia, South America, but research shows that when premature babies are carried in an upright position, skin to skin with their parents, they gain weight better, maintain body temperature and have better breathing and heart rates. Just as important, the parents feel a stronger attachment to the babies they have carried, and are less likely to abuse or neglect them.

Carrying may be good for babies with health problems, but what about normal, healthy infants? Is it a good idea, or will it spoil the baby?

Happy or Spoiled?
Harvey Karp, a California paediatrician and author of The Happiest Baby on the Block, suggests we should consider that all babies are really born “prematurely” — at least compared to most other newborn animals.

“It’s as though we made a contract with our babies,” he explains. “Human babies have large brains that continue to grow through the first years, and in order for the baby’s head to fit through the mother’s pelvis, it needs to be born while it is still pretty undeveloped. So the deal was, the baby promised to come out early and we promised to imitate a uterus. That means giving the baby the constant contact, movement and soothing sounds that would be part of the uterine environment.”

Karp adds: “The problem is that some parents are trying to wiggle out of the agreement. And babies let us know they’re not happy with us not keeping our part of the bargain the only way they can — by crying.”

Ronald Barr, professor of paediatrics at the University of British Columbia, says the link between carrying and reduced crying is very clear. He first discovered this in a 1986 study, where an extra two hours of carrying each day reduced the overall amount of crying by 43 percent.

Carrying a baby seems to make some other aspects of caregiving easier, which may reduce crying as well, says Barr. For example, the !Kung San in Africa — who carry their infants almost all the time — respond to every fret or whimper the baby makes within 10 seconds. That’s a lot easier to do when the baby is right there with you, not a wailing sound from upstairs heard through a baby monitor.

How important that quick response is may depend somewhat on your baby’s temperament. Barr cites research which showed that babies who were described as “irritable” — sensitive and intense in their responses — cried much less when their parents responded to them immediately and appropriately. Speed was important — if it took a long time for someone to arrive, these irritable infants became very hard to soothe.

Despite the clear benefits of carrying, Barr’s research shows that, in North America at least, babies are now being carried less, not more. “There is good data to show that our babies are spending more time in car seats and strollers, and less time in body contact with parents.”

Recent research by Barr, not yet published, looked at five-month-old babies in the province of Quebec. Barr recorded the total amount of “contact time” the babies had with their parents or caregivers over a period of 24 hours. This included feeding, diaper changing, dressing, bathing, carrying and holding — and the average was six hours. “That seems very low to me,” says Barr.

And it is much lower than in many countries around the world. Cathy Baldizon, a mother of two boys who formerly worked with CARE, says that when her family was living in Guatemala, the Mayan women carried their babies almost all the time, tied to their bodies with large shawls. “One day I was looking at a book that had photos of Asian women carrying their babies tied in shawls,” Baldizon recalls. “I showed the pictures to my Guatemalan friends, pointing out that these women carried their babies just like they did. Their reaction was puzzlement: ‘What’s the big deal? Don’t all mothers carry their babies this way?’ The idea that a mother wouldn’t carry her baby was just unimaginable to them.”

So why don’t more Canadian parents carry their babies? Barr says: “I think it is almost a side effect of the campaign to get babies into car seats in cars, which has been very successful. It just seems convenient to parents to move the baby around in the car seat even when they aren’t in the car, now that the seats have handles or can be popped into a stroller.”

Tonya Brock, the mother of two-year-old Lindsay and four-year-old Jason, says: “It’s the spoiling thing. I think people are worried that their babies won’t ever become independent or be able to separate if they carry them too much when they are babies. Certainly a lot of people said that to me when I was carrying Jason and Lindsay.”

Barr has heard similar comments. “Whenever I talk about the !Kung San people and how they carry their babies constantly and respond to them immediately, the first question I get is ‘Don’t they all grow up to be wimps?’ The answer to that is a very clear NO! There is no way you can consider these people to be wimps! Just to give one example — the !Kung San mothers give birth without any help and without crying out from pain. There are many more examples of their strengths.”

Barr also mentions a study done by Marjorie Elias, which compared babies of La Leche League leaders in the Boston area to other mothers. Barr says, “She found that the babies in the LLL group — who were carried more, responded to more quickly and nursed more frequently — did not become more demanding or cry more as they got older. They did not show any more ‘spoiled’ behaviours than the control group.”

Brock has also had people tell her, “The baby looks so uncomfortable,” when they saw Jason or Lindsay curled up in the sling. Once when she was walking quickly through an airport and carrying Lindsay, a woman stopped her and said, “You’re going to make your baby sick by jiggling her so much.”

Joan Grusec, professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, says parents shouldn’t worry about spoiling babies. “Babies most often cry because they are distressed in some way,” Grusec explains, “and physical contact is soothing and beneficial. The spoiling comes when the crying is deliberately used as a way of getting something else, such as attention. This is more likely to happen as children grow older. But carrying a baby in arms, a sling or soft carrier is a good idea — it provides both comfort and stimulation for the baby.”

The Carrying Continuum
Grusec adds that, in general, our culture doesn’t encourage parents to carry babies. She points out that “different cultures have different goals.” Close body contact for infants tends to be prevalent in cultures that value group harmony and interdependence. Other cultures value separation and autonomy — and Canada seems to fit into the second category.

“North American parents tend to use more visual contact and play with objects, and this is seen as facilitating greater separation,” Grusec explains.

Of course, Canadian society is by no means a homogeneous mixture, like a puréed soup. We’re more like a stew with a variety of different foods, so we have some parents who carry their babies a lot because of their cultural background or philosophy of parenting, others who carry them some of the time, and others who rarely take them in arms. These parents may have different aspirations for their children, different child-rearing goals. As Grusec says: “Parents are comfortable with different things. There are many ways of raising children (including whether or not to carry them) and, within reasonable limits, most things work.”

The baby’s temperament may be a factor too in determining whether or not the baby gets carried. If carrying is the best — or only — way to soothe your crying baby, you may end up doing it a lot even if it wasn’t part of your planned approach to parenting. Tonya Brock says that easygoing Lindsay would probably be fine with less carrying, but Jason was a different story. “He was very fussy as a baby — not only did he need to be carried, but he needed me to keep moving,” she recalls. “Carrying him was the only way we could both be happy.”

When Brock returned to work seven months after Jason’s birth, she spent quite a bit of time searching for a daycare provider who would continue to carry Jason. “I think the fact that Chantelle was willing to hold him made a big difference in how he adjusted to being in daycare,” Brock says.

Sometimes carrying is just the practical way to go. With Jason a very active toddler when Lindsay was born, Brock found a carrier for her daughter was a very practical accessory. “It left my hands free to get work done, and I didn’t have to worry about leaving her behind to chase after Jason.”

So should parents carry their babies more? Barr has a lot of trouble with the word “should.”

All other things being equal, the more body contact time you have with your baby, the better,” he says. “If you can carry your baby more, you will both benefit because your baby will cry and fuss a lot less. But I also recognize that people may have important reasons that prevent them from carrying their babies, and so it can be a trade-off. The baby who is carried less will cry more, but will grow up just fine.”

In the end, Brock and Kilmartin both say they carried their babies “because it felt right.” Brock adds: “There is something about the feel of their little bodies and the way they mould themselves to you and relax. It’s just such a good feeling.”

The babies think so too.

Carrying Your Baby:
The Practical Side

The right carrier can save your back and free up your hands. You might have to do a little experimenting to find one you really like. Ask friends if you can try theirs out before investing a lot of money — and be sure to check second-hand stores.

Slings are popular and are great for discreet breastfeeding; or consider a wrap, which is a long piece of cloth that can be wrapped in different ways to hold your baby in place.

Try to find someone who can show you how to use your carrier in different positions. You’ll soon learn which your baby prefers.

When’s a good time to carry your baby? Anytime. But if your baby is fussy at a particular time of day — such as the evening — it seems to work better to start carrying the baby an hour or two before he gets fussy.

Originally published in Today's Parent, Pregnancy & Birth, Spring 2005

A balloon without a string

That's what I'm feeling like. I have things to do, ways to keep my mind occupied, but I feel kind of floaty in a part of myself. Like something or someone is missing from my life and I can't figure out what. Bumpbumpbumpsloooooooooooowshteept, just floating along, away from me and I don't know what it is.

Another Fyrebranded Kozy Preview

This is my stained glass Kozy, appliqued silk on a black Kozy body. I got the inspiration from a Georgia O'Keefe painting. I can't find the exact one, but it started out kind of like the one to the left.

My skills being limited, and my medium being a bit less blendy (is that a word?) I just used the idea instead of the wonderful pastels. The brown frame is actually more goldish and the blue is a peacock blue. I'm rather prouder of how this turned out and I know I should charge more for the amount of work I had to put into it (I've been doing bits off and on since the butterfly garden Kozy), but I don't want people to think I am ripping them off.

One of a million stories

Five years and I still cry remembering it. I told myself not to think about it, but how can you not? I think about how much I hurt and can't even imagine what it's like for those that were directly affected. The only thing that comforted me that day was just as I was falling to sleep, I had this vision of thousands of spots of life being welcomed into heaven.

I was at home, eating cereal and talking on the phone. I was thinking about how DS was 14mos that day. I was sad DH was at work. He had just gotten back from his yearly AT for the Army Reserves. He'd flown into Dulles on the 9th, had the 10th off and the 11th had to go back to work. He was a Federal police officer at the time, working HQ at a gov't building.

I wandered into the living room, where the news was on. It had just happened and the sound was down. I told my friend, "Hey some kind of plane just hit a building." Neither of us knew what was going on, and we watched in horror as what seemed to be an accident became a certain act of terrorism. We watched the second plane fly into the WTC. Fear set in. What made it burrow into my heart was when the Washington correspondent in the Pentegon reported a boom and shaking.

Suddenly, they could be anywhere. My husband was in the DC area. As a cop, he'd be one of the last to leave the building. I hung up on my friend and frantically called my husband. He told me they were busy working on dealing with the situation. His parting words were, "If anything happens, know I love you."

Frantically I tried to find someone to reach out to, so I wasn't alone. I called my SIL in WA, they were still asleep and hadn't heard the news. We cried and were scared together. I had to answer call waiting, MIL then FIL, people calling to see if we were ok. I had no info, I watched the news hoping for no news about the building my husband was in. Suddenly the phones went dead. No calls could get in or out. The TV was my only link.

I finally went to my friend's house and we waited out the day together. Her cell was kind of working (our town had no cell tower). I tried to call my husband again, got one person then the connection cut. I remember sitting on her green lawn on that beuatiful morning and crying. I can't remember anything else TBH. It's like I blocked it out.

It's just one of millions of stories of that day, but it still amazes me how the shadows of those feelings can come back so strong. My husband didn't want to go to work today. I can't even imagine what he relives when he thinks of that day. Sadly, we don't talk about it much. We didn't even on that day. I vaguely remember him coming home and just hugging, and he handed me an angel statue. Maybe it was the next day? It was all a blur.

I had a dream last night...

Actually, it has been a recurring dream. I'm lying down, all I can see is what's in my line of site. I can only move my head, my body doesn't seem to do what I want it too. I can't get up, I can't walk. For some reason, even words don't work for me. All I can do is cry, my lungs bursting, throat hurting and tears streaming across my face as I turn my head frantically from side to side, looking for help.

I can hear someone there, but can't see them. I know it's someone I love. I need that person but nobody is coming to me. My cries are coming in gulps as I try to swallow the air. Nothingnobodynothingnobody. I am alone and helpless. Swallowed by fear, swallowing fear and expelling it in great bursts of sobs, I have no concept of time. Five minutes, ten minutes, a lifetime. All I know is I am alone and helpless and can't understand why. Where are the people that love me? That should be caring for me?

If I was a quadriplegic, whoever was responsible for me would be reprimanded for neglect. After all, I can't get up to go to the bathroom, to eat, to seek out the most basic of needs- human comfort.

But I'm not handicapped, or even an elderly person in a nursing home. I'm a baby. This wasn't my dream. It's a reality for millions of babies left to cry it out every night. Doctors, caregivers, parents, grandparents- they use the euphamism "cry it out" to describe training a baby to sleep "properly". But what is the "it" the wee ones are supposed to be crying out? Their hearts? Hope? Faith in their loved ones?

For what? So we can have some skewed version of 'correct sleep' with an infant, instead of recognizing their needs might be different that our wants. Might supercede our wants. We slap the label "independence" on it and go about in our proud way. Yes, we as a country need nobody, and it starts with our infants. Look at how they can sleep on their own. Never mind what we've done to their bodies and minds to get them there.

Too bad it's all a lie. Nobody is independent. We all need somebody. It's interdependence we should be striving for. Why aren't we teaching to ask for help with grace? To offer help with compassion? Instead, we are teaching our children from the youngest age that to cry for help will bring none, and that will sap away at their compassion when they get to a place that they are able to give help. I sure hope it's not when one of their parents is bedridden and crying for a little love from their grown child- grown too busy for them.

By inches and ounces

Two revelations today. The first was that if I had stuck to Weight Watchers I'd be my ideal weight by now. Or at least at a plateau near my ideal weight.

At the steady-ish 2lbs a week I was losing, I could be within spitting distance of a body I can live with in 6mos and a body I can be proud of in a year. Isn't that much better than hating myself for squeezing into clothes, because the fear of buying up would be permission to gain even more weight. So back to counting points it will be. You be sure to remind me of this!

Today, C and I had an argument about the TV. At one point C smacked me. My first reaction was to hit him back. And third, fourth and sixth reaction. I managed to hold it in, but felt bad for the way I responded otherwise, including yelling.

I know that how I treat him directly reflects how he treats us. Never is it more clear that my childhood causes these urges, and I don't want to breed that into him. If you've read my AP page, you know I don't believe in spanking. But putting it into practice when you know hitting is hard. So I have slipped and spanked and hit C. I beat myself up everytime.

My realization today was that when I do resist that urge, instead of overlooking that and berating myself for the yelling, I should first be proud for resisting the urge. Look at the positive- what I have changed. Then look at what I should change. I'm hoping that change will happen faster when I give myself the positive reinforcement. I have to learn to treat myself nicely, not just the kids.

Up to Interpretation?

Read this marker and tell me if you see anything wrong with it.

On a recent visit to Harper's Ferry, my husband and I paused to read what we thought would be a heartfelt tribute to some historical moment or person. We found this to be hysterical instead. What also amused us is that when we laughed, we were looked at like we were crazy or insensitive. I suppose if your interest wandered and you only read the first part, it would seem insensitive to laugh.

But what struck us was the second part. The part that was the dedication. As we read it, the United Daughters of the Confederacy and Sons of the Confederate Veterans were basically thanking the 'negroes' (aka- slaves and freedmen) for resisting the temptation of joining in the fight for their freedom. That this 'nonaction' showed them in such a light that they should be proud. No, they did not run off and grab at freedom with their greedy hands. Nope, instead they kept themselves aside until freedom was inevitable. They knew their station in life. They waited until the people who had a right to tell them how to live their lives were forced to acknowledge they were free. Yes, all in all, they showed all the marks of being 'good darkies' (here I substitute a word used by many of the "Old South" for the N-word, which might be more fitting historically.)

It struck us as totally ridiculous and tasteless that such a monument would be erected- or at the very least, still standing. To suggest that only by not joining the fight for freedom, one could avoid a "stain" on the record of the "best of both races" is ridicuous in a sublime way. And offensive, in my opinion. It suggests that those that did fight, run, grab at freedom with both hands...that these are the ones who did not have character, who were the stains. That living in oppression was out of faithfulness rather than of fear. I suppose at one time, in a different era, this would have been the prevailing thought. But I find the fact that this historical marker is still standing makes it a remnant of history itself. And not a stainless one at that.

2 + 2 =

Sometimes the answer is harder to find than the question. I was going through J's old pictures yesterday, reliving her early- well, her first year. Looking at the first family pictures, at 2weeks old, J already had bad baby acne. I remember scheduling the pictures then because I was hoping we'd do it before the acne set in. I read in The Baby Book that early onset of baby acne could be a sign of a milk sensitivity. When I mentioned it to my Kaiser appointed pediatrician, he blew it off. Of course, after my experience with peds and C and this particular ped insisting we owed it to society to risk our newborn by giving her the HepB vaccine, I should have known better than to listen. I shook off the feelings of disquiet and went about the new adventure of being a new mom to two.

Seeing pictures of J when she was oh so chubby, I thought, "I barely remember that stage!" Why? Because J suffered from colic. At night esp, we could never settle her. One thing never worked a second time. I was so sleep deprived that that's when I sank into depression. Not only that, but she got her first ear infection early on. C has not had an ear infection yet (and is past the age where that's a strong possibility). I put it to second baby syndrome. But now, looking back, I recall that is another sign of milk sensitivity.

Through my sleep depravation and depression, I remember discovering a dry patch on her leg. I felt so guilty, thinking, "What kind of care did I take of my baby that she had this and how long and why didn't I notice?" But it wouldn't go away! She now has a permanent patch of skin on her hand that I am 95% sure is eczema. That's...well, you probably already guessed it. Another sign of a milk sensitivity.

I really feel that if I had a pediatrician that had respected my instincts as a mother early on, we might have been able to avoid the worst of the colic, the eczema, the red dots that still show up around her mouth and even some of my depression. Because when I went on Weight Watchers and didn't think dairy was worthy of very many points, suddenly J and I were both happier. She was less fussy at night and I got more sleep. The depression was still there, once one of my bouts starts, it stays unless there are major changes and each one is worse than the last. But the sleep depravation part of it was gone.

Yet another lesson I can't trust it to one medical practitioner to look beyond his nose and I should always do my own research also. Because, sometimes, it is hard to see that 2+2=4.