Tag Archives: Family

Separate, Celebrate

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This year, my birthday and Mother’s Day fell exactly one week apart. That’s a whole lot of celebrating in a short time and a whole lot of pressure on everyone to get along and have fun — all day, each day. Don’t get me wrong — I love to be celebrated. But my expectations for the day often get in the way of truly enjoying myself. With a few birthdays as a momma behind me, I knew that it was likely that Mattie’s needs would conflict with my best-laid plans, and, as such, my expectations were (mostly) realistically set.

I was surprised to find that for the first time since he was born, Mattie seemed to really understand that my birthday was supposed to be about celebrating me. Previously, Ken spent a lot of effort trying to explain to him that it was supposed to be a special day for momma — coaxing him to participate in making or signing a card, cajoling him into going along with whatever I wanted to do that day, mostly to no avail. But at 4 and 2/3 years old, Mattie is developmentally less self-centered and more able to consider others.

Most significantly, he is beginning to recognize me, specifically, as separate from himself.

So, on both Mother’s Day and my birthday this year, Mattie genuinely wanted to celebrate me and do special things for me on — at least for the first hour or so of the day.

What follows is a glimpse into our lives on each of these days this year.

On my birthday we woke up and had sweet snuggle time in bed. Ken reminded Mattie about what day it was and they both showered me with birthday love. I tiptoed away to the bathroom while the two of them whispered to one another, plotting something instigated by Mattie. I returned to a grinning boy holding out a tiny gift bag.  Inside was one of my own old dangly earrings, plucked from my drawer and wrapped up just for me.  I put it on and Mattie told me that I looked “gorgeous“.

So. Stinking. Sweet.

Then, as we were getting dressed, he surprised me again by saying, “Momma, you don’t have to pick out my clothes today, because it’s your birthday!“. He then proceeded to pick out his own clothes and dress himself.  I was touched by his thoughtfulness and the awareness it represented.  (I also noticed that despite his daily demands to help him with this task, he is actually completely capable of doing it by himself).

When we got downstairs he raced to give me a card he’d made with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAMA!!!! LOVE, MATTIE” written on it his big, blocky, beautiful penmanship. He had only recently learned about exclamation points and this is the first time I’ve seen him use four in a row for anything. I swooned, appreciating every stroke, knowing full well the concentration and effort he put into birthing this creation just for me.

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(The yellow star was also his idea. It’s something I’ve never seen him draw before, but he thought I’d like it. And I do. Love it. Recently he said to me: “I think that babies choose which mama they want. Like when they’re still up in the stars?” I’m so glad he chose me.)

When Ken gave me my gifts, he also brilliantly gave Mattie a present — a small green Lego set.  Mattie was delighted and built Lego creations happily, chattering constantly while he worked, while Ken and I enjoyed lounging in my new birthday Adirondack chairs, drinking our coffee in the sunshine.

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Pretty, aren’t they?!

Then we went out to brunch and to a family food festival with music and kids activities, which was all pretty fun for Mattie.

It wasn’t until early afternoon that he started asking every 5 minutes (I kid you not), “When is it going to be MY birthday?” He was starting to get tired, and frankly, I was surprised that it had taken this long for him to shift the focus onto himself.

But it gets better, (or worse?).

Post-festival, we went to a coffee shop to get my favorite Ethiopian coffee. Mattie got chocolate milk and we all shared a scone. He wanted a cookie also, but in light of the fact that birthday cake was coming later, I sensibly denied his request. He responded by wailing, “This is the worst day EVER!” (If Mattie were writing this story, he probably would have punctuated that statement with at least four exclamation points).

He continued to remind us that it was the worst day ever for the remainder of our stay at the coffee shop, throughout our walk back to the car, and all the way home to the other side of town.

I had to hide a smile, though, almost relieved that he was finally expressing such dissatisfaction. It’s not easy to celebrate someone else all day long.

*****

A similar scene unfolded on Mother’s Day. Mattie gave me a beautiful homemade card — this one decorated with a drawing of a sewer.  I’m not sure where that came from, but it felt somehow…fitting.  He was genuinely and enthusiastically pleased with it.

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(I especially love the choice of sparkly paper).

Then we enjoyed a yummy pancake breakfast made by Ken. But before we had even finished eating our breakfast, Mattie started demanding jelly beans. (Admittedly, we’d gotten into a habit of counting out leftover Easter jelly beans after breakfast some mornings. Mattie is incredibly treat-motivated and I was using it as an opportunity to teach him some math skills. It worked — the boy can now count to at least 15, no problem!)

On this particular morning, however, I wasn’t up for it. He’d just eaten pancakes with syrup and I (reasonably?) thought that was enough sugar to start the day. When I told him so, it was immediately clear that my explanation was NOT going to be satisfactory. He exploded, saying, “Then you’re not ever going to be my momma again!! You’re the worst person in the world!” (Again, he would probably use more exclamation points.)

He stomped around miserably for a good, long time, telling me over and over again that I was the worst person in the world. On Mother’s Day. It was pretty comical, really.

Finally, tiring of the momma-bashing, I tried adding more details to my case against the jelly beans. I explained that there was going to be a family party later in the day with more sweet treats.

He looked at me thoughtfully, reasonably even, and said, “Oh. So there’s a reason you’re saying no? Like because I’m going to get a lot of treats later? Oh…okay.”

And that was the end of it. A reasonable explanation can sometimes work wonders with these little humans. It’s just that you can’t ever predict whether or not they will determine it to be reasonable enough. That day, I got lucky.

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Yes, that is a whipped cream “shot” at a celebration.  Pure heaven for this boy!

All joking aside, I have to say that Mattie’s selfish outbursts provide me with a peculiar sense of comfort. While I welcome his increasing awareness and independence, I also want him to be the very little boy that he is, regardless of the day.

The “me” a year or two or three ago may not have had that insight, just longing for my own selfish birthday desires to come true. But I’m another year wiser and this momma is getting better at understanding the needs of her boy, too.

These years of Mattie being a little boy aren’t going to last forever and I don’t want him to grow up any faster than he needs to.

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**********

A few nights after my birthday, just before falling asleep, Mattie said to me, “Momma, I fell in love with you right away when I was born”.  He’s heard me say something similar to him often, but to hear it turned on me, well, it took my breath away.

I think that it’s these everyday, unexpected celebrations of me that I treasure most. There’s nothing forced about it. No pressure.  It’s just the love I’ve poured in overflowing and spilling over back onto me — combined with the beautiful, amazing, loving spirit of this boy who is his own person, totally separate from me.

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Sleeping Arrangements

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My heart is tender tonight.  I just tucked Mattie into his “own bed” for the first time (a futon mattress dragged into the corner of our room).  In his first few years of life he has spent the night in a variety of places, some stranger than others  — an infant car seat, a swing, a rocking bassinet, a co-sleeper — but most nights he has slept with us in our King size bed.  This is what has worked best for our family.  There was an earlier period when our mattress was on the floor and the futon was next to it, but Ken usually slept on it then. Our room is not large, and is essentially one giant bed with the two mattresses covering the floor.

As Mattie has been growing bigger we’ve talked about a bed of his own — still in our room, we’ve reassured him — but he hasn’t been interested.  I brought it up again last night, as we’d been waking each other up with all the tossing and turning on each of our parts, and this time he got excited about it.  The excitement carried through to today, and we spent the better part of the day cleaning and re-arranging.  He just fell asleep in his very own bed for the first time, and I’m tearful.  While it is a change that will likely be good for all of us, there is grief too.  She accompanies joy, change, growth.  They all reside in my heart space together tonight.

What follows is a poem that I wrote a few months back about sleeping with Mattie.  It feels appropriate that tonight is the night I finally share it…

 

It is the middle of the night

and I wake to feel his little foot

curling into the crease where my thigh meets my hip.

It nestles in and rests there

while we both fall

back to sleep.

 

Later, in the wee hours of the morning,

I feel his toes exploring the space under

my left shoulder blade.

He is lying horizontally

across the expanse of our bed

with his head resting near his papa’s.

This is about the time when the  l-o-n-g,

s-l-o-w process of waking up begins,

and while he flip-flops over me from one side to the next,

I squeeze my eyes shut tight and silently pray-hope-wish-with-all-my-might

that he settles back in for just…a bit…longer.

 

A few minutes later,

(my silent pleas unanswered),

he sits up and looks around through eyes half-open

until his gaze lands on me.

 

Momma…located.

I take a deep breath and sigh a tired sigh,

as I accept my fate and surrender to whatever might come next

(sweet snuggles and stories?

an onslaught of instant demands?

one never knows…).

 

My boy scoots over to me and rests his head

against mine,  then draws up his knees and tucks himself up tight

under the alcove of my chin, momentarily.  

I breathe in his sweet,  satisfying, oh-so-familiar

baby-boy-child smell.

 

He pulls away only to nuzzle his head,

then his cheek, against my cheek —

the way a kitten might nuzzle its momma.

 

While I am melting in the blissful sweetness of it all,

he tops it off with a kiss — planted on my cheek — and then

(the grand finale of this first act of the day)

he whispers softly, “I love you, momma.”

 

I am reduced to a puddle of love.

This is it, I think.  This is what matters most in all the world.

I squeeze him tight, and tell him I love him too.

 

This kind of love,

multiplied,

could heal this world.

I just know it.

 

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Birth & Death – A Continuation

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On May 21, 1981, I was born to very proud first-time parents.  My mom couldn’t put me down that first night, even to sleep.  In the morning, the woman who shared her hospital room asked incredulously, “Did you hold that baby all night long?!”.  She had just delivered her sixth baby and thought that my mom was crazy not to take advantage of putting me in the nursery overnight.

Fast forward 35 years and now I know that kind of love – the kind where I don’t want to miss a thing – like conversations about birth & death with my 3 1/2-year-old.  In honor of my birthday, I’m recording one such recent conversation.

Yesterday Mattie asked me, “Where was I  before I was born?”.  (He has also asked specifically where he was when I was a little girl, or on our wedding day, or when his great-great grandparents were alive.)

I answered him, as best I could, with my practical and philosophical thoughts on the matter.  A follow-up question came shortly after:

“Where will I go after I die?”

I was struck by how similar my response was to this and to his question about where he was before he was born.

“Maybe we are in the stars?”, I suggested.

“Or maybe we return in the form of another being?”

“Or maybe our spirit lingers close to those we love, traveling with them everywhere they go?”

“Yeah”, Mattie said, “it’s kinda like magic”.

“Yeah”, I said, “It’s a lot like that.”

Then he continued his inquiry, wanting to know the names of people and animals I know who have died.  I listed a few, and when I mentioned his great-great grandpa Matthew he said, “What?!  Did I die?!? That’s my name!”

I reassured him that it was someone else named Matthew who died, but that we passed that name onto him because he was a very special person in our family.

Then he asked, “Did he come back to life as me?”

To which I responded, “Well, I think something about his spirit may have came back through you, but I don’t think you’re the same person.  We really don’t know what happens to our spirit after we die though.  It’s a mystery.”

His line of questioning continued, as he pressed me to find out what happens to our physical body after death.

“Does it become meat?”

“Will my bones be in a museum like a dinosaur?”

I described how bodies decompose and that we often bury them so that our bodies can return to the earth.  Then he became concerned about the idea of being buried & needed reassuring that it wouldn’t happen to him until AFTER he died.

Which led to, “But WHEN am I going to die?”

“And WHEN are you going to die, momma?”

He’s been asking both of these questions a lot lately & I respond as honestly as I can.  I say that we really don’t know, but that we hope it’s not for a long, long, LONG time.

For a child that relates to the world primarily through concrete concepts, pondering the mystery of birth & death is no easy feat.  It’s not easy for grown-ups either.

Where was I before I was born?  What is this life a continuation of?

Energy.  Love.  Form.  Formlessness.

Bursting forth & dying back.

My birthday marks a continuation of this life and whatever came before it.  I no longer expect a miracle akin to my birth to occur on this day.  But it’s not easy to let go of all expectation, to hope for some kind of magic.

I do see magic all around me today  – in the warm sun on my skin, the single purple iris blooming today in my flower garden, in the love I feel from my family, friends, and even the occasional stranger.

There is magic in the decadent chocolate cake with raspberry sauce made late at night by my dear husband, even though it didn’t turn out quite as he’d hoped.

There is magic in the hand drawn family portrait and the necklace made from rainbow-colored plastic beads made by the tiny hands of a boy who loves me to the moon and back (and tells me that every day).

There is magic in sharing the exploration of birth and death and the meaning of life with my son.

There is magic in being present, in showing up for each and every moment, and leaning into the mystery for all it’s worth.

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The Gifts We Bring

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“Do you know that you are the gift?”, a wise man once asked me.  Hearing these words from my teacher and friend generated a flood of relief within me.  We were on the phone only days before Christmas and I was expressing my desire not to lose myself amidst all the pressure and expectations of the holiday.   Absorbing the meaning of this simple question allowed me to relax, to unwind from my tightly coiled state of nervous anticipation, and to breathe and find the ground beneath me. It also allowed me to move through the days that followed with more grace and ease than I would have previously thought possible.

So today, in my tense, wound-up state of efforting – of trying to manage, strategize, prepare, plan and perfect – I stop and ask myself:  “Maggie, do you know that you are the gift?”  Do you know that even without “doing” anything that you are a gift to those you love, just as you are?

This truth is easy to glimpse, but easier to forget.

Thankfully, I was reminded of this question recently.  I was attending a yoga & writing retreat to help myself remember, well, myself, and to attempt to get grounded before the chaos of Christmas time.   Though I am desperate to remember and honor the truth and the spirit of the holiday season, it is difficult to stay present and not get consumed by outer-focused doing.   Having another tiny human being who demands ALL of my attention ALWAYS doesn’t help.  But it’s hard even without that, honestly.   So it takes planned and intentional moments, like this retreat, to stop and take the time and space to turn inward and get into my body to sit, reflect, write, and remember.

When it came time to write, the prompt came in the form of another poignant and well-timed question, this time from a wise woman (the group’s facilitator):

“What are the gifts that you bring the world – the ones that live inside you?”

This question, like the one so helpful to me years ago, I am receiving as a gift and a healing medicine this holiday season; to remember my own unique and innate gifts as a daily practice.

To say that it is not comfortable for me to claim my gifts confidently, out loud, is an outrageous understatement.  Our culture does not condone this.  It is not in my nature. The mere thought of it makes my skin itch from the inside out all over. And yet.  It feels vitally important somehow to break this unspoken code of conduct and do it — to transmit the gift all the way to anyone else who may want or need to receive it.

And so …

I name some of my own gifts here in the hopes that it might help you remember and celebrate your own inner gifts in this season of gift-giving.

  • I am open.  I am eager to listen compassionately and empathetically, without judgement.  I crave deep, meaningful conversation that brings light to darkened corners and possibly even allows healing to occur.  I can go deep inside the strength and source of myself to reflect back to you what I have heard you say, or what I haven’t heard.
  • I am a writer; always have been and always will be.  My relationship with stories, words, and language has been intensely intimate for as long as I can remember.  My life-long writing practice began with a diary in second grade wherein I expounded on the benefits of learning cursive, passing love notes on the bus, and the injury inflicted by being excluded at recess.  My ability to maintain the practice has ebbed and flowed over the course of my life, but it has been a constant touchstone to return to; a source of comfort and pleasure. Writing has also served as an entrance to self-reflection, healing and transformational work.  I am surprised and grateful for the revelations that occur in me when I stop long enough to reflect and write.
  • Writing is also my work, in one fashion or another.  I think this is so because I am skilled at distilling a story or an idea to its very essence and translating it into the words that best communicate that message; the story most wanting or needing to be told.
  • I can take a walk through the woods and notice things; tiny beautiful things all around me.  I may collect some of them to bring home and display on my hutch, my altar, my table to remind me of the beauty of the natural world when I am indoors, to create an opening to the calm feeling of sacred stillness that exists in me when I am in the forest.
  • I love fiercely and deeply.
  • Somehow, I find deep wells of patience in me even when pushed to my farthest edges by my dear little boy.  I can diffuse a power struggle with a song or by talking in a funny voice or growling like a tiger or by throwing myself into physical play and affection until rewarded by the most delicious peals of laughter. And sometimes I can’t – and I explode – but then apologize later.

Though I am trying to focus on my gifts, I notice how quickly feelings of shame, judgement, and inadequacy come crashing down on me as I think about those moments when I do not have the patience or compassion I wish I had as a momma.  Perhaps because those moments happen more often than I would like to admit.  However, in large part I can see that this most often occurs when my own need is so great that it is banging down the door, kicking and screaming for time to be quiet and alone — to be noticed, explored, and attended to.

So here I am attending to you, dear need, dear me; I will try to give you this gift more often in the coming year.  It feels like a precarious balancing act though, to weigh the needs of all equally.  I am trying to keep the great teeter totter of life, of marriage and motherhood, not at an equilibrium per se … but ever-moving … so that we all get to HAVE FUN.

Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Balancing it all may be the greatest work of my life. Today I am at the center, as I breathe and remember my gifts — and that even without doing anything at all — I am still the gift.

And so are you.

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2014: When Exactly Did My Baby Become a Toddler?!

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Last year was my first full year of being a momma and the expression that summed up 2013 for me, as you might remember, was:

Holyshitfuck!

DSC_0671As the close of my second year draws near, I am more seasoned and less shell-shocked. Yet, I am still reeling and confused most of the time as I find my way as a momma with no manual to guide me.

I’ve been struggling as a parent a lot lately. This transition from totally dependent, sweet but all consuming baby into an individuated, unpredictable being that wants different things than I do is…really freaking hard. And it happened so fast. When did it happen exactly???

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Over the last few weeks there have been days where Mattie refuses nearly every diaper change, clothes change, and god forbid putting on his coat, boots, hat and mittens to go outside. I have found myself avoiding leaving the house unless absolutely necessary rather than engage in this struggle.

Last week he had his first dentist appointment, which he was actually looking forward to for some time. We practiced playing dentist and talked about it a lot and he was totally into it.

Until the morning of the appointment, that is. When it was actually time to get ready to go.

He was playing happily by himself, so I got myself ready and let him know that soon it would be time to go. I tried everything in my toolbox to make the transition as smooth as possible. But when it came time that we couldn’t delay any longer, a total meltdown ensued. He screamed and cried and refused my every effort – such that I had to physically force diaper and every item of clothing onto a thrashing, sobbing child. He, meanwhile, tried to remove each item – while insisting repeatedly that I put his dirty diaper BACK ON. This painful struggle carried on as I buckled him into his car seat against his will, and then he continued to sob for the entire drive to the dentist’s office, repeatedly telling me he wanted to GO HOME!  So. Hard.

All I could do was breathe deeply and say, “I know, honey, I know. I love you.”

Somehow I managed to remain calm through all of this — approximately 30 minutes of sobbing and struggling in total. This is not true of every meltdown; more often I find myself equally frustrated and impatient, which causes me to hate myself on top of everything else.

Thankfully after entering the dentist’s office the transition to the new environment snapped him out of it. It usually does. And the visit was a success, more or less. The fact that we made it into the exam room at all was a total success in my mind, given the effort and the doubts I had about getting there at all in the midst of our sad battle.

And then?! Then for the rest of the day he was cooperative, happy, snuggly and truly delightful to be around.

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When we left the dentist’s he willingly climbed into his car seat (frequently a trigger for struggle) and was eager to join me in a trip to the grocery store. He happily ate $7 organic strawberries under the cart singing and talking to me the whole trip.

I have to say (and pardon my language), this is a total mind fuck – how these vastly different personalities exist within this same little being (who was a baby who didn’t talk, I swear, two seconds ago) – and how quickly he can flip from one to the other. I can relate to this in myself, of course, as these extremes exist within all of us. But to witness my baby transforming into this little complex person is fascinating, flabbergasting.

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Take this conversation, which took place later the same day while unloading groceries, to highlight this complexity:

Mattie: Are you happy momma?

(This was out of nowhere; I have no idea what prompted this question.)

Me: Why, yes, Mattie. I am happy right now. Are you?

Mattie: Uh-huh.

Me: Do you remember how sad you were when we left the house earlier? When you cried and cried because you didn’t want to leave the house?

Mattie: Huh. (Pause.) Uh-huh.

Then ten minutes later:

Mattie: Momma, was I crying because I didn’t want to leave the house?

Me: Yes, honey, you were.

Mattie: Why???

(Why?! Wow. I am taken aback. How to respond??)

Deep breath…

Me: I don’t know, my love. You didn’t want to leave when it was time to go. And so you got really upset.

Mattie: Huh.

”Huh”, is right…

I never know from one moment to the next if what I say, what I do, is the right thing. But I leave this conversation feeling both exasperated and like maybe, just maybe, I am doing something right after all.

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*****

And then to contrast the meltdown episode even further, this happened recently:

Mattie and I are cuddling on the couch together, looking at books. He’s nestled under my arm and I lean down to kiss his head and say, “I love you, Mattie”, like I do at least 100 times per day.

This time, however, he looks up and says, “I love you too, momma”, like it’s the most natural thing in the whole world.

Except that it isn’t.

It’s the very first time he has told me he loves me, and I melt and soak it in, hand to my tender heart.

That was a couple of weeks ago. Now he whispers it to me regularly, often saying it just like I do: “I love you so much, momma”. And each time, every time, my heart melts a little more.

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*****

This mothering stuff is so complex. It takes my breath away. Daily. One moment because I’m so frustrated and pushed to my farthest edge and the next because I’m completely overwhelmed by the swelling of love inside me I can barely stand it.

Yes, it IS a total mind fuck – which seems to be an appropriate phrase to describe my life right now, 2014, year two of motherhood.

Maybe some year soon my reflection on the year won’t feature the “F” word. (She says, hopefully.) Or, maybe (more likely?) it will continue to turn up year after year, as I muddle my way through each new phase of Mattie’s development, parenting, and life. But who am I to even venture a guess about anything the future holds?? If I can’t predict what my life will be like from one hour to the next, a whole year is certainly beyond my capacity to comprehend.

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*Photo credit to Jenn Ebbott for all photos in this post.  Thank you, Aunt Jenn!!

Margaret, Matthew, Maggie & Mattie

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This story has been fully formed and waiting — for the right moment, and for a little ceremony.   I wasn’t sure when that would be — until today.  It’s my momma’s birthday, and this is for you, momma.  This is the moment this story has been waiting for.  Happy birthday and I love you with all my heart. ❤

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My given name is Margaret Mary Anderson. I’ve never quite felt like it was my own. I’ve been Maggie as long as I can remember, so it feels strange to tell people that my name is Margaret.   It has mostly been used by strangers, in doctor’s offices, and in other official settings where a legal name is required.  And though I love the story and the history behind my name,  I’ve never felt that the propriety of the name itself quite suited me. I always have been and always will be, Maggie.

Maggie Fitzsimmons now, which fits just fine. There was some agonizing over the decision to change my last name when I married Ken, to be sure, but in large part I chose it because I liked it.  And it’s got a sweet Irish ring to it, which also feels fitting. 🙂

Margaret Mary was my great-grandma’s name, and my mom chose it for me to honor her and the special bond they shared.   Margaret provided her with a constant, gentle, and unconditional love — a soft resting place. When I was born, my mom knew that she wanted to keep Margaret’s name (and legacy) alive by giving it to me, but that she would call me Maggie.

I knew and loved my great-grandma also, for the 13 years we walked this earth together.   I felt proud to share my name with my great-grandma, this woman filled with so much love. She was married to Matthew, and it is by no accident that this is the name we chose for our son (albeit knowing that we would call him Mattie). Margaret and Matthew had a great love, an expansive love that was filled with laughter and tenderness. Their marriage lasted over 60 years, until death did them part.

 

Margaret and Matthew Hahn Wedding

Margaret and Matthew Hahn Wedding

Matthew died first (colon cancer) though we all thought it would be grandma who would go sooner. Her dementia worsened quickly in their final years together, and grandpa cared for her (and all of us) tenderly and gracefully.  In his eightieth decade, he stepped into the stereotypically feminine roles previously filled by her — managing the household and all social activities — for the first time in his life.  Before grandma started losing her memory, she loved to visit and if grandpa answered the phone he would say a brief “hello” and “I love you”, passing the phone to grandma for the rest. But he was able to transition into being the one to do it all at the end of their lives together, seemingly effortlessly.

It was beautiful, in retrospect. At the time I just felt scared, sad, and concerned for my grandma, my namesake.

Margaret & Matthew 50th Wedding Anniversary

Margaret & Matthew 50th Wedding Anniversary

My great-grandpa’s death was the first I experienced. I felt such intense grief that I couldn’t imagine how I would ever recover and feel like myself again. I wailed at his funeral uncontrollably, trying to comprehend this thing called death that felt most unnatural to my child self, impossible to fathom.

At their house after the service I clutched my great-grandma’s hand, not wanting to leave her side, not understanding how anyone could eat or laugh or make small talk in the face of such tragedy. I can see myself there now, small and afraid, sitting in the blue wingback chair that used to be his, loving her fiercely.

Only two months later, on Valentine’s Day, Margaret followed Matthew. Although my sorrow was great, I was relieved that they were together again, somehow.

Eighteen years later, my own son was born, and while we considered many names, we chose Matthew.  We chose this name to honor my great-grandfather and his legacy — and to once again bring Matthew and Margaret together again — though this time as Maggie and Mattie, mother and son.  We carry on their love, tenderness and laughter, making it our own, moving it forward and passing it on.

Maggie and Mattie, Summer 2014

Maggie and Mattie, Summer 2014

Siren in the Night

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I am accustomed to hearing the emergency alert siren in Madison on a regular basis; it happens on the first Wednesday of every month at noon precisely. When I hear the siren begin to wind up into its high-pitch sustained whine, I pause to consider the day and time to confirm that it is only a test. My response to this conclusion is typically a mix of relief (that the sound doesn’t indicate an impending disaster), and slight irritation (that this grating noise is interrupting my day, albeit for only a few minutes).

I am NOT accustomed to being woken from a deep sleep in the middle of the night to hear this emergency siren, as happened earlier this week. At approximately 12:30am on Monday night, I woke to the sound of the siren.   It took my sleepy brain a few moments to register what was happening.   The siren was accompanied by thunderclaps loud enough to send the dog slinking over with her tail between her legs, shaking, and heavy rain – not falling in it’s typical downward trajectory but instead blowing horizontally, thumping against the house – making my bedroom feel like the inside of a car wash. Was this a tornado warning?? My first reaction was to grapple in the darkness for my smart phone to check the radar and verify the cause of the siren (hoping that somehow my technology was smarter than the siren and would indicate that I could go back to sleep). But before I could locate any information, Ken walked into the room and announced the tornado warning.  He’d first heard about it on Facebook, which he’d just happened to be perusing after midnight while unable to sleep – confirming that the news still travels fastest via the smartest technology of all — social media.

A more youthful and childless version of myself – feeling invincible and relying on a belief that surely tornadoes didn’t touch down in the middle of the city – may have thrown a pillow over my head and gone back to sleep.  But the stakes are higher now, and any recklessness I may have felt in the face of danger has been replaced with fierce protective instincts to keep my family and myself safe. Despite these strong instincts, Ken and I did hedge for a few moments weighing the consequences of being swept away in a tornado against waking the baby. While we usually do everything within our power to keep the baby asleep, this seemed like an appropriate exception.

Fortunately Mattie barely stirred when Ken picked him up and minimal rocking and shushing noises kept him asleep for the tiptoed trip through the house and down two flights of stairs into our basement. We settled down to wait out the storm in a nest of blankets from the laundry pile near the washing machine; me rocking and nursing my sleeping boy and Ken watching the radar on his phone.

Even though I still thought the likelihood of the tornado affecting us was small (yes, some of that invincibility still lingers), I felt afraid and imagined a variety of potential grisly outcomes.   But I was also struck by the timeless quality of this scene in the basement (minus the smart phone), and it made me think about all of the other mothers that have huddled over their babies in the darkness while sirens wailed around them. I imagined the fear a mother might feel while under the threat of an air raid or some other kind of enemy attack. Or of the mothers who knew that a tsunami or an earthquake was coming, but had no safe place to take shelter with their babies.

Maybe this was a coping mechanism of my mind – to imagine another scene to take me out of my own. Whatever it was, it instilled feelings of kinship with these mothers to know, if only for a few moments, the fear of a real potentially life-threatening disaster.

Like any mother, I feel tiny flutters of fear for the life of my child on a daily basis; the kind of fear that causes my heart to feel like it has momentarily dropped into my stomach while at the same time I forget how to breathe. This is usually caused by a close call of one variety or another, like when he almost falls from the top of the slide on the playground, almost runs into the street when a car is coming, or almost slips and falls in the bathtub.  I sometimes joke that my day consists of protecting Mattie from one life-threatening event after another, but today I am grateful for the normalcy and relative smallness of these everyday events.

On Monday night, the siren stopped after a short time (10 minutes?) and we knew it was safe to go back to bed, which we did gratefully. The next morning, I read in the paper that the tornado did in fact touch down in the middle of the city, even snapping trees, damaging property, and felling power lines on streets walking distance from my own.   While my mind drifted to the fates of those less fortunate than myself, maybe the fear that I was experiencing (and simultaneously avoiding) was more real than I dared consider.

At noon on the first Wednesday of next month when the emergency warning siren blares, I expect to feel more relief and gratitude than irritation. And perhaps I’ll even think to use it as a moment of ceremony, to remember all of those other mothers who visited me in the basement on Monday night; those who were able to return to bed like me, relieved and grateful that the threat of danger had passed, and those whose lives were lost or forever changed by a siren in the night.

 

Becoming Momma in 2013

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This post was inspired by the writing prompt from my last contemplative writing class of 2013.  It came out of the suggestion that there might be one word that could sum up the year…

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Holyshitfuck.

That’s the first word (a new one coined in our household) that comes to my mind when I reflect on the last year.  2013.

While Mattie was born in September of 2012, the bulk of this last year has been my first year of motherhood – of becoming Momma.  Someone said to me recently that they couldn’t imagine anything more tender and vulnerable than the first year of motherhood, and as this truth resonated through my being, I wept.

I feel like I may be just beginning to emerge from that state – maybe – just barely.  I certainly feel like I’ve come a long way from the uber-vulnerability of those first few weeks and months.  I remember feeling so naked learning how to be a parent in front of other people.   I felt like everyone was judging me, criticizing me – with their questions and assumptions and suggestions.  (Even when they were delivered with the best of intentions.) It’s taken a year for me to develop a sense of confidence in myself as a momma, and not take these things so personally.

So much of this year has been spent learning – and forgetting everything I thought I knew.

And I still feel so vulnerable and uncomfortable talking about many of our personal choices as parents. It’s not that I doubt them, but that we’re doing things differently than our parents did (than many parents do), causing me to feel the need to explain, justify, probably even defend.  And I find it so difficult to convey this with confidence, in a way that doesn’t come off as accusatory or know-it-all, without shrinking away and losing myself in my fear of being perceived as weak or overly-indulgent.

For example, nursing Mattie is hands-down one of the most amazing, powerful, and meaningful things that I’ve ever done.  It provides him (and me) with so much comfort, and is building a bond that is intense and beautiful and unlike anything I’ve ever known.  And of course it provides critical support to his developing immune system and his overall health and well-being.  These are benefits that I truly believe will last a lifetime, and I have no intention of weaning anytime in the near future.

And yet, while I know all of this in every fiber of my being, I still feel ashamed of breastfeeding my 15-month old son in front of most people.  After 12 months it’s officially called “extended” breastfeeding and the statistics about mothers who do this drop way off – like  a

c

l

i

f

f.

Like the cliff I feel like I’ve been falling from for the last 15, no make that 18 months.  Since the blood clot presented itself at 28 weeks, really.

When I’m feeling self-conscious while nursing Mattie in front of someone, I find myself spouting off the World Health Organization’s recommendation that all children breastfeed for a minimum of 2 years.  I’m glad that the WHO has my back, and that they do research to support breastfeeding worldwide.  But in reality, the WHO has very little to do with my decision to continue breastfeeding my toddler (or to co-sleep, or anything else we do that falls outside cultural norms).  I’m doing what feels good – for me, for Ken, for Mattie.  And I find this a lot harder to explain.

Our culture is strange in that way.  Anything that science can explain = real, true, and acceptable.  And the things that cannot be measured and summed up through peer-reviewed research; through statistics and flow charts and diagrams – the things that can’t be seen — just aren’t as real, true, or acceptable.

But human beings cannot be reduced to numbers and lines, dots and arrows.  We are far too vast and complex – whole beings made up of interconnected systems – that are too often viewed in isolation from one another.   We are body, heart, mind and soul – and when we allow each part of ourselves to matter – we are our most whole, liberated, and powerful selves.  And from this place it’s easy to remember our truth, and to know what we need.

It’s from this place that I’m trying to live my life.  It’s just not easy to stay there all the time.

Holyshitfuck.

 Yes, 2013 has been a year of muscle-building for me –

 Of s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g myself in many less-than-comfortable ways;

Of developing greater resiliency, confidence, and tenderness toward myself;

Of widening my lens on reality;

And learning to trust my knowing about

the things that can’t be seen.

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Note:  If you’re interested in more information about extended breastfeeding (both the statistical kind and the story-telling, feel-good kind):  http://kellymom.com/fun/trivia/bf-numbers/; https://www.llli.org/nb/nbextended.html.

Resistance and Snow

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Wow.  It’s been almost a month since I’ve been here.  I have a couple of excuses, and at least one of them is pretty good.

My biggest work project of the year was announced the week of Thanksgiving, with a February 24th deadline looming.  All of my “spare” time is now spent frantically trying to move that project forward.   This is my “good” excuse.

The other “not so good” excuse is that I keep wanting to (eloquently & comprehensively) define what this blog is about for me.   And when I try to sit down and do that, I get completely overwhelmed by the vastness and complexity of it, and quit.  So for the moment, I’m giving up on definitions and allowing myself to relax into more fluidity and imperfection.

Each week I attend a contemplative writing class with a small circle of women, wherein we meditate together for 10 minutes, write for 20 minutes in response to the prompt from our instructor, and then share what we write with one another in the remaining time. It’s a wonderful practice, and it’s one thing I can rely on to get me to write every week.  And because we write for 20 minutes, there’s no time to go back and edit or make it perfect – what comes out is very stream of consciousness – but  can be amazing and often surprising.

This week I was feeling a lot of resistance to writing about winter (the prompt), so I got up and grabbed a few brightly colored note cards.  I started by drawing a few snow flakes with a sparkly pen, and then this is the story that came out.  Each time I start a new paragraph, it’s because I ran out of space and flipped over to a new side of the note card.  It had an interesting effect…

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 “No.”

This is how Mattie pronounces the word “snow”.  It’s darling.

It can be easy to confuse with the word “n-o”, given that he’s been using a LOT of that one lately also, to convey what he doesn’t want.  No breakfast, no lunch, no dinner.  Only snacks and sweets and mama milk, thank you very much.  No medicine, no brushing teeth, no sitting in his high chair, no taking a bath, and especially no removing him from precarious situations (like standing on the end table, for example).   These have been his preferences the past few days, much to our chagrin.  With each refusal we learn something – about ourselves, and how we think to handle each interaction.  Parenting — the greatest self-discovery tool of them all.

But Mattie has also been beyond fascinated with the s-n-o-w version of “no”, drawn to pull Ken and I by the hand to look at it out the window, leading us to the door to let us know that he wants to go out in it.  It’s not easy for him to understand that we can’t just walk out onto our front porch barefoot anymore.  And the resistance and the n-o version of the word “no” come back in full force when it comes time to putting on his snowsuit…and his boots…and his hat…AND his mittens.  It takes great patience and psychological preparation for the shrieking battle these simple actions can invoke.

Once outside, bundled against the cold, calm returns.  It is an incredible relief to close the door behind us, leaving that particular moment behind, never to have to be repeated in exactly the same conditions.  I’m thinking of this in terms of contractions right now.  I remember living through a really painful, intense contraction and telling my midwife that I didn’t know how many more like that I could handle.  She told me that EVERY contraction is different and that I’d never have to do THAT one again.  Sometimes I think of parenting moments like that too.

But these last few days have been so bitterly cold and windy that the feelings of serenity don’t last long.  I put Mattie in his sled and pull it with one hand, grab Girl’s leash with the other and set off down the sidewalk, determined to get some sunshine and exercise for all.  But the gusting winds blow s-n-o-w into our faces, causing us each to gasp simultaneously, forcing us to return to the house in less time than it took us to leave it.  We return too soon, leaving at least one of us feeling dejected and disappointed.

Thank goodness we have the fire in the pellet stove to return to.  There is comfort there, at least, and from its warm and cozy glow we can look out the window together, pointing at the s-n-o-w “no”, talking about how cold it is out there.  Mattie signing the world cold is delightful – he puts both hands out in front of him in fists and clenches them (and his whole body – including his teeth and jaws) and makes a grunt like he’s exerting himself strenuously.  Uummhhh!  It’s awesome.

All of this until the next day, when we’ll likely repeat some version of the same maddening, frustrating, delightful dance of n-o “no” and s-n-o-w “no”.

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After thought:  It didn’t occur to me until after I published this post that there was another irony that I failed to note in my preamble.  I was feeling a lot of resistance to the writing prompt…and then I ended up writing all about Mattie and his resistance and how that impacts me.  So…interesting!

Birth

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I have been pregnant with the idea of this blog for nearly as long as my son, Mattie, has been alive (just over 14 months now).   I have taken great joy in its possibility; luxuriating in the longing and dwelling in the excitement around activating my creative mind with new purpose.

But in the last few months, as I’ve come closer to this moment – the one where I actually birth this blog – I’ve gotten really uncomfortable.  I’ve gone into labor, with contractions and all.  And the closer I’ve come, the more intense the contractions have gotten.

I’ve tinkered with setting up this WordPress account, designing the theme, looking through photos for a header, writing down countless ideas for names and taglines and topics.  And I’ve also come up with countless excuses to procrastinate, most of them fear-based or coming from a place of not feeling good enough, each causing a contraction in its own right.

And at each pause point, I’ve usually decided that I’m not doing this at all.  Time and again I’ve come to the conclusion that the vulnerability and rawness of writing and being this exposed is too painful.   And so in an effort of self-preservation, I’ve walked away, soothing myself with the notion that I don’t have to do it – or anything else that feels hard or risky or scary.

But here I am – knowing in my heart that I can’t turn back, wise with the knowledge that once in labor, there’s only one way out.   I want to write and I want to share my tender, vulnerable self in this new momma state.  I don’t want the possibility of this new creation to get lodged uncomfortably somewhere deep inside; providing a constant, painful reminder of what could have been.  I want instead to be brave, to let this new creation come up and through me, accepting its imperfections – my imperfections – rather than not risk trying at all.

So with this post, I am pushing forward and punching through my fear and my image of perfection by telling myself that the purpose is not to be perfect.  The purpose is to stretch and grow by putting myself out there in the world – as I embrace and explore what is real and raw and messy in this human experience of parenting and being in relationship – and trusting that this act that benefits me may also benefit another.

That’s what this blog is about for me.

So in that spirit, I’m not going spend another second agonizing over what this first post says or how the site looks.  It is what it is — and it can grow and change over time.  Publishing now as I surrender into the great unknown about what comes after birth…

Welcome to the world, Momma Sound!