There May Be Hope

My little Garrett. Outside of his mother and his siblings, he's never met someone he didn't like. We walked to the playground the other day and as I wheeled the triple-wide across the open field to the climbing equipment, he sighed sadly. "No friends here today, Momma."

I smiled and bit my lip. "Nope, sweets, just us, it's a little cold."

At some point, I suppose, I'll have to point out to him that not every one is a friend, some people are strangers and some are unkind. What will clue him in? When someone refuses to play with him? When an older child embarrasses him for being open and genuine? When he's mocked?

Or maybe not. Maybe that's my cynical, adult view of the world. Maybe if he continues to be open to every one, they will respond to him in kind. Maybe I should learn to be more like him. Maybe.

I had given the five minute warning when three older kids came walking across the grass towards the play structures. They were too big for this park, clearly intending to 'hang out' and talk, maybe sit inappropriately on the top of the tunnels.

"Friends!!" Garrett cried as he sprinted toward them. He took care to hold the back of his pants with one hand. His new 4T pants are forever sliding off his nonexistent baby bottom, but the smaller sizes leave his ankles exposed to the wind.

I saw them slow and hesitate, uninterested in talking to a 'baby.'
"Garrett freeze! It's time to go home. I already gave the warning."
"Friends momma!!" He paused to gesture towards the group excitedly.
"I see, just give them a wave. We can come back tomorrow."

He waved sadly, turned to walk slowly back to me and climbed into the stroller.

He doesn't have to learn today.


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Quinn brained Garrett with a hard plastic ball a few mornings ago. It wasn't casual. He has this meanie baby grimace that makes me back up a few feet. It involves clenched teeth and wrinkled nose. His whole face goes very rigid and intense, all of this being a lead up to violence of one sort or another.

"No mean face, nice faces, Quinn," has become a trending phrase around here. It's sitting at about number seven behind:

"Use your words."
"Do you have to pee pee?"
"Then, get your hands off of your penis."
"What does _______ start with?" (Oh yes, still.)
"No, thank you, I don't like it when you..."
"Do you need to take a break?"

They bother me - the face and the blow - because he's started hitting so much younger than Garrett did. It makes sense. He's taken his hits and pushes from his brother (and, far less frequently, his sister), but it makes me sad.

Guess what Garrett did? N-O-T-H-I-N-G. He raised his hand and then he screamed "No, thank you Quinn!! MOOOOMMMMMAAAAAA, Quinn hit me."

Yes, thank you, Garrett. I'm standing feet from your location. Message received.

There's hope.

Not ten seconds later, Quinn wrapped those same plastic ball attack arms around my leg and said his newest phrase in his best impersonation of Astro (five points for the cartoon of my youth) - "rwi ruv ewe." There may be hope for him as well.

Rwi ruv ewe too, babies.

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Mom, you rock. Just so you know though, I am keeping the photos of the kids blowing raspberries in reserve. For future blackmail. Thanks everyone! I made it to page one. I feel complete.

Soundproof Glass

He's so big in my lap now. Twenty-one months old. He tries to pumpkin up his little bottom and bury his face in my neck, but the fit is poor, between his gangling length and my round belly. He settles for snuggling his face to my chest, his long legs dangling, his little arms tucked under his body, clutching his butter-yellow nanny blanket. His breath rasps around congestion.

I sit quietly and rock him. My baby, for two more months, my baby. I rarely rock any of our kids to sleep. We have a lovely, but set, bedtime routine that doesn't include me after books and songs and lights out. I like my long, quiet evenings. I am (mostly) unashamedly selfish with that time.

He has an ear infection, though, that the doctor found today at a well baby check up. I feel sad. He's been fussy, but I wrote it off to teeth and a cold. I've plied him to sleep with a dose of baby pain reliever several nights this week.

We rock and he sleeps, relaxed and comfortable in my arms, despite his sore ear and stuffy nose.

You can't catch everything. I know. There's no way to perceive all in this dizzily spinning world. I miss much I wish I would see. Friends' pain. Children's leaps forward. The struggles of others. Great books, persuasive arguments. My many faults and strengths. It's impossible to drink fast enough to take it all in. I'm uncertain I would even want to be that perceptive, I'd drown.

I'm grateful that a drawn-out cold is not a big deal in our world. I'm grateful that I trust his lungs to handle the strain, his immune system to win eventually, but I'm sorry I missed the source of his pain. It makes me wonder how much I'll miss in the next twenty years. The things I'll misinterpret and the things he'll hide from me.

I have a very specific super hero fantasy. I've mentioned it previously. I imagine that I am capable of being present at the exact moment before something goes wrong. I am unbelievably small and unimaginably large. I see the very first cancer cell and destroy it. I can make blood carry more oxygen, cause a car to turn down another street.

Instead, I am human. Fallible and small. I miss an ear infection for two weeks. I would never know the moment something larger went wrong inside of someone I love. I lack the power to divine the dangers lurking around sunny corners.

A friend told me a story that lives in my head. I think of it a lot, with tears in my eyes. It's not my story to tell, but I think she'll forgive me if I sketch the scene. It was her young daughter's first swimming lesson. Her little girl sat with the other toddlers, lined like sparrows on the edge of the pool. My friend sat in the observation room a floor away and watched through the glass. She watched the teenage instructor take each child out into the pool to practice floating, turning her back on the line of bright, wiggly swimmers. She watched her daughter, unseen by the instructor, slip off the side and sink to the pool floor. Pounding on the soundproof glass with her fist, she screamed for someone to notice her drowning child. A man poolside did notice and dove into the pool in a full business suit to save her life.

A close call. A miracle. A mother's worst nightmare.

At Saige and Garrett's swimming lesson last week, I straddled a narrow bench in the same type of observation room, situated sideways so that I could watch and chat with friends. Quinn sat in front of me. He lost his balance and fell backwards off of the bench, head-first, maybe three feet, to the hard tile floor. A horrible smack echoed in the room. The other parents gasped in horror. My friend's husband, a doctor, leaped up and headed toward us before I had even processed what had happened. He looked scared by the noise of my son's head hitting the ground.

I wasn't watching Quinn. I wasn't really watching my small swimmers either. My head was turned to the side, away from all of my children, my mind engaged in conversation. But, my hand wedged between Quinn's head and the floor. I don't know how. I must have felt him go backwards somewhere in my subconscious. I caught him by one ankle and his head smashed my other hand into the floor.

Instinct? Luck? Both?

That's the crux of it. That's what keeps me awake some nights. There are no predictions. No guarantees. Sometimes, your hand is right there, between your precious child's head and the cement, and you don't even know how it got there. Other times, you are too late, too far away, too slow, too small, pounding uselessly on soundproof glass, hoping against hope for someone else's hand.


This night, he sleeps safely in my arms and I let him just a little bit longer.

Two Niner

I actually dressed up yesterday, a rare occurrence. Generally, I wear a pair of jeans that Cue uses as his personal tissue. I'm a walking example of 'what not to wear.' Snot encrusted jeans, for instance. It's altruistic. I like to make others feel good about themselves.

In celebration of my cleanliness, Matt took some twenty-nine week pictures. Eleven weeks to go today.

I wish I had something sweet and profound to say about carrying a life and this sweet baby's constant bumps to remind me of what a miracle each day is and how soon it will be gone. But, no. I have this to tell you. I've reached that delightful point in a pregnancy at which, when I bend over, my boobs rub against my belly. I'm shocked (!) every time (!) because holy crap (!) I have boobs (!). That never happens to me. Will you look at that, the weird rubbing feeling is my actual boobs rubbing the top of my gigantic uterus.

There's some information you undoubtedly could have lived without.

I also passed my one-hour glucose test. By fasting. I avoided almost all sugar the week before the test. Given the circumstances, I'm trying not to consider my success free reign to suck down chai tea at an alarming rate. I've reduced my intake from outrageous to mildly embarrassing.

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Gratefulness. Thank you. I didn't really plan to fund raise, just walk in Maddie's honor. This blog world is an astonishing place (and my family is pretty darn cool too). Spokane for Maddie has almost reached our $300.00 goal. I am so proud to be a tiny part of the OVER $55,000.00 raised for the March of Dimes in Maddie's name.

To everyone who took the time to vote in the Blogger's Choice Awards - thanks. It's probably silly, but it tickles me to no end that this blog is now on page two of over three hundred pages of blogs in the parenting category.

There is one vote missing, however, if you'll excuse me for a moment. Can I get you a magazine? I think I have Brain, Child and US Weekly around here somewhere.

MOM!! You aren't fooling anyone. I can SEE who has voted. Not you. Nor Aunt D for that matter. Aunt H has acquired permanent favorite aunt status as far as I'm concerned. Don't think you'll be able to convince the kids otherwise when you fly out here in a couple of weeks. I'm their mother. I can exert my corrupting influence on them constantly. If I spend the next six months telling them that it was Aunt H that flew out here and let them eat cookies for three days, it will be so. They are clueless and easily confused creatures. Half the time, they think they are cats.

Don't make me lie. Do you want to be known as "lazy D.C. grandma"? Don't give me that "I'm so busy" line either. Do you know how much time it takes to download pictures and organize them and upload them to blogger?



There. How are you going to thank me? Perhaps by clicking the little Blogger's Choice button to the right? If you don't do it, I'm going to go on picture strike while I teach your only three grandchildren to do this whenever lazy DC grandma is mentioned.



You know I would. You raised me.

Oh, hi, are you all still here too? Aha. Thanks for visiting me today. And, ah, yeah, sorry about the little family spat. Don't worry about us. That is completely normal communication in this family. (That raspberry is exclusively for my mother.)

Snippets

I would walk five hundred miles.

(Actually, I probably couldn't possibly, since my twenty-nine-week self puffs and heaves carrying Cue up a flight of stairs, but I'd try.)

I'm walking for Maddie. Spokane for Maddie is an official March of Dimes walking team. Wait, let me take it one farther, I am pushing my horrendously huge triple stroller three miles for Maddie. With some friends. And some coffee.

If you live near by and you'd like to join us, we'd love it. If you're a blogger, you've probably already donated to the March of Dimes this month in honor of Maddie, so ignore this part. This is specifically targeted at my family and non-blogging friends: You read, you don't comment, you owe me five dollars. (If you want. TRIPLE stroller. Just click ... here.)

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I'm shameless, when it comes to loving you.

While you are doing annoying things for me, Ann's Rants nominated me for a Blogger's Choice Award. Which is not at all annoying, I was shocked and then pleased as anything. You can vote for me by clicking on that link over there to the right.

MOM.

Yes, you have to register and give them your email. It will take you two seconds. Do it for your grandchildren. So that they can say they are the children of a mother who, while she didn't win best parenting blog, got more than three votes, one of them being her own.

(That's legal. McCain and Obama both did it. Democracy in action.)

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I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

Last thing. Mailing a leaf is illegal. Gee did it, not me. I might have helped. Okay, it was my idea, but he was the one who actually mailed the thing. I only leaf aided and abetted. We might have conspired. Damn, that makes me responsible, as a member of the conspiracy, for all acts commitment by my co-conspirators in furtherance of the conspiracy. Thank you, Professor Groot.

My defense is temper-tantrum insanity. That's like temporary insanity, only louder. We walked all the way to the mailboxes - it's like 1.5 miles (hello, MoD is double that) - the other day and when we arrived, I realized that I had only two letters to mail, but, as usual, I had three children in my possession. Trauma. Cue used to be so bump-on-a-log-ish. I still sometimes forget to factor him into the equation despite the fact that he's been going howler monkey on my ass for MONTHS when he doesn't get to do exactly what the big kids are doing, thankyouverymuch.

I picked up a huge maple leaf and I let Ess and Cue mail the letters and then I told Gee that it was a very important leaf that needed to get to Grandma as soon as possible. He bought that tripe. All happy, disastrous screaming fit all the way home avoided. Only, I failed to notice the gigantic mail truck parked behind us and the federal postal worker watching our leaf mailing ceremony.

I hoped he'd missed it, but it's hard miss a red-headed kid in a triple stroller shrieking, "MAIL THE LEAF TO GRANDMA????" He informed me that placing non-mail objects in a postal box was a federal offense. He used a pretty nice voice, so I'm going to guess he was half-way kidding. I tried to high-tail it out of there, but we had to go up hill and my iron is low. I'm constantly out of breath. It was more like snail-trailing it out of there.

Leaves must blow into the mail boxes every once in a while? No one blames the wind. If you get a leaf in your mailbox, it's from us.

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Sugar, awww, honey, honey

I gave up chai tea lattes last week in a desperate attempt to pass my one-hour glucose test this Tuesday. Basically, my world is dark and gray and I am horrendously unpleasant until my lack-of-caffeine headache clears in the afternoon. The test was Tuesday and I have heard nothing from my midwife, which I took as a clear sign that I could have a huge chai tea yesterday.

I'm just trying to cram them in, honestly. I'm sure I failed with flying sugars as usual and I consider every day until she calls to freak me out about the MASSIVE baby I'll be delivering in June/July a free chai tea pass. Cross your fingers for me? Even the losers get lucky sometimes.

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Five points for the title and artist of each song quoted in this less-than-stellar collection of thought snippets!

Raising Cain

I have vivid memories of the day. Jen, my college roommate and I, young, jubilant, carrying our backpacks, exited the Madrid subway system into bright sunlight. We had been traveling for weeks already - Ireland, France, Portugal - and we felt drunk on our success.

We exited with the sun on our faces, invincible. We'd met hundreds of student travelers, like us, and we were in love with them all, every one, the whole world. We forgot it was early, barely six in the morning, in a strange, huge city. We had no idea that we'd chosen the wrong stop. We were miles from our destination, a small youth hostel. We were not in a 'nice' neighborhood. It was hard to tell, with all the shops still barred and closed, the first commuters just appearing.

I imagine that as we studied the map of Madrid in our guide book, he studied us. He saw the nylon rope around my neck, the bulge under my thin t-shirt. I'd removed my heavy sweatshirt in the hot morning sun. He knew it was a money pouch, made for carrying travel documents and cash.

We started to walk, some what realizing our mistake, but unalarmed, completely off-guard. We'd met humor and help every single place we'd visited. We had rosy expectations of the world and those in it.

I imagine he followed and planned a little. Maybe got ahead of us and circled around, waiting for his moment.

When he approached us, I felt no fear. He was young, late teens or early twenties, he smiled, he held out a piece of paper and my mind registered only another traveler, lost like us. I remember he was attractive, no facial features stand out, just a dark flop of hair that bounced in his dark eyes.

I stopped for him, my body relaxed, my expression open, and he went for the pouch around my neck like a killer cat.

My images of our struggle are fragmented. I screamed. Jenny screamed. Over and over, high and desperate. He pulled with all his weight and strength in quick, painful jerks and I held the cords as well, more in an effort to relieve the pain than to try and protect my entire meager life savings. People started to run towards us and still the green nylon held. He gave up and ran away.

The rope burns remained on my neck and hands for weeks, but as physical attacks go, it was mild. He must not have had a knife, he never tried to cut the cords. He could easily have twisted the cords and strangled me, but he didn't. He never struck me, though I kicked the hell out of his shins.

I wonder sometimes, is that because he was at the beginning of his crime career and too unsure to be vicious? Or were there more morals involved? Did he truly just want the money and some costs were too high? Is he in a Spanish jail now or did he grow bored of robbing tourists and go to college? Maybe he was a pretty good kid goaded into trying to swipe a tourist's money by poorly chosen friends?

Who knows? I can't say what he learned that day. I did learn. I still think about how strong that boy was, how much power resided in his arms. He was my size, my age, my height, slight and wiry, like me, but he was considerably stronger than I was. To the point that a physical contest was laughable.

That was the first time I understood what it means to be physically less than a solid fifty percent of the world. I don't mean in a 'weaker sex' sense (insert girlish giggles). I mean biology. I mean his arms were built for a different purpose than mine. I could work out for ten years and not match that strength. I could learn techniques, I could learn surprise and weak points, but I could not achieve his power.

Matt would never be targeted in that way, not at twenty and certainly not now. Of course, he could be surprised. He could be robbed with a weapon. But just walking down the street, a quick target, some fast cash? No way. He is a powerful looking man and he lives in a slightly different world than I do.

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I've thought about this incident recently. Our sons will be powerful men some day - and not in twenty years either. Twelve? Maybe less. Garrett is right on track to match his father's six foot 200 lb frame.

He hauled off and whacked me on the side of the head a few days ago, as I carried him upstairs for a time-out. It hurt. He was beyond furious at me. I could see him struggle for a proper vent and then lose it completely. He repented immediately and crawled into his bed for his time-out sobbing he was sorry.

Garrett's swing at my head startled me into noticing how much he's changed and how I've failed, so far, to adjust. He's also been leaning on me when he wants me to stop what I'm doing. It's aggressive and unpleasant behavior and it makes me feel combative toward my not quite four-year-old. He is testing. He already senses his strength. I can barely lift him for hugs, carrying him to time-out takes my breath away and that is with his cooperation. My days of responding to unacceptable behavior by simply removing him from the room are numbered.

Discipline is reaching a crossroads because my babies are reaching one. They are almost four. Not toddlers, kids. Kids that are too big to be carried to time-out. Kids that are going to have to choose whether to spend five minutes in their room when I ask, or lose other things (MANY other things) until they comply.

I want more for my boys. (For my daughter too, but in our house, this is gender-based. She is rarely physically aggressive.) Beyond learning, as a mother, to change my parenting as they grow, I want them to understand that uncontrolled power is its own weakness. I want them to know how to be respectful and kind, open doors, carry bags, without intellectual condescension. I want to raise kind, gentle boys.

I stressed until I remembered that they live with a powerful man who is gentle. They see him focus his strength on building projects, cycling and work-outs. The live with a man who, in the nineteen years I have known him, has never physically forced someone to do anything. They live with a man who is courteous without being (usually - leaving aside when I hit the garage and now the driveway gate) condescending.

Is it too much to hope that they will pick this up, like a language, effortlessly?

Roses for Maddie

The service celebrating the life of Madeline Alice Spohr is today, Tuesday, April 14, 2009 at 2:30 p.m. California time.

It's not fair and there's no one to visit with our sadness and our anger, but we can do something. We can take a moment to think of her and all of the families, parents, brothers, sisters, friends and loved ones that have to face the loss of a child. We can let our hearts fill with gratefulness for every moment she had, and we all have, in the sun.

Here's our moment for Maddie. With love.

Joy to You and Me

Sometimes, we all need a little joy.




We went to a "Jump and Bounce" birthday party today. It was hellish, if you want the truth, in that wonderful, chaotic, breathless way that a only a warehouse full of two-year-olds, beach balls, bouncy castles, cake and juice can attain.

On the bright side, I only had to haul my pregnant ass into my greatest nemesis - the obstacle course bouncy thingy - and fish one of my screaming children out of it twice. New bouncy party record!

Gee has become completely obstacle course self-sufficient. It's a huge milestone. On previous visits, he has won the title: "Most Likely to Be Eaten by the Obstacle Course and Disappear Forever." At thirty-four weeks pregnant with Cue, I had to climb into that damn obstacle course and rescue my two then two-year-olds about eleventy-billion times. That's the official tally. Because each time counts as at least eleventy-million when you are round and about the size of the stupid, pregnant-woman-eating obstacle course entry hole.

In other amazing news, Cue was able to climb the slide ladder BY HIMSELF. Praise the God of Jumpy Thingys. I can not properly put into words how tiring it is to haul a toddler up that slide ladder. It's a big honking balloon. It gives when you step on it. Well, it gives when I step on it. There is absolutely no limit to the amount of times a toddler can climb the ladder and slide down that slide. Infinity-bazillion times would not suffice. We get to the bottom and he's already signing more like a demented seal, as fast as his little flipper paws can sign.

Do you know the sign for more? If you have/know toddlers or you have ever had the misfortune to attend a toddler birthday party, I bet you do. Tuck your thumbs into your palms, face your thumbs to your belly and then bang your finger tips together as hard and as fast as you possibly can. Enthusiastically. With great emotion.

Feels kind of good actually, doesn't it? MORE BALLS! MORE SLIDE! MORE CAKE! MORE JUICE! MORE BALLOONS! It's hard to resist that kind of exuberant request. Maybe Matt should try it some time. Aha. Ahem.

All hellishly good things must come to an end, or at least that's what their caffeine-deprived mother told them. We bailed with Cue screaming inconsolably because I had the audacity to tie his third and final helium-filled balloon to his belt loop so that it would not join his first two balloons on the warehouse ceiling. His seal brain failed to comprehend that I could not retrieve it there no matter how many times or how hard he banged his little fingers tips together. Mommy magic has limits, baby boy.

Ess and Gee tried their hardest to cause a wreck on the way home by maximizing their annoyingness with helium balloons. It's a huge talent to hit each other with helium balloons while strapped into five-point harnesses in different rows of a large minivan. They can't put on their own shoes, but they can aim and whack backwards at four feet separation. Cue alternatively hugged his properly-secured helium balloon in fierce, loving exhaustion and howled in outrage when it slipped from his grasp and floated to the van ceiling.

I was sweaty and thirsty and tired and my head hurt from the noise (oh, the noise) and I was a little bit concerned about the IQ of my baby because, for the love of god, pull the freaking string which is conveniently tied to your car seat and the balloon will magically descend. A well-trained seal could figure this out.


But, I felt joyful. And lucky. Luck laced with such fragility that some days I'm afraid to touch it for fear it will shatter and other days I hold on to the string with both hands for fear it will float away.


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I think most of you know what a huge joy in a little package left this world on April 7, 2009. If you have a little joy in your heart to spare today, and you haven't already, we can help. Heather and Mike are struggling to meet the expenses of the service celebrating Maddie's life. All of the links are at the top of my sidebar. Over three-hundred posts say it far better than I ever could.

Realizations

Her Bad Mother and her friend Dave started a new internet game called The World According to Mom, Around the World in 80 Clicks. The idea is to travel around the world blog-hopping and read about what different mothers love about mothering. One of my favorite international bloggers, Robin, who lives a fascinating life in Israel and takes unbelievable photographs, tagged me for the game and, for once, I'm not too lazy and I actually wrote a post.

Six years ago, I didn't want children and I would tell that fact to anyone who made the mistake of asking me why I didn't have any. I won't bore you with a long story. Eventually, I had 'em and I learned that it's not about wanting or not wanting, it's a state of being.

Here are five things I didn't know before I became a mother and the things I love to learn and learn to love along the way...

1) I didn't realize how much it hurt to lose a child. It's not that I didn't care, or was oblivious to grief, but I didn't know. In my short time as a mother, I've lost three pregnancies and our son's adoption disrupted. Now, I know. I don't love that we experienced this pain, but I love who I am as a result. I love that I am sensitive to the raw pain of miscarriage. I love that I have a new awareness for the grief of friends that can't conceive. I love that I know, I really know, not to say "it wasn't meant to be," or "it will happen," or "there must have been something wrong, you're lucky" or "God has a plan," and instead, to settle for a tight hug.

2) I didn't realize how angry I could be at a child whom I love with all my heart. I guess strong emotions go together, with great love comes great angst and great fear and, for me, at times, great fury. I love that I have learned the true meaning of anger management through motherhood. I've learned to take a step back. I've learned to turn away. I've learned to lower my voice when people - small or large - are screaming at me. I've sat outside on my front porch and cried tears of helpless fury over my kids' behavior. I love that I am better, (usually?), with customer service outrages and airline delays and atrocious drivers and life's frustrations on all levels because of them. I love that I am being watched and that I want to model a more loving, calm approach to the world, without backing down when I'm right, because that is what I want to show them. (I even love that I often fail, miserably, and I take a deep breath, tell them mommy said "ducks suck" and try again the next day.)

3) I didn't realize how much I would gain when I lost a little of myself. I didn't want kids because I didn't want to give up travel and time, time to write, to live, to eat out, to nap, to read, to be. I didn't want to give up me. I have lost all of those things and I miss them. I love that I am still me and I'm a mother. I love that I'm happy right now and I accept this time for what it is, temporary, fleeting, unbelievably fun and unbelievably horrendous, often in the same day. I love that I haven't forgotten who I am and that I know I will shine through again, when I'm done savoring this phase of my life.

4) I didn't realize how many ways there are to be a mother. It all seemed so simple before it happened to me. I'm not just a mom to almost four kids, I'm also a bio mom and an adoptive mom. I'm a mom to lost babies. I'm a mom who has relinquished a child. I love my new awareness of how many ways there are to do this right. I love that I'm a potpourri kind of parent. I'm free to despise arts and crafts in all forms, leave my kids in cribs until they're five, and still attend a free-play coop preschool. I'm also free to love many moms who feel differently on endless issues. We all love our children, it's that simple. I love that I've learned to walk away from people who think their way is the only way, it's made a huge difference in so many aspects of my life.

5) I didn't realize I'd be able to weep uncontrollably at a computer finishing a little post like this. Because there really aren't any words for this kind of love. I don't get to travel the world right now, my backpack is tucked away in a dusty closet, but I love that I still get a few drops of Jupiter in my hair, every single day.













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This meme is supposed to travel the world and stay close to home. I think it should travel metaphorically too and visit moms who entered motherhood in many ways. Harvard to Homemaker is an amazing mom, through adoption and birth, in my neighborhood. I couldn't live without her. Let's see what she loves about mothering. Far away, I'll travel to Alaska and ask Gayle at The White House and then to Guyana to visit Earnest Monkeys. Marinka, NYC mom to a blended family that we all know and love. If I can actually convince her to do it, her spin on this ought to be endlessly amusing, like everything she writes. Finally, Kym from I'm A Smart One is a mom to five who battled infertility and won and she's a surrogate mom.

The many journeys to motherhood - will you tell us more? What five things do you love about being a mother? Go see Her Bad Mother for the rules of the road and to link up to the larger project.

Cribbage

When I was pregnant with Gee, before I had any actual children in my possession, I read The Absorbent Mind by Maria Montessori. It talks about the brain a lot, which was complicated and fascinating and largely escaped me, and also outlines the foundations for Maria's philosophies of raising and teaching children.

One part of the book astounded me from the very first. It detailed Maria's idea that children should never be contained. They should be free always to roam, explore, learn, experience their environment. Always. Even at night. Maria didn't believe in cribs. She postulated that babies, even newborn babies, didn't need them. They ought to be free, they could find the boundaries of a low mattress at just days old, they preferred to move at will.

I was intrigued, as I gazed at my pretty crib and my designer crib set, bought at Land of Nod for the mere cost of one of my arms, not to mention the drive to Seattle (four hours), night in a hotel (not cheap) and bagels and lox at the Fish Market (overpriced). I HAD to have the crib set from Land of Nod, which has stores only where rich people live and not in podunk, backwater towns eeking out a meager existence on the border of Idaho. On the Idaho border, we should be using cheap Target crib sets, bought used at the baby consignment sale, thank you very much.

Yeah, well, now I do use cheap, used sets because (big secret revealed here, if you don't have kids and don't want a spoiler, cover your eyes), KIDS PUKE AND PEE AND SHIT ALL OVER THE DAMN THINGS.

What can I say? Forgive me. I was very pregnant with my first precious baby and I'd lost a baby before that. Mind not working properly. Some things must be learned by experience.

Maria's little theory intrigued me. No cribs? Days-old babies can find the edge of a low mattress? Children should be free to roam and explore? Interesting.

Then, I had a baby and he came home and - SECOND SPOILER - he didn't sleep for two months unless his lips were firmly attached to my nipple or he was passed out cold face down on his father's chest. Or strapped into a car seat. Which, at two months gave his tired father and I an idea. What if we just put him on a low mattress and watched while he explored his environment and found the edge?

AHAHAHAHAHA. Funny girl, that Maria. No. We noodled his penchant for sleeping in a car seat a bit and said to each other. Us...what if we put the car seat INTO the crib. With him strapped in it. Asleep. And we did and he slept for eight hours, completely restrained like a teeny tiny resident of an insane asylum. Better him than me. It was a little bitty baby miracle.

And so our first beautiful baby slept buckled into a car seat in his crib - in eight hour stretches - for six months when our pediatrician kind of freaked out just a little bit and told us that we needed to try and transition him to a crib! !!

Duh. Panic unnecessary. By then I was all relaxed and experienced and I was like - um, I don't think we're going to have to take the car seat to college and put it on his bunk. No. I was still very intimidated by pediatricians and words like developmental delay and permanent back damage. We switched him to a regular old crib. We didn't even consider a low mattress on the floor.

Want to know why, Maria? Yeah, you know you neglected to mention some things. THIRD SPOILER ALERT. Because babies MOVE. AROUND. Not just on the mattress. When they fall off of things they wake up and cry. They also have the brain capacity of a dim Labrador puppy. They chew on things. They pull things. Their entire existence revolves around wreaking as much havoc and mayhem as possible. How is the parent supposed to get any actual sleep with all of that roaming and exploration going on? Right.

My conclusion? Cribs are genius, obviously. They are little baby cages. Like a crate, for a puppy, except you cannot, under any circumstances, with the possible exception of a quick crying jag on the front porch, put the baby in his crate and leave. It's unfortunate, but true.

Nearly four years later, I own three cages, for my three puppies, I mean babies, for maximum restraint and containment and until last weekend, they all still slept in them.**

That's right, Maria. My three-year-and-eight-month-old children STILL slept in their cribs. Put that on you bruschetta and crunch it.

Until last weekend, that is, when we finally caved and converted Gee's crib to a toddler bed. No nod to Maria, it simply became marginally more of a pain in my ass for him to be in the crib than out of it. The whole "now-that-I-am-not-in-diapers-which-I-kept-completely-dry-for-ten-hours-for-over-a-year-I-must-get-up-and-pee-at-least-twice-a-night" thing.

The crib to toddler bed process:*


























My favorite thing about their room, the photo border:



I cried a little. Not the quiet oh my babies are growing up kind of cry. Let's face it, my kids probably should have been out of cribs a year ago. More of an oh-my-god-he-has-access-to-my-entire-house-while-I-sleep kind of cry. The roaming. The exploration. God help me.

Actually, we are eight nights in and he's been pretty good overall. He gets up about twice a night. He goes to the bathroom. He pees. He gets his PJs back on. He turns off the light and walks to the door of our room. Then, he whines and cries and whinges and tantrums until I agree to get up and 'put his covers back on.'

The end result is that I still have to get up every damn time he does, but it's massively more annoying because it's so unnecessary AND I've lost the crib containment. But, he's roaming and exploring! Finally. Maria would be so proud.***

*Yes, Ess is still in her crib. She doesn't wake during the night at all, still wears a pull up and might until she goes to college with her crib and her carseat. They are in the same room. This keeps them from roaming over to kill each other while I attempt to sleep.

**No, my kids have never climbed out of their cribs, ever, ever. It's not that they are non-explorative kids or because I am a good parent. It's because I am mean. I kid you not. Gee threw a leg over the side once when he was about 27 months and I had an epileptic fit on the floor and foamed at the mouth before I gave him a time out. He never tried it again. Roaming and exploration in the middle of the night are completely overrated.

***My editor and biggest critic, aka Matt, commented that this post might offend some people because, clearly, many, many people believe in the Montessori methods, especially for school. I've never visited a school, but I hear wonderful things. I'm absolutely not judging parents who are able to implement the roaming and exploration philosophy of child raising. I admire them. It's not my fault that my intense, type-A, lawyerish personality didn't magically disappear when I gave birth. Roaming makes me hyperventilate. So do markers.