Jumping off the High Dive

I remember (quite viscerally) the way I felt as a kid as I prepared to jump off the high dive. I had to shore up my nerve, get my head in the right mental space, and then prepare my body for the impact -- all before I could step off the end (sometimes before I could even climb the ladder).

Today I realized that I go through a similar exercise with our daughter when I need her to comply with something that I know she'll resist: changing her diaper, putting on clothing (unless it's her hooded fleece jacket), sitting at the table to eat ... if you have or have had a toddler approaching two, I imagine you fully understand.

Each time, I have to take a few moments to resolve that I'm really going through with the activity in question and then rely on my assertiveness training (I used to teach women's self defense on the side) to pull myself through with active listening ("I hear that you don't like this") and broken record statements ("We have to do this if you want to play. We have to do this if you want to play. We have to do this if you want to play."). Sometimes I put my physical self defense training to the test as I dodge a wildly flailing leg or two, particularly when it comes to changing diapers.

If I don't go through this mental preparation, I find that the situation quickly spirals out of control, so I'm learning that I need to pull myself together sooner rather than later and muster up both the courage and energy to take the jump into the core of parenting: sticking it out when it seems easier to just give in -- while at times finding a compromise between the two.

I'm OK if She's OK?

Does it make me a good parent or a bad parent if I let our 19-month old daughter choose her sleep attire tonight?

When I was putting on her post-bath diaper, she picked up a hooded fleece jacket that was on her changing table and insisted on wearing it. We still had story time and her bedtime snack awaiting us, so I figured that there was no harm in letting her wear the jacket for a bit.

But at bedtime a short while later, she refused to take off the jacket. Nor would she let me put on any bottoms over her diaper. This is not all that unusual for her; she often resists getting into her pajamas, but until now I've always found a way to eventually get her into them. Tonight, though, I didn't have it in me to battle over it, so I let her wear the jacket without anything on her legs and waited until she was groggy enough for me to slip on a lightweight sleep sack over her ensemble.

Now I'm sitting here worrying that she'll be uncomfortable ... that my husband will think less of me for giving in ... that giving in allowed her to push the limits, which will lead to discipline issues every night ... that everyone else I know seems so much more comfortable parenting than I ... AARGH!

Would I question myself this much if I were the one staying home? Would I actually question myself more since I would have more decisions to make more regularly? Hmmm.

Duck, Duck, Gray Duck

My daughter won't play Duck, Duck, Gray Duck (nope, I did not mean Duck, Duck, Goose). She won't appreciate Target and 3M in the way that I do. She won't call that place where you park cars on multiple floors a "parking ramp." She won't experience the thrill of thunderstorms and tornadoes. She won't (thank goodness) eat "hot dish" or (again, thank goodness) have to endure endless winters.

If these statements make any sense to you, then you and I are from the same state.

I'm trying to come to terms with raising my daughter in a state that often feels like a foreign country to me in contrast to my roots. Funny thing is, my (OK, I'll say it) Minnesota roots aren't really roots at all: my parents both grew up on the East coast. They didn't sound like everyone else. We weren't Lutheran (in fact, my father is an Episcopal priest). We weren't Scandinavian. Our last name didn't end in "-son."

In many ways, I felt like an outcast and didn't even know there was such a thing as hot dish until I moved out of state as a young adult (I had eaten it in various forms at potlucks I suppose, but didn't know of this generic label). But now, after nearly 15 years away, my sense of belonging there is startlingly strong.

At the same time, I can't imagine a life different from the one we live. My work is exceptionally fulfilling (most of the time), not to mention that I have fantastic benefits. Sure, I often wish that I were the one staying at home with our daughter ... but that's getting a bit off topic.

What I can imagine is not living in the urban grit of the city; as much as I enjoy many aspects of city living, it's starting to wear me down: the traffic, fires (we've had two major fires in the houses surrounding us; one just a few weeks ago and one a few years ago), the shootings (yes, we've had a number of those uncomfortably close to where we live), the smell of urine, the sounds of sirens racing by along with the deafening roar of noise-enhanced motorcycles ...

So we're working on relocating to another part of the city, preferably to a neighborhood with a greater sense of safety and community -- and a thriving soul -- characteristics that mark the neighborhood in which I grew up but that I didn't appreciate fully until I had a child of my own.

We've considered moving back to that very neighborhood with its tree-lined streets (now less dramatic, however, after a Dutch Elm disease epidemic years ago), my life-long friends, family, and safe schools. But something is keeping us here -- and, while I could blame my husband for this, the truth is that this city we now live in claimed me long ago during a visit when I was 12 and lured me back 15 years later.

What I've come to realize is that I'm capable of feeling a sense of belonging in more than one place -- and that no place feels "just right," in the words of Goldilocks. In many ways, the slight edge I feel here keeps me focused on continual self-improvement; I've always worried that going "home" would cause me to regress, whereas staying here promises professional and personal opportunity.

I think I can be at peace with the goose.

Goodbye Mama

My daughter (now 19 months old) dismissed me tonight. And I felt loved.

We had done our usual routine: a few books in the living room while she ate crackers and sipped her bottle followed by brushing her teeth ... then said goodnight to da-da and sat down in her room to nurse, sing, and sleep (yes, we're still nursing/rocking to sleep ... which I know raises a lot of eyebrows -- risking the health of her teeth, for one, not to mention delaying or preventing the development of normal sleep habits ... but it's what we've settled into doing for now, for better or for worse -- clearly, though, I worry about it).

Anyway, as we sat down, I noted to her that I probably didn't have a lot of mama mo to give her (she had nursed quite thoroughly when she woke up from her nap only a few hours earlier and mama mo was still trying to catch up). Because I've been working on weaning, I bring a bottle in at bedtime and offer it to her partly to aid with the weaning process and partly to make sure she gets enough milk so that she doesn't repeatedly wake up. Sometimes she takes the bottle willingly; sometimes I sneak it in after she's drifted off but still attempting to nurse.

Tonight, when I had finished the third lullaby, she stopped nursing, looked me in the eye (OK, it was dark, so I'm exercising a little artistic license here), said in a cheery voice, "bye bye mama!" then "keeeeeess" while kissing me on the cheek and giving me a giant bear hug ... and then asked for "da-da." Then she did it all over again in case I wasn't getting the message (until tonight, by the way, I have never heard her say "kiss" but she's heard us say it thousands of times: you know, "kiss grandma goodbye," etc.). I asked if she would take the bottle from me, but, no, she wanted da-da, yet she kept hugging me as if to assure me of her love.

There was a time when her preference for my husband would have sent me into hysterics. I would have felt rejected. A failure. Unloved. Ready to quit working so that I could be with her every minute of every day to prove my worth, even if it meant living on government assistance.

But tonight was different. Rather than screaming for da-da as she has done from time to time in the past, my daughter expressed herself in an astoundingly emotionally eloquent way -- and I was able to hear her.

We're both growing up.

Legitimate Mama

I'm starting to feel like a real mom. Instead of worrying about my every move, I'm focusing on having fun and being present.

Our normal weekend routine was starting to bore both of us -- I knew I was in trouble when my daughter would sign and say "play! play!" and didn't mean hanging out in the living room. Sure, we would regularly go to one of our local parks and occasionally meet up with a friend and her daughter, but even this routine was, well, routine (largely because this friend of mine is in the early stages of pregnancy and thus not feeling up to meeting much of late, so we end up going to the park alone more often than not).

My husband regularly innovates when it comes to outings during the week -- so why shouldn't I?

With this in mind last Saturday, my daughter and I started the day by going to a 3-year-old friend's birthday party at a park we hadn't visited before and laughed ourselves silly poking our heads in and out of an abandoned Little Tykes plastic house (it was our first time visiting this park and it seemed that it is a dumping ground for the Little Tykes line ... including multiple houses, slides, and kitchenettes). While the thought crossed my mind that we should be taking part more directly in the festivities, I decided to let it go and to follow her lead. It felt great.

After her nap that day, we went for ice cream with a friend I spontaneously called to join us.

In doing so, I realized that spontaneity is key -- so often I think we must do certain things at a certain time in a certain sequence. Sure, children need structure and a certain amount of routine, but I think I was taking it too far, heading quickly toward controlling.

I kept up with my new resolve today by deciding to go to a nearby children's museum that my daughter and I had never visited before together. We giggled at the antics of the wild rescue animals, oohed and aahed over the choo choos, hiked around the property, ate some snacks, stuck our fingers in puddles, popped in on a play rehearsal, and then circled back and did it all over again (normally, I would have headed home after the first round, sticking to my rigid schedule).

We were rewarded: not only was it a fulfilling day with each other, but, by sticking around, we met another mom and her daughter ... who was born 6 days before our daughter in the same hospital. Turns out that they were leaving the day we were admitted. And, get this: she's a working mom in academia with a stay-at-home partner!

Eraser Stew, Food for Thought

For days now I've felt nauseated. It all started when I dreamed that I had made stew out of erasers. Remember Pink Pearl erasers? According to my dream, they are very nutritious.

If I didn't know better, I'd think it was just one of those wickedly weird pregnancy dreams (no, I'm not, although we're trying -- maybe it's due to the herbal concoction my acupuncturist gave me?).

In any event, it's certainly ripe with symbolism ...

My Husband Is a God

I've felt ineffective all week -- both at work and at home. It's likely due to a lack of sleep. As I've alluded to previously, our daughter goes to bed late and wakes up late which means that I often don't finish putting her down until 10 pm or later. This is largely a tremendous advantage because it means that I get to spend several hours with her when I get home from work (rather than only one or two as is the case with many working parents). Once I get her down, though, rather than going to bed myself, I end up staying up much too late so that I can relax for a bit.

The other night, my feelings of ineffectiveness morphed into feelings of hopelessness and confusion about the choices we've made. In particular, I was feeling envious of my husband's nascent social life, which he has in many ways cultivated for my sake so that I have time alone with our daughter more frequently. That said, I know it's also for him -- I do understand how isolating being a stay-at-home parent can be! By working in an office, I have many opportunities to connect with my colleagues over lunch, walks, etc. (and I do consider many of my colleagues to be friends).

I've never been much of a party gal -- my idea of fun with friends is to share a meal together (in or out) or to simply sit and chat over a glass of wine or to go on a walk. But I just can't seem to fit this into my life right now with the exception of a few occasions when we've had friends over as a family (speaking of family, much of our social time is absorbed by family visits -- we have four parental units in our lives given that both my husband's and my parents are divorced). As I've noted before, I resist giving up what feels like already-limited time with my daughter to take time for myself.

These were only some of the thoughts swirling through my head when I went to bed that night ... angry.

My husband quickly tuned into how I was feeling from the other room (I suppose the thwunk of my clothing hitting the floor as I whipped my ever-existent pile off the foot of the bed was a good hint). He came in, gently asked, "Are you OK? You seem mad." He then listened. And didn't get defensive. And acknowledged how frustrated and angry and hopeless I must feel. And just let me cry while I spouted nonsensical statements.

(If there are any guys out there reading this, take note! For that matter, I myself learned from this exchange about how to be a better partner, so this really isn't limited to how husbands should interact with their wives -- it's useful, I think, for all partners to consider, male or female, stay-at-home parent or working parent.)

When I had exhausted my frustration, he then suggested, in line with what aimee/greeblemonkey recently suggested to me, that I should take a night a week to myself. This was still hard to get my head around given the sacrifice of time with my daughter, until he made a more specific suggestion that I go out at her bedtime. What?

Her bedtime has always been sacred for me; since I'm still nursing her to sleep, it's the time that we can spend snuggling without her acting on her toddler needs to wander. And the tipsy way in which she looks up at me while doing so and says "hi" or "sides" (to indicate she's ready to switch sides) or "bottle" (when she's in need of more sustenance) is earth shatteringly adorable.

Yet bedtime has been more of a chore lately; she's had a hard time settling down (it can take anywhere from 1.5-2 hours to settle her down for sleep). So it's conceivable that I could come home, spend a good 2+ hours with her, begin the bedtime process, hand her over to my husband, and still find time for a glass of wine with a friend, alone.*

Even if I did this only every other week, I think I'd find it energizing.


*We're also working on weaning, and the advice I've gotten to date on this is that my husband should be the one to put her down for the time being since she mostly -- though not exclusively -- nurses at bedtime. I'm not yet prepared to go whole hog, but I think I can handle an incremental approach.