On protecting our children's imaginative space

Since long before Sharlotte was conceived, I thought about the importance of imagination in childhood. I thought about how imagination needs wide-open space - not cluttered with toys, games, and media – space in which to tumble and stretch, unfettered by the borders of plastic figurines with corporately manufactured personalities.

Phil and I talked about keeping it simple. I remember my own countless hours creating worlds with nothing but grass, trees, and an open mind as props. My first Chinese courtyard was dirt, glass, and a coal pile and even that was enough.

With such memories of my own I thought I would intuitively protect and foster an imaginative space for my daughter. And for the most part I have tried to scrutinize the type and number of toys that come in to my home and have limited TV to an average of perhaps an hour a week if even that. We spend every possible warm moment outside. But I am realizing that it goes beyond that.

Even while attempting to make the obvious steps, I have unwittingly sent subtle messages to my daughter. I have begun the process of squelching imagination and promoting materialism without even realizing it.

Let me explain. She has a lovely play kitchen with a few simple pots and pans. She makes food for hours, all flavors, and serves it to me with gusto over and over. My immediate thought is that I would like to get her play food and serving dishes to embellish this process. But if I do, what am I saying? I am saying that more things can make a better meal than her imagination can. I am saying that I want to replace the food and the cup made out of air with another possession that will take up a little more of the space that I could have left to her imagination.

And then I have sent the message that it is better to have a realistic looking thing than a make-shift imaginative substitute. I replaced the little push cart wagon she would walk her babies in with a doll stroller, dreamed of getting real kitchen chairs for her dollhouse instead of the alphabet blocks, and felt a little bad when she doubled her oven mitt as a dish towel and, later, an animal bath towel. But the thing is Sharlotte doesn’t mind any of those substitutes and in fact that little stroller has stood empty more than the push cart ever did.

The other day a baby doll needed a bib for a meal and Sharlotte snatched up a cardboard block to hold beneath her chin. So startled that it did not look remotely like a real bib, I quickly searched for an object with better resemblance. In the moment, I did not think that I was asking her to downscale her imagination to only like comparisons, to objects that did not require such an imaginative stretch. I didn’t realize the significance of the fact that my daughter didn’t need realism; she could make connections in her imagination that were satisfactory enough to keep the game going.

I am certainly not against toys. Sharlotte’s kitchen and dollhouse alone give her hours of fun, but I do think I need to stop and think critically about each object I add to her life and why I add it. Is it really going to enhance the experience or simply fill in the gaps that my imagination is no longer active enough to fill? Right now when something is lacking in her game or adventure, she can grow that very thing in her mind. But if I keep cluttering that space with things, with realism, perhaps her ability will dwindle.

And I’ve seen those children. Those children begging for things they don’t need simply because they are bored with their own minds, they no longer know how to mentally create what is missing.

And of course there must always be the question when I seek out material objects for my daughter if I am doing so to try to distract her from time she would have otherwise needed my focused attention - using possessions as a type of babysitter. We may not admit it, but perhaps we dream that just one more amusing toy will give us a few minutes to ourselves. And there is nothing wrong with needing to get things done or to pick up a book or project, in fact it is good for our children to see us engaged in these ways; but perhaps we are in danger of substituting toys for time and teaching. That, I guess, is a thought for another day.

Letter to a little girl who gave a big gift

Dear Annemarie Rose -

Today I saw a picture of you with your new short hair. You were full of joy and generosity. You gave freely and with self-confidence. You are only four years old. I know you realize that you are helping others, but perhaps you have not seen the receiving side as I have to know just how precious your gift is. You see, I worked for a year as a cancer nurse. All my patients lost their hair. Every single one. They lost long luscious locks, curls, bangs, and bobs. They lost eyebrows and the lashes that brushed their soft cheeks. Some shaved their heads before the hair started to fall out, to protect themselves from the pain of watching it go slowly – the clumps in the shower or on the pillow in the morning. Others held on to every last strand, combing and primping as their floor became littered with what used to be their glory. Hair is more than just hair. It is beauty, identity, humanity.

I watched women who had been the prom queens, the country club wives, grapple with what felt like the loss of the perfection they always prided themselves in. It happened more than once that a capped, scarved, or openly hairless woman shuffled around her bag to pull out an old photo of herself to show me as if to say, “See, this is what I once was. You don’t know all of me till you know about my hair.”

Annemarie Rose, today you gave a gift to someone. Today you let them look in the mirror and feel a little closer to the normalcy that they sometimes feel is slipping away. You gave them a chance to run their fingers through a mane of beautiful locks and toss blonde waves over their shoulder. Somewhere someone is pleased to find hair that looks just close enough to theirs that they feel themselves again. Or perhaps it is helping them embrace a new them – one that may have been tried and torn – but remains courageous, strong, beautiful, and proud.

Keep giving freely Annemarie, because as you give all things with a gentle and light-hearted love you may never how deeply your gift reaches into the life of another to make them whole.

I love you,

Your proud Godmother, Michelle

The journey from the womb to Otherness

The journey from the womb to Otherness began the moment the pink line appeared on my pregnancy test.

Beloved, you were once like cells of my own body, so small and undifferentiated that I could not detect your presence. You were closer to being a part of me, and I a part of you, than any other being I have known.

You grew; my abdomen swelled and you kicked to make yourself known. You were in me but not entirely of me. Your presence dictated the sensations of my body, my emotions, the way I cared for myself. You gave me the gift of health because knowing you dwelled within my womb demanded that I respect my body.

It happened. The pushing, the chaotic but rhythmic surges of birth, and I was suddenly so vastly empty. What a strange space where you once were.

Now in my arms, you were outside but not far from my being. You still controlled my hormones – your skin against mine, sleeping for hours swaddled to my chest, drinking almost constantly from the fountain of life that my body made for you. I was your habitat, the environment that stabilized your temperature and your shocked senses as they knocked hard and fast against the raw, bright world. When I sweat I knew it was your doing, when I wept it was also you – you left me, but the signs of you were vivid on skin and soul. My stomach was loose, my breasts full, red lines had not yet faded to silver. I felt naked, incomplete, stepping outside without you because I was so accustomed to us being one body, moving and being seen together, inseparable in the world’s eyes. I rushed home.

Now faster, now further, you tumble from the microscopic unity. The first smile of delight that opened to me a personality and humor not my own. Emotion that, though deeply connected to my actions, belongs to you. The first roll, a scoot across the floor, the desire to face outward towards the world instead of curled with eyes shut against my chest. The movement from my bed into your own. And now this newfound mobility that takes you across the room and out my sight before I can blink. I turn and you are gone, exploring. You squirm in my arms to get down on the floor. You are Other. You are on a mission – a mission to find yourself slowly over the years of growing. You rear the startling head of your own strong will and I crash into it, bewildered and uncertain how to proceed when what was once a seedling in my body is now asking, insisting, taking stand as someone distinct.

Today surprised me with the return of the blood that marks my rhythm as a woman, my fertility, and the patterns of my body before you took root in my womb. Nineteen months of a body altered by the making of you, the giving forth, the tending, and now the chemical messages of your existence have let go of their reign. The evidence of you in me is fading back into the pale seams of my single body. We are two.

I could bemoan the speed at which this is all taking place. But perhaps that would not be fair to you. Instead I say Welcome. Welcome Other. I am here as a haven of security. To nurse you when you crawl back into my lap, to rock you off to dreams, to hold you close when strangers laugh too loudly. But I am also here as a springboard off which you can fly forth into the unending process of discovery and growth. I fear, as all mothers do, with the urge sometimes to quiet you again into my body, envelope you back into the certain walls of my womb. But for your sake I must believe in the goodness of the slow emergence of Other. I must put out my hand each day to shake yours and say, “Hello, so good to meet you, so good to know you, so good to find this new human, bursting with potential, this fresh start on the earth. Welcome.”

You are cherished. You are loved. You are you. As you change each day, may I always respect the Otherness that springs up from your soul even as we are, and I pray always will be, deeply and richly connected.

Reflections on not being Super Woman (or even Super Mom) and being ok with that

I had this co-worker who I think it's safe to say is Super Woman. She was sought after for her knowledge on our floor, held a special educating role, ran the journal club, and somehow still had time to be an excellent mother of two adorable young children. She was fit, pulled together, and beautiful. And of course there is always my sister who is presently in the thick of a PhD, writing a chapter for a book, publishing articles, teaching socially insightful classes, and investing in a tight knit community of friends and family. These women are undeniably inspirational.

Then there are the super stay-at-home moms (many of which I stumble across in the blogging world). Somehow they manage to not only raise intelligent, wise, creative children in whom they are deeply invested, but also to garden all their own organic produce, write their own super healthy recipes, decorate their clean homes with ingenious thrift items, volunteer, have unbelievably deep conversations with their 4 year olds, keep up a hobby, dream up amazing play activities and vacations, and take care of all the needy (sick, pregnant, whatever) people that cross their path. Oh, and I forgot to mention that they do all this while appearing jovial and well rested. They must have a harness with which they can bind down time in order to achieve all that they do without becoming utterly exhausted. I have yet to find such a harness in my life.

But I am not writing this to complain about how I wish I were a Super Woman or a Super Mom, nor am I going to relate the steps I plan to take to achieve this goal. There are times I wonder what is wrong with me that I cannot boast these achievements or question why I can only seem to focus on one role while some can balance many. And of course I, too, want to raise intelligent, wise, and creative children and strive to make a rich environment for my family. Despite these goals, I do not seem to have a Super Mom style. Instead I am beginning to realize that I live in a simple, laid-back manner and that I have made a certain amount of peace with that. Some examples:

I reward myself for little things. For example, I am happy when I am able to wash and dry a complete load of dishes while Sharlotte is awake.

I spend time sitting on my daughter's floor just watching her play when she would be perfectly content without me present. She's occupied, I'm not saying a word, but I drink it in.

I weekly indulge in 'nursing naps,' snoozing an hour or two away peacefully with my little one hooked to my breast. I wouldn't trade this intimacy for the good books I could have read, the cleaner house, or the hobby that could have flourished.

My daughter's staples are healthy, fresh foods that are simple and don't require all the hoopla of puree, do this, do that and I've never whipped up impressive, large batches of baby food.

I deliberate over things. I could do things a lot faster if I weren't a triple checker and a second guesser. But because I am this way I feel confident when I finally make a decision. This was evident in my nursing practice also, hence the perpetually problem of getting out late.

I don’t have a formal exercise program. Instead, Sharlotte and I take leisurely walks and dance to Lady Gaga.

My nursery is not themed. In fact, my daughter sleeps in a pack and play and nearly everything in that room is a mismatched hand-me-down.

Phil's days off could mean accomplishing much. But usually they mean we all stroll slowly around town, sit quietly in the rays of the sun, and discuss what we should do for several hours until we realize the day is half gone. And it feels good that way.

I can't wear many hats like others can. For heaven's sake, I can't even balance two hats right now (career woman and mom). Why not? Because I like to put on this big, roomy hat I've chosen and feel out all the corners, colors and textures. It's enough for me. Maybe tomorrow I'll need something else, I'll push myself a little harder. But today I'll confess I have not figured out the magic equation that gives me more hours in a day, nor how to make my hours most visibly full, and yet I will peacefully invest in every moment in my own quiet way.

Shar eats zucchini while Phil naps during January picnic

Yes, I really did. And there's a picture to prove it.

I wrote the post below during my pregnancy. I will give the update on how it ultimately went at the end.

Placentophagia: More Than a Hippie Idea?

I used to fantasize about giving birth outdoors in a pool of water with all of nature standing by. I saw myself unclothed and wide open without fear – embracing the most instinctual, creative process I would ever be permitted to participate in. Elements of that fantasized natural birth remain at work in me as I prepare to welcome my little one. Part of embracing the simplicity of birth as integral to our physical beings is looking at the way mamas of the wider animal kingdom approach birth.

Most animals find a dark, quiet, unobserved place to give birth. They show no signs of fear; just trust in the wisdom of their bodies. And, of course, many animals will follow the birth by eating their placenta. Ok, so some of you are not going to be able to handle where this is going. Hear me out! While this practice is thought to stem in part from the need to eliminate scents that would bring predators near, many human cultures have adapted the practice for supposed health benefits. I thought about this in the past and it made sense to me. All that iron, those nutrients, and hormones are leaving your body – doesn’t it make sense that taking them back in would make you somehow stronger, more whole following birth?

But the notion of some vague ‘wholeness’ alone was not enough to make me think about cooking up my own raw body part. In fact, the whole placenta consumption thing didn’t come to my mind at all during most of my pregnancy – forgotten in my imaginative notions of birth. It was not until it came up in my childbirth class as a possible remedy for postpartum depression that my ears perked up.

Postpartum depression is a real and powerful phenomenon that I must confess I have feared. It is much more likely to plague women who have a history of depression. I fit that category. I have struggled with my thoughts and emotions to the point of finally deciding to go on medication for depression my senior year of college. It was a hard choice for me, but it made a difference in my life. It allowed me to have the stability to focus on the mental and emotional work I needed to do in order to pull myself out of beliefs about life and myself that I was allowing to cripple me. As I adjusted to the meds, I was able to slowly transition from weekly therapy, to monthly therapy, to working in my own mind. When I became pregnant the decision of whether to go off the medication was very trying. There are rare known side effects of SSRIs on developing infants, but also known side effects of maternal depression during pregnancy. I was deeply torn. I was ultimately able to go off my medication successfully by 20 weeks, the point at which known dangers to the infant are said to begin with SSRIs. It has not been with out some bumps, but for the most part my pregnancy has led me into a time of deep inner peace, strength, and tranquility. The spiritual and physical work I have committed myself to in the quest for a ring of inner safety in the absence of medication has, I believe, reaped lasting benefits.

All this said, I don’t want to return to that dark place when the hormones in my body are in the incredible post-partum flux and I am wrought with fatigue. I did some research, and sure enough there is some grassroots evidence that the hormone and nutrient rich organ that my body generated from scratch in early pregnancy can stem some of the ill effects of postpartum fatigue and mood swings that many feel is inevitable.

Once I knew this, I was sold on trying it, whether or not the remedy could promise anything for certain. Anything is worth a try. People turn their placenta into shakes, stews, and lasagna. But here in town there is another perhaps less disturbing way to consume your placenta. It would require putting out $200 (but maybe that would be less than I would have to ultimately put out for a prescription depression drug?) Specialists will come to your home just days after birth to dehydrate, grind, and encapsulate your placenta. These placenta pills can be taken multiple times a day and stretch over months. Some women even save a store for replenishment during their menopause changes. No benefits of the placenta are lost in the encapsulation process and in fact this form of placenta is apparently accepted and used in Chinese traditional medicine. Sounds like something even the most squeamish among us could stomach.

...So, if I can swing the money, I think I will be popping placenta pills each morning and night for a little while if any one is interested in a sample. If the price winds up seeming to steep to me, you are always welcome to come over to my house for a nice hearty stew. I promise it will be spiced to perfect flavor. =)

Update:

I have remained depression free since the birth of my daughter and feel that besides the normal mild swings of early postpartum, my hormones and emotional adjustment have felt pretty stable. I don’t know what I can attribute to the placenta. Maybe nothing at all. A greater portion of my thanks ought to go to my husband, strong family, and loving community. And motherhood itself has played a refreshing role in my life – taking my focus much off of myself and turning it towards the nurturance of another person. There simply isn’t time to dwell so heavily on my own thoughts and feelings. But for whatever it’s worth, I took that thing home, cut it up like any good piece of beef, solicited a little help from my husband in seasoning with soy sauce and Asian spices and added it to foods for several days. And, yes, Phil tried a bite, too. It’s not every man who sits behind you in the birth tub and goes along with your crazy ideas like it was commonplace. I guess I got lucky.

If any of you tried this, thought about it, or will think about it I would love to hear your story! Meanwhile, I'll be thinking up a recipe for next time. =) =) =)

Now what? When a sleepless baby starts sleeping.

Hobby – a foreign concept that is reemerging from its forgotten place in my consciousness. In nursing school I was so consumed with my workload and my singular passion for growing into the profession that I dropped most of the little dallying pastimes I used to enjoy in high school. I told myself when nursing school was over and I had real time off (not time off with the black cloud of what I should be studying and the desperate need to converse with people whose friendship I did not want to loose due to busyness) that I would start reading more fiction, maybe write a little here or there, take a dance class. But then I was thrown into the first year of a challenging, heart-wrenching profession in a new city and discovered myself pregnant just out of orientation. These two new identities – nurse and mommy – took up all my thoughts. I read pregnancy books and reflected on the life to come. I slept, worked, and processed the happenings of my job. Often I was too worn out with my reflections to pick up a book.

Then my new little life came along and the newborn period is wonderfully and magically consuming of your all. I started work again and every spare moment was loving on my child. She was a difficult sleeper so I rarely had a moment not attached to her precious body day or night (and I don’t just mean the peaceful, wonderful co-sleeping part, but the waking every hour all evening long to nurse and snuggle until mama was safely in bed providing the uninterrupted night snack). I stopped working and all the sudden there was housework begging for attention during every naptime. She’s a cat napper so I rush around to get anything done before she wakes.

But now my baby is almost 9 months and she is sleeping. Those who know Sharlotte and I know that this is a new thing, just in the last couple weeks. So new there is sometimes a bewildering sense that something is missing. She goes to bed at 7:40 and just sleeps. And I am here. And I don’t know what in the world to do. Phil is often traveling and when he is home he has a long list of hobbies to draw from. Should I study something? Should I just fill the time with more housework, because that is something that has no definite end? Should I relax totally and mindlessly in front of a favorite TV show on my little laptop? Delve back into fiction? Pick up scrapbooking? I suddenly have a block of time and the peace of mind to use that time instead of tearing myself up over the worries of a new job. I feel restful. I feel ready. I want to develop and grow. I guess I am coming into a new season of motherhood and while I miss the constant responsive closeness that defined every waking (and not sleeping) moment of the first months, I look around this silent house and think there must be something good I can make of these quiet hours.

But even as she sleeps, Sharlotte is on my mind and I spent tonight writing in her baby book and remembering her birth…

Playing catch up. The birth story must be first. =)

So my baby is almost 9 months but I am going to slowly catch up while at the same time addressing the now in this blog about my new world as a mother - the best world I've ever known. People often asked me in the early weeks if motherhood was a big adjustment. Of course it is. And yet nothing ever felt so natural, peaceful, and meant to be in my life. I feel a sense of belonging in this role.

To begin my documentation, I am copying in the birth story I wrote up just after Sharlotte's birth.

My little Sharlotte Paradise was born into the water April 28 at 1107 pm, making her among the small percentage of little ones who arrive on their actual due date! She weighed 6 lbs 11 ounces and has a beautiful head of black hair.

My contractions started around 10pm on the 27^th while I was working. I had told my husband the day earlier that I just had a feeling she was coming soon and my sleep had been restless and full of dreams about her birth. The contractions were regular but mild and did not demand that I take my attention off my work. I wondered if I should head home part way through the night, but decided to finish out my 12-hour shift as it was providing me a very natural distraction. In the morning before I left the charge nurse asked me if she should take me off the schedule for that night just in case. I said to go ahead and count me as ill but that if my contractions continued in this mild pattern or slowed down I would call in and come to work. I figured this could be practice labor and go on for days. My goodness was I wrong!

Things slowed down after showering at home and I was able to sleep for 2 to 3 hours until I began to have contractions that I could not sleep through. They were very far apart – about 20 minutes – so I would doze between them. As the day went on the intensity built, but I was able to relax the surges a little for a time by sitting in a tub of water with warm compresses to my back and abdomen. I found that I was feeling all the sensation in my back. After leaving the tub, the contractions took more attention and I spent literally the entire rest of my home labor in child’s pose with my husband applying counter pressure to my back and reciting Hypnobirthing prompts. This firm pressure was a lifesaver!!! I cannot imagine my labor without his words of relaxation and hands of strength!

We decided to go into the hospital around 9pm at which point the intensity was really picking up. I continued to need child’s pose while they filled the tub of water for my water birth. Though, alas, we had run out of the house without our carefully prepared folder of birth aid materials, Phil talked me through each surge with affirmations I had written and Hypno prompts from memory – I found envisioning filling an orange balloon with my breath particularly poignant for reasons I do not know and we used that image again and again.

Almost as soon as I sank into the water my body went into transition and I began to experience the contractions so powerfully. Before long I had the overwhelming need to push. This was the most startling feeling I have ever had – I felt like an animal being taken over a force I could not control! Even the noises I made seemed out of my control. The midwife reminded me to keep my sounds low. I thought of the lion’s breath we had practiced with in my prenatal yoga class. And certainly I was like a lion! In just 4 or 5 amazingly intense pushes my little Sharlotte came earthside! What an amazing feeling of release and emptiness when her body left mine! Because I was on hands and knees they caught her in the back and passed her to me through my legs. It was unbelievable to see this very familiar stranger for the first time! Her cord was wrapped tightly around her neck and was very short. Since I was in the water they could not just lower her closer to my body to remove it as she had already been exposed to air. I remember they very quickly took hold of my arms and lifted me to standing so that the cord could be pulled from her neck. She looked around peacefully then let out a cry. She was so entirely new – so intimate to me and yet so herself, so unknown.

She searched for the breast and latched on in her own accord almost right away. She has been a very good eater ever since! I am tired but incredibly full. She is my dream come true, my beloved.