Mama Raw

My mom and I sat poring over a catalog as she tried to choose new cushions for her patio furniture.  She showed me the upholstery prints she liked best then asked which was my favorite.

“Wait, let me guess,” she said.  “This one.”

It’s been ten years since Mom and I have lived in the same state, and other than our dark brown eyes, we have little in common.

Of the 15 or so fabric choices, she pointed to one with a variety of earthy hues.

She knows which fabric I like best.

She knows me.

Despite the passage of time, the miles distancing us, and our inherent personality differences, will my kids be able to count on me to choose their favorite patio furniture upholstery?

The tears begin to flow as soon as I pull out of the driveway and do not stop until I’m somewhere south of Salt Lake City where the full moon hangs just above the Wasatch Mountains.  I’ve left Montana on this August day in 2003, my green Isuzu Rodeo loaded with the backpack and gear I’ll need to live and work in California.

*****

Why do we as a society push babies to independence with such ferocity?  Why must they learn to live less dependently on us?  Why is the prevailing attitude that if you fail to force independence and instead follow your child’s lead, listen to his cues, respond to his needs, and create an overall connection with him, then you will produce a mama’s boy–the too dependent to function kind?

And what if you have formed such a close bond with your daughter that she doesn’t want to leave home at age 10 for summer camp?  Or what if your bond is not as strong and she still doesn’t want to go?  Why does a 10-year-old need to have attained such a level of independence?

*****

With my tears finally dry I know I’ll be OK.  I am an independent adult, and I’m excited to begin this job that will take me to the beaches, mountains, and deserts of a state I’ll forevermore say I love but wouldn’t want to live in.

Yes, I am an independent adult.  I thrive on making my own decisions, seeking my own truth, being alone, being my own boss.

I also fiercely love my husband, and my heart aches to be leaving him for the next 10 weeks.

I depend on him, after all, as best friend, partner, lover.  Just as I rely on my mom to offer advice, listen to my problems, and share in my excitement.  Just as I now rely on my kids for squeezes, kisses, laughs, and the steady warm glow residing in my heart.

Maybe I’m not so much independent as independently dependent.

*****

Parenting with trust, compassion, respect, and gentleness will mold my children into well-adjusted, thoughtful, secure people.  It will make them just the right amount of independent.  And just the right amount of dependent, too.

I, as their mother, will never regret one nursing session, one night sleeping next to a little, warm body, or one dash through the airport, small limbs flailing from my back.  I will never regret one day of deep connection with my children.  I will never regret being there.

My gut tells me they will never regret being so unconditionally loved either.

Not only am I fortunate to host a post from Our Muddy Boots today, but I also have one on her site.  If you’ve been here long enough you know I’ve had an ongoing identity crisis since my daughter was born.  You could probably also guess that I, just like other parents, want my daughter to know she can do anything with her life that she chooses.

My daughter asked if her friends’ dads go to work like her dad does.

“And the moms are at home with the kids?”

Uh, er, yeah.

I panicked.

Sneaky gender roles.

Because her daily life consists of women who are home tending to children, I worried my daughter would think she had no other choice than to be a stay-at-home mom.  I worried she’d think women aren’t qualified for “real jobs.”  I worried she’d think her own mother inferior for not pursuing some (non-) passion with a financial incentive.

Please read the rest of the story here.

Our Muddy Boots is here today with a guest post on parenting with instinct.  I can think of no better gift for a child than a mother who follows her intuition.  Please visit her blog and meet a mama who is learning from her mistakes and powering forward.

There is lots of support for parenting. The news stands, our pediatricians, the web and even television shows allow us to commiserate in the new found agony of having a baby join our family. They encourage the frustration that we feel because our babies require that our lives change so drastically.

Yes, there is lots of support offered for new parents who practice mainstream parenting.

But if your choices deviate from the mainstream, the support is more difficult to find. There is not much “gear” that goes with parenting intuitively, so who would pay for the advertising space to offer such support? Babies don’t have much money.

So many of us are left alone, wondering why we are the only ones who are compelled to listen to our babies. We think there is nobody else out there feeling the way we do. We have nowhere readily available for practical advice. What is the best way to arrange family members in a family bed? How do you handle tandem nursing? How do I nurse one child to sleep while the other is wide awake and active?

These are all questions that I have had, and had nobody to ask. I longed to flip open one of the magazines from the grocery store to find an article that offered me inspiration and support. But I did not let my baby cry it out or sleep in a crib. And many times this has left me feeling isolated, lonely and unsupported. Fortunately for my children and I, my instincts overrode these mainstream influences.

At least for the most part.

Once we left baby and toddlerhood things got more confusing. I knew that I wanted to continue the connected relationship that attachment parenting had given my son and I, but he was exploring and testing and trying to find boundaries. I got caught up thinking it was my responsibility to be forceful and controlling when teaching him.

And so there were things that I tried that never felt right; like time-outs and requiring my children to spend time in their room even if they did not nap- after all, Mama deserved some time for herself. While these things were working for others around me, I always felt inauthentic and fraudulent when trying to implement them because they did not fit with our other parenting choices.

And mostly I knew that I was disconnecting from my beautiful little boy.

So there came a point where I had to remind myself to continue to trust my intuition and act in ways that felt right for me. But it was kind of scary. Because what if I really was letting my child “call the shots”? What if my instincts were totally off and it really was my job to have control?

But every part of me told me the choices that connected me to my son were the right ones. I could see it so clearly in my relationship with my little boy and in how he related to the world. The confidence, brightness and compassion that I witnessed from him were exactly what was most important to me.

My struggle continues to be listening to my child and my instincts as we enter each new part of life. Sometimes it is hard because each phase is new and I am inexperienced. But when I get lost and confused, all I have to do is pause and look into Owen or Sydney’s little face. And very quickly everything becomes crystal clear; all I have to do is choose to connect. Everything else will flow.

Jennifer Andersen is the creator of Our Muddy Boots: the honest story of an attached family (as told by the mother). She gratefully stays at home with her two children ages 2 and 4. Some days are lonely and not easy, but she would not have it any other way.

I began the week by donating my maternity clothes.  Today, Mamalode.com published a piece I wrote about feeling nostalgic for a period of life that passed too quickly–my reproductive “career.”

The three personalities seated around me at the dinner table confirm I am right where I need to be.

My family is complete.

Nevertheless, I am periodically nostalgic for my journey into motherhood and my childbearing days.

Butterflies swirling as I waited and wished for a double line to appear and giving not a moment’s rest until I told my husband I was pregnant. Holding his face in my gaze as a chip-toothed smile emerged.  Hearing for the first time the galloping hooves of a second heartbeat within my body and clenching my eyes shut to contain the welling tears. Sinking into the first flutters, and later the forceful blows, of movement.

Meeting the incomparable relief of the final push and then seeing, touching, my child—our child—at last.

Please read the rest of the story here.

Baby’s heavy breathing as he sleeps in the stroller parked in the garage.

The whir of an old HP notebook, once my dad’s.

Undulations of shadow cast on the wall as the fan spins overhead.

Cloud-filtered light meandering in through open door, window, skylight.

The aroma of cooling cranberry muffins.

Absorbing this time, this space.

Recalling the long and tumultuous walk since I was last employed and not yet a mother.

Invoking the spirit of my grandfather, a university professor and activist for integrating the school.  Mom, 7, thought it was a scarecrow in the front yard.  Granddaddy’s anger showed otherwise.  An effigy.  A hate crime.

Wriggling my way through an emotional growth spurt.

Contemplating a new title, precise and goal-oriented.  Not Mom or Mrs. or Ashley, B.S., M.A.  An unveiling steeped in vulnerability.

Like the belly that was once the whole of their world, expanding myself for the people I love most.

Remember that whole “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” thing?  Well, I’m all for that.

So sometimes I am angry when others don’t take it as seriously as I do.

Yesterday, the citizens of North Carolina voted in favor of an amendment to the state constitution that makes marriage and civil union between same-sex couples illegal.  North Carolina is not the only state to have such a ban, just the most recent, demonstrating a failure to move forward in our country.  While we “drill baby drill” with little thought as to the effects this type of “progress” has on the planet, true social progress is stymied.

Laws should protect people, their possessions, and the environment.  They should not protect fear and ignorance by restricting an adult’s ability to make decisions for herself that have no bearing on the physical wellbeing of others and are not intentionally emotionally distressing to them.

I’ve recently become involved with some singularly “intactivist” efforts.  As you well know by now, routine infant circumcision is a violation of a human’s basic right to bodily autonomy.  Nevermind that it causes unnecessary pain and deprives a boy, the man he’ll become, and his future sexual partners of healthy, functional tissue, while making Americans look absolutely loony in the process.

A basic lack of consideration is shown for others in allowing non-consenting babies to be subjected to genital cutting, a practice that is always harmful, and in forbidding certain consenting adults from reaping the same benefits I, and many of you, are entitled to under the law and in the name of love.

While parents who consent to circumcision for their babies do so out of love, there are adults who cannot consent to acts born of love that solely affect themselves and are not harmful.

People are consistently inconsistent, and sometimes we’re just plain fucked up.  Choosing to ignore some tenets of a religion’s holy book because they don’t suit your lifestyle, while embracing others, like circumcision and spanking (though there’s debate about the true meaning of “spare the rod”) is inconsistent and all together fucked up.  As is being so mired in cultural practices that you cannot see how inconsistent and/or fucked up they truly are.

Believing a woman should have the right to choose a hospital birth but not a homebirth is inconsistent.  As is believing she should be able to choose a homebirth but not an elective cesarean.  As is thinking she shouldn’t have the right to control her body through pregnancy termination but she should be able to cut apart that baby’s body once he’s born.  Or that she should have the right to control her body through abortion, yet a boy/man shouldn’t have the right to make decisions about his body.  And that hatred based on race, sex, sexual orientation, religion, etc. is politically incorrect and morally reprehensible, while anti-child and anti-parent sentiments remain socially acceptable.

The essence of the issue is that others have such small lives and so little self-regard they must mask it with intolerance and control.

(The first time “likers” declined on this blog’s Facebook page after I took a bold stance on some issue it bothered me, but I’ve learned not to take it personally.  I’m proud of myself for saying the hard things, the controversial things, the things that are right, regardless of what strangers on the internet, “friends,” or family think.  My opinions (and the facts) are not flung freely or without thought, nor are they intentionally hurtful, so if they bother others that’s a reflection of their character, not mine.)

From J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings:  The Fellowship of the Ring

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

Don’t you love it when you find something you didn’t even know you were looking for?

Like those who cannot fully understand homebirth until they’ve planned one, I didn’t fully grasp the workings, possibilities, and implications of the discipline world outside rewards and punishments until I read Alfie Kohn’s Unconditional Parenting.  It’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

Kohn’s ideas sit comfortably in the core of my being, nevermind that they’re backed by research (as are his qualms with traditional discipline).  He espouses keeping long-term goals for your children in mind and placing emphasis on your relationship with them in working towards those goals.  Rewards and punishments are not used because they inhibit authentic moral development and spur self-interest.  Punishments specifically counter the message a parent should send of unconditional love because what is received when a child is made to suffer for her actions is a message of conditional love.  (i.e. I’m not loved when I hit my brother.  I know this because my mom forcibly isolated me from the rest of the family.)

Parents should limit their control–limit their “no’s,” which when used must come with an explanation–and allow children to make decisions for themselves.  “In fact,” Kohn says, “the particular choices we make are often less significant than the act of choosing itself.”

Children should also be included in problem-solving and the underlying cause of their behavior and its effects on others addressed.  Likewise, “attribute to children the best possible motive consistent with the facts” and try to see things from their point of view.

It’s a simple approach, yet one that requires creativity, compassion, and dedication beyond traditional discipline.  It also requires one to eschew certain beliefs ingrained in our culture, like the ubiquitous “there must be consequences,” and accept that children are “people whose feelings and desires and questions matter.”

Since Elias was born I’ve instinctively parented him with the goal of creating a mama’s boy.  (No, not that kind.)  But beyond this goal I’ve been unsure of what to do.  Now I have clarity.  My unsettled feelings towards rewards/punishments/dominion over children have lifted, and I’m excited to make a change in my heart and in our lives.

On the refrigerator I placed a list of goals for my children and some of the means by which I will help them achieve these goals.  When Kohn’s words fade from memory this will serve as a reminder of my commitment:

No, this is not permissive parenting or non-discipline.  My children and the hundreds of others I’ve worked with through the years can tell you I set boundaries and realistic expectations.  Instead, unconditional parenting is an entirely different way of thinking–a way that challenges and thrills me.

Remember when I wrote about stabbing the seat of my mom’s minivan with a pencil?  My mom’s response was quintessential unconditional parenting.

I hope I can pull it off as well as she did.

Good thing I have practice eschewing the mainstream.

I hit my daughter once.

Not even my husband knows about it.  Until now.

I left a red mark on her thigh.  She cried.  I’d done the thing I never thought I’d do.

I could say I just ”swatted” her. . .

I could say she deserved it. . .

I could say I was “disciplining” her. . .

I could blame it on feeling intensely overwhelmed by caring for her alone 13 out of every 14 days. . .

I could blame it on being so incredibly unhappy–depressed to be sure–that I couldn’t muster the resources to make a better choice. . .

But who are we kidding?  The truth is, I failed to hold myself to the kind of standard I was expecting her to live up to.

I was hit occasionally as a child.  My dad would lose the temper I’m unfortunate to have inherited and spank me.  My mom tried a few times, too.

Although I can count on two hands, maybe even one, the number of times I was hit, their failure to address the underlying cause of my behavior rather than punish me for it was beneath who I know them to be as parents.

It was beneath me, too.

You know the kind of hangover that makes you swear you’ll never drink again?

This isn’t like that.

Whatever ”gain” is made in the moments a spanking occurs is a loss in the long-term for the individual and the parent-child relationship.  Maternal instinct tells me so.  Scientific evidence seconds it.

On that lonely winter day I promised my daughter (and the child I was then pregnant with) she’d never feel the sting of my touch again.  And as surely as I know my love for my children, I know this to be true.