Share Care

Cub has to be the most sharing toddler I've ever met. At least with us. If he's eating something, he insists we take a bite too. Although, I'm not sure if that's a sharing gesture or a test to see if we'll actually eat what we're serving him. And he can get quite bossy with sharing too. "Eat, mommy. Eat!" As he shoves a piece of food into my mouth. Or if I'm offering him something from my plate, he insists on taking the fork and stretching it across the table to daddy for him to try too. Usually I find it really cute and go along with this sharing routine. But I must admit, I don't have the stomach to share the chewed up food he's spit out and presented to me as if it were choice lobster. Or sharing his tooth brush among other things. Some things just aren't for sharing, Cub.

Cub's Eye

The eye.

I'm learning more and more each day that this eye issue with Cub is about me!

Over the last year, we've been dealing with recurrent chalazions. They're clogged oil glands along the eye lid that cause red swelling and a firm bump. It looks similar to a stye. But usually stays longer.

While it doesn't seem to bother Cub, it really bothers me. Because of the people. I worry constantly about what other people will think when they see him. And rightfully so in some cases. I spend the most time with Cub, we go everywhere, and almost everywhere we go lately someone or quite a few people ask, "What's wrong with his eye?" Or little kids stare and point. Luckily, Cub's still young enough not to notice other people's responses. But I do. And I "allow" it to make me feel insufficient, the mother scum of the earth. Like a negligent parent. Even though I spend hours of my life trying to help and heal this eye issue.

The other day we were at a Farmer's Market and bumped into a few people from a gymboree class we're attending. Naturally, they all made a comment about his eye. But one mom in particular really got to me. She said, "He gets those a lot. It must be hereditary." I was furious and mortified. No, it's not hereditary. Neither my husband or I get these. And furthermore, you don't see us enough to know if he gets them "a lot". I was so bothered. Then I had to stop myself and say, "this is about you. You're embarrassed." When I left that mother, I had that sinking feeling of unworthiness. Like if I was a better mom or did more or whatever, Cub wouldn't be getting these bumps. But the truth is, I do as much as I can to avoid them. And some things just happen to kids. It's part of being a kid!

Being a parent definitely has its own peer pressures. I'm working at not falling into them. But at times, it can feel like a bad eighties popularity contest!

Empty Shelves

I have a few friends who have recently lost babies to miscarriage.
As a mother now, my empathy runs much deeper.

I didn't understand the heart-pull connection before Cub.
Sadly, I have lost two of my own children by my own will through two abortions. I didn't get it then. Maybe I didn't want to understand in those vulnerable moments. In fact, I know I didn't. It would've made "the decision" that much more real and cruel. When the nurse told me it was simply a "mass" the size of a grain of rice, I gladly accepted that explanation. Thank God it wasn't a baby... yet! Or so I told myself.

But ironically, on the other side of pregnancy, when "wanting" to be pregnant, every little day and week matters. That little "mass" is now proudly a little baby growing rapidly -- with a heartbeat! Oh, the joy! I remember when first pregnant with Cub at eight weeks, I was so excited to go and see him on my first ultra-sound. And then later that day it hit me, my last abortion was at eight weeks.

I'm being transparent about my own story because I realize that there are so many women out there hurting. And very confused. Whether losing a baby through an abortion or a miscarriage, somehow if the weeks aren't long enough, then you're not supposed to hurt as bad. If you had a miscarriage at six or eight weeks, our culture expects you to "get over it". It wasn't really a baby yet. Or not a "baby" baby... right? However, if you lose a baby at four months or even further along, then that should really hurt. Is grief really measured by time? For instance, if someone dear to you dies at 100, does that mean you shouldn't be that sad since they've lived a long life? Or is it still that someone you love has gone away -- whether 6 weeks in utero or 99?

The last few days I've been searching for a few good books to help one of my friends through her time of loss. There are several great ones online: Empty Arms, I'll Hold You in Heaven, Grieving the Child I Never Knew, Miscarriage: Women Sharing From the Heart (all on Amazon). While I knew I could order all of these online, I thought it would be faster just to run to Barnes and Noble or Borders. When I got there and asked about these books or a section on miscarriages, I got very concerned, even sad looks. But then lead to a TINY little area where a small sticker said, "miscarriages", but no books actually on grief or healing after a miscarriage or abortion. The sales clerks (I went to both Barnes and Borders) looked a little ashamed at the poor selection and quickly volunteered to order the books online for me.

Those tiny bookstore sections are symbolic of what little time we (and others) give ourselves to heal after the loss of a baby. We're supposed to wipe back our tears and either try again for the "next" baby or wait until we're "ready" for our "chosen" baby. But don't spend too much time mourning a baby that wasn't even "born"! Or never had a "full" chance at life. So instead we walk around with a tiny section in our heart labeled "miscarriage" or "abortion" on an empty shelf.

Yet if the topic is brought up in a safe or intimate circle of women and mothers, almost every one of them will say they've lost a baby through miscarriage or abortion. And most will be willing to talk about it. Especially if it's a miscarriage. However, even the most liberal of women often still have a hard time sharing their abortion story. Unless it's with a gruff, defensive response, denying any remorse. It's almost as if, if you're "pro-choice", you're not supposed to actually hurt or have any sad feelings about your abortion? How sad!

Feelings are real. The loss is real. You don't have to be a prisoner to grief. But you also don't have to be a prisoner to denial. Give yourself time and allowance to heal.

There's an opening note to the mothers in the book, "Miscarriages: Women sharing from the heart" that touched my heart and hopefully touches yours too if you've ever lost a child during pregnancy:

Dear Mother,
Regardless of the length of time you were pregnant, you carried a real, living being in your womb. That little being, your baby, died. What you are feeling is grief, a complex, yet normal, response to loss... Although the future appears dark, you will survive. You will find your strength along the way. You will see the light of day again. Together we'll hold steadfast through the tears.

Cheese!

Yesterday I took Cub to the doctor for his 18 month check-up. It's amazing how smart these little guys are now. They know there's something fishy at the doctor's office. The bright, sterile white walls and fluorescent lights must be a dead giveaway.

So in Cub struts. Still in pajamas. Looking around. Carefully, surveying the area. Making sure there aren't any casualties or POW's laying around. Then proceeds over to the dirty, germ-invested doctors' office toys, poking, lifting, and smelling. Daring to even put one of those detestable toys into his mouth!

Thankfully, our doctor was on time for once and I was able to scoop him away before he rolled in God knows what.

Once inside the exam room, Cub started fussing. Nervously pacing the room. Unsettled. Waiting for doom to hit. Even the nurse's harmless task of measuring his length became an all out wrestling match -- blood, sweat and tears.

But by the time the doctor came in he perked up a little at seeing her Elmo stethoscope. With a quiet, almost surrendered, "Elmo" recognition whisper. But soon the tears and rebellion followed, as the doctor began her exam.

The best moment of all was when she held up that little eye device with the small light in it to check his pupils and he responded, through tears, clenched teeth and fear, "Cheese!"

Only the children of our camera-obsessed generation would have such a response! Hilarious.

TV is Evil

I'm not one of those parents that "doesn't believe in TV" for children. TV has tutored Cub with his counting, letters, and words. I'm grateful for TV. The "right" TV -- Sesame Street, Super Why!, and any other strictly educational television programs for toddlers.

However, this morning I let Cub watch a little "too much" TV. I had to make phone calls and take care of a few things so I thought, "It won't hurt if he watches a little more..." And on I went making my phone calls and doing my tasks, even though all along I started feeling guilty. Dirty. Like a naughty parent for letting my child sit in front of the idiot box, glued.

Soon enough, we had to run some errands so I was able to pull him away and get out. We went to a little storytime at the local library, played a little bit then came home -- with one of his favorite videos from the library. Naturally he wanted to watch it immediately. It was close to nap time but I thought, heck, I'll pop it in and let him watch while he eats lunch in his highchair.

Lunch is over. The video is over. Perfect time for nap. Cub seems totally fine. Then wham! Out of nowhere SUPER TANTRUM FIT. I first thought it was teething, so I gave him some teething tablets and gel and tried to comfort him, even read a story. But he started screaming so loud, at ranges Mariah Carey can't even hit, I'm sure someone outside was considering calling CPS. I tried to stay calm. But it spiraled into a bigger tantrum.

Finally, I took him out of his room and went back to the living room -- where the TV is. And he got quiet. I thought, out of exhaustion, maybe I can turn on CNN just to have the TV on and he'll get bored and fall asleep in my arms. But NO! He was not falling for that trick. And on went the screaming. I finally turned to PBS kids and Sesame Street was on and out popped an angel. He was quiet, happy, calm. I turned back to Anderson Cooper one more time to test this. And out came the screams and tears again. Back to Sesame Street, angel.

Long story short, I did allow him to complete Sesame Street then whisked him away, kicking and screaming, convulsing, and forced myself to rock him to sleep no matter how long it took. And finally, it worked.

Never again. I am definitely setting TV limits! Or hiding it!

Sharing My Childhood

There's nothing like the smell of the great northwest during summertime.

Or the feel of the northwest sun. It's different. Dry and inviting. Hot but not threatening. Bright but not overpowering. The northwest sun is a tree-hugger. A hippie. Friendly.

Cub and I are visiting my parents in Portland, Oregon, for a week. I've been looking forward to this trip for months but didn't expect to enjoy it this much. There's something so special about sharing a piece of your childhood with your own child. We've visited quite a few places I used to frequent as a kid growing up in Portland. The Portland Children's Museum, Washington Park, Downtown Portland, to name a few.

This morning I took Cub to the campus of my old elementary school, Catlin Gabel. I expected it to look significantly different and even much smaller. But for the most part, it looked the same as my seven year old eyes. And the old, cherished, evergreen populated campus still looked big and wild. A sight straight out of "Where The Wild Things Are"!

As we navigated through the campus, I tried to remember running through the bark dust as a kid and playing on those soccer fields. A few distinct memories came to mind but moreso the actual "feeling" of being there as a kid. The "experience" of learning and exploring on those very grounds. Then to watch my firstborn toddle through those same trees picking up Oregon pinecones, acorns and sticks of all shapes and sizes, I couldn't help but to tear up.

After we left Catlin, I drove over to a park not far from my parents' home. This park had a little trail with a creek that lead to an open field and a pond with ducks. We see a lot of ducks in LA so I wasn't as thrilled about that part, although the pond was beautiful. But the trail leading up to the pond was simply the best part for me.

On this little shadowy trail, where the sun peaked through the trees, splashing little sun puddles across the dank ground, where spiders hide and water bugs ski, I smelled it -- my childhood. It was so potent. Full. And palpable. If there were a way to bottle it up, I'd pay whatever the price just to hold onto that smell. At one point I did actually stop and close my eyes, trying to memorize every detail for future recall.

As we drove back to my parents' home for naptime, I couldn't help but smile over and over again. This trip has surpassed all of my great expectations -- watching my son splash around in my parent's backyard in one of those old plastic pools, smother his cousins (my sister's kids) with love and light up every morning at the sight of his grandparents still in their pajamas, and many more Mastercard "priceless" moments.

Part of me has even felt sad we have to leave in the next day or so. To take Cub away from all of this natural beauty seems cruel and unfair. But then I remember the rain. And yes it will come. One day in the near future. And all of this natural, sun-kissed Oregon beauty will be hidden in a gray blanket of mist and fog! Then I will smile on LA...

Update to the "Mommy" Post

So I wrote a few weeks ago about Cub calling me "mommy", a progression from his baby babble "ma-ma". Shortly after that, Cub began saying "mommys". I couldn't figure out where he got the plural from? And he was using it so desperately -- "mommysssssssssss!"

Then it occurred to me, I'm with him everyday and constantly talking at and narrating everything to him -- "Mommy's getting your milk..." "Mommy's cleaning up..." And so forth. Ah ha! How brilliant! Why wouldn't he think "mommys" my name?

But even more recently I've been called, Ali. My actual name. It started with me driving one day. We had just left someone and about five minutes into the drive I hear this, "Ali!" I almost crashed. Did he just say what I thought he said? And then he continued, "Ali! Ali! Ali". Hilarious.

So then the other day, he heard my husband say, "Babe? Ali?" While trying to get my attention. Then of course seconds later we hear, "Babe. Ali." From our little parrot.

Hopefully he'll never hear anyone call me anything ugly!

Prayer

I've really been enjoying Mr. Cub lately. He's saying so many words and repeating everything! Yikes and Hooray!

We always pray before bedtime and at meal times and also attend church regularly. So naturally, Cub has picked up on praying. He proudly asks us to pray throughout the day and reminds us when we don't! Ironically, his timing is impeccable and usually just when WE need it!

Today, he laid his little hands on me and babbled this hilarious prayer and then ended with a big, pronounced Amen! I was so tickled. Then amazed. This little toddler was imitating what he's seen but also with such sincere intention. And if the Bible says God can use anything to bring him glory or minister to us, whose to say that babbled prayer didn't have true meaning? My little prayer warrior!

From Mama to Mommy

I remember the day Cub first uttered his sweet little "ma-ma". Oh, how my heart melted! Now I get "mommy". Which I love. Most of the time...

You see, now that he says "mommy", it has a certain charge with it. It's no longer a little baby babbling "ma-ma", it's a BOY asking for something. And he's learned to use it well. With a smile. With tears. With a fit. With a giggle.

The other night I put him to bed and walked out. He was sitting in his crib making these hilarious elephant sounds and rattling off his ABC's then I heard it. It was urgent. Desperate. Manipulative! Out of nowhere. "Mommmmyyyyyyy? Mommy? Mommmyyyyyyy!!!"

I tried to ignore it for a while. But it got faster, more determined, more skillful -- "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" And it was so doggone cute that I couldn't resist. I had to go back into the room -- to a toddler standing up in his crib now with this big, victorious goofy smile on his face -- and cuddle with him to sleep. I knew he didn't "need" me. I knew nothing was wrong and he would have eventually went to sleep. But I couldn't ignore that "mommy" voice.

What will I do when it turns to just "mom"?!

Breathe, Girl

I don't have any advice to give. Not that you wanted it. But I wish I did have a magical button to push and release all of the motherly wisdom we all crave and need to survive. Or at least a small dose to swallow to help us through one more day.

I find that most of the motherly wisdom I desire or need doesn't have anything to do with motherhood at all, but with self. It all starts with me -- the worry, the stress, the anxiety, the emotions. Any trying moment in motherhood really boils down to how I choose to handle it. It's a me issue, not a mother issue.

Recently, I've been battling a lot of subconscious and very conscious stress. Worrying constantly about work and my "purpose" or destiny in the workforce. Fighting Mr. Ego again who keeps taunting me with, "Are you ever going to go back to work and BE somebody?" Threatening to rob me of my dreams. Of my potential. Will I ever see more of my work produced? Etc. etc...

And because of these internal arguments with Mr. Ego, I have "chosen" or "allowed" that stress to carry over to Cub. When he's being a typical one year old, testing his boundaries, expressing his likes and dislikes and pushing his independence, I find myself operating on a short fuse. Quick to snap at him. Quick to respond aggressively. Not physically harmful. But in ways that a one year old wouldn't and shouldn't understand. My attitude. My tone. And gestures. Everything that really makes ME look like the one year old!

This morning it came to a head:

Yes, I was frustrated about an ailment poor Cub has been suffering from. I was tired and frustrated for us both. Having to continue to hold a warm compress over his little eye. Having to keep him still from squirming, kicking and fussing.

But when I started lecturing him about how we'll never heal his eye if he continues "acting this way" and how all week long he's been fighting me and I'm tired of it, yada yada..." It occurred to me, this is about ME. This is not about the eye or his response to the warm compress. This is about me not working. About me being tired of the groundhog's day of being home with him. About me worrying if I'll ever make it as a writer. And every other insecurity about -- ME.

In my frustrated tears, I had to repent. I had to make the commitment that I will not transfer my internal struggles and stress over to Cub, my husband or anybody else. Yes, it will likely happen again. But I better work damn hard to avoid it. And furthermore, deal with the stress. Stop worrying. And TRUST. Breathe, girl! If I truly believe that God is in control and that He gives us (and puts) the desires of our heart, then I have to let Him be in control. Period.