Self

Last night we bundled up the kids and headed to the mall for some window-shopping and exercise. After a bit, Kenna was hungry and Jonas was antsy, so we decided to let him run around the play area, while I nursed her. I sat in the corner of the play area trying to discreetly nurse, balancing a blanket and trying to get her situated. Finally in place, I looked up and saw directly across from me was an Ann Taylor. I looked at the cute outfits hanging in the storefront window and suddenly I became very conscious of my scuffed shoes, ill-fitting jeans and greasy ponytail. Looking at the clothing draped over the faceless mannequins, I began to miss something—me…or the me I thought I should be. It wasn’t so much about the clothes they were selling, but the lifestyle attached to them.

As a child, my favorite movie was the Secret of My Success. Since the moment I saw the movie, I dreamed of growing up and moving to the city. I didn’t know what I wanted to do once I got there. All I knew is that I wanted to be one of those women who wore tennis shoes on the subway and heels in the office. The dream sort of morphed as I grew, careers changed and I realized I preferred Birkenstocks to heels, but the one thing remained the same: I wanted to have that all-important, passion-filled career that caused me to walk quickly and with purpose along the city sidewalks. It would be something I could poor myself into. Something that could make me feel smart and successful. Something that would cause me to dress quite stylishly.

I looked away from the store window to see Jonas gleefully running around the play area, chasing his newfound friends and suddenly I felt guilty. How could I long for that window life when I had this? How could I trade the kids for that? Would I really want to be so involved in a career that would leave little or no room for kids? My mind went back and forth wishing a perfect balance could be attained. Somehow I would be that best-selling writer of the great American novel, teaching writing classes and molding the great writers of the future, while still being available for my children and their every need. But what I realized is a perfect balance is not always possible. There are stages in life where one thing requires more attention than another and right now I’m in the young kid stage. So what that means is the great American novel must wait, while I change diapers, wipe away spit up and spend my downtime reading Parents magazine instead of Poets & Writers. But what is important is not forgetting that person, not allowing this stage to completely bury that other essential part of my self. Because at some point the diapers will have disappeared and the high-maintenance early years will have passed. It will be a time when I can once again focus long enough to write something more than just a blog post. Then I can cancel the Parents subscription and move on to something else.

Caboose

I just filled out one of those email questionnaire forwards. The theme of this one was Christmas. One question asked what my favorite gift was that I received as a child. Immediately two answers came to mind: my stuffed raccoon, Bear, that I got around age four and my dog LeStat that my best friend gave me. As I type this, Bear sits in the chair beside my desk. Unfortunately LeStat disappeared years ago due to a suspected dog-napping, but I digress. Having thought of those two answers, I contemplated for a bit. Was there something else I could think of? Any other great gifts that top my list? And sadly I couldn't think of many. I remember getting other toys, clothes, books, etc., but nothing else hit the best category. That got me to thinking: how many gifts did I receive as a child and, yet, only a couple stick out? Now I know I received a lot of great things, but many holiday memories have begun to run together and blur into a conglomerate memory, similar to that canned cranberry sauce. They have just sort of gelled into one, no longer separated in individual experiences, but mushed together. Sure it still tastes good, but the full, unprocessed flavor of each berry has been lost.

So I wonder if all the countless moments that I spend trying to determine the best gifts for our kids this Christmas is really worth it. Will Jonas really remember his Thomas caboose when he's 18, 35, 75? When he is older, will it sit beside his desk as Bear does mine, constantly reminding him of that moment of awe and surprise when it first entered his life that Christmas morn of long ago? The answer: probably not. And I'm okay with that because not every gift will make that lasting impression, but what will leave a mark is the love we show him, the joy we experience with him and the moments we share during these fleeting years of his childhood. He might not remember the individual gifts as he ages and they congeal into his conglomerate holiday memory, but hopefully he will remember the giving spirit that surrounded it. And hopefully we will remember the squeal of joy that came with its reception once the caboose has long since left him.

Natural

I got this soup the other day that is free of artificial flavors and MSG. Figuring it had to be better for me since those typical ingredients were missing, I excitedly cracked open the can, warmed it up and took a big bite. Then I almost gagged. Apparently my taste buds have become accustomed to those artificial ingredients. It seems that somehow what is more natural tastes unnatural. But sadly that progression hasn’t just occurred with food, but in many facets of our lives. We have somehow forgotten what pure and natural really means. I’m reminded of this not just by the food we eat, but after having just gone through one of the most natural processes a woman can experience: labor and delivery.

Before my first son, I talked to a woman who had just given birth to her first child. I told her my plan of a natural childbirth. She responded with an emphatic, “What’s the point? You don’t win a medal for it. Get the epidural!” She then proceeded to laugh at my foolishness. But two natural births later, I am so thankful I did not take her advice. I regard both experiences as the most rewarding moments of my life, not only because they meant the arrival of my son and daughter, but also because I proved to myself that I have more strength within me than I sometimes give myself credit for. I chose to labor through a total of 20 hours of active contractions and pain, knowing my body was made for doing it.

Now I know both sides of the birthing argument. I know that drugs and epidurals can sometimes relax a woman so things will better progress. I also know that women who go sans drugs report more of a sense of accomplishment and a closer bond to their babies. But outside of any argument or statistic, what I find so discouraging about the labor mindset is that so many women don’t see natural birth as an option because they don’t think it is possible. They don’t think they could make it through without something to numb the pain. And their doctors typically perpetuate that myth. So many parents-to-be spend countless hours perusing books, websites and baby stores, looking for the perfect baby swing. But when it comes to their child’s entrance into the world, they don’t crack open the book or research the possibilities for themselves. Instead, they buy into that mindset that they cannot choose. They must just lie back and push when the doctor tells them, allowing the birth to happen to them instead of being involved in it. But what about laboring in the shower? Birthing in the tub? Rocking through contractions? Pushing while on an exercise ball? We seem to be preconditioned to think we must be told what to do instead of asking ourselves what we can do to take an active role. Education and involvement could change so many outcomes, but we must first refuse to be spoon fed that preservative-laden, just-lie-back soup and instead learn to feed ourselves.

In the end, you won’t win a medal regardless of what route you take—whether it be an epidural or drug-free home birth—but what you will have won was your right to choose to be educated and informed about something beyond the registry.

Mindlessness

When I graduated from college a few years ago, I freaked out…just a bit. Pretty much my entire life had involved going to school, doing homework and learning new things. And I liked it. Suddenly I was handed a diploma and booted into the “real world.” To be honest, I didn’t like the looks of things, so I started planning to go back to school. I read a lot, took some continuing education classes and explored graduate school possibilities. I just wanted more…more education, more knowledge, more exploration of what was out there. I had a deep thirst that could only be quenched by more and more information. But two years ago that thirst disappeared. I can’t say it disappeared because it was satiated, but more like diverted. After having Jonas, I could barely focus long enough to get through an article in Real Simple magazine, let alone the New Yorker. But slowly my mind came back to me and I was once again able to read in-depth and with clarity.

Now, here I am a month post-baby number two and suddenly my brains seem to have once again taken a sabbatical. Instead of kicking back and cracking open the latest Updike novel at the end of the day, all I want to do is veg out to repeats of Smallville. Some of my most beloved magazines are up for renewal and I question whether the commitment would be worth it. Will I actually read them? Of course my New Yorker subscription lapsed over a year ago. I wonder if I will ever have the focus for that again. But while my brains seems to have been pushed out at the same time Kenna was, my heart wants so badly to feel that thirst again and to so passionately try to quench it once more. For now, I will settle for Smallville with a side of the Daily Show and the occasional Diane Rehm Show. Hopefully they will keep that thirst burning somewhere deep inside so it may once again rise to the surface with an intensity that will make up for this lost time.

Itch

So we are now three weeks post-baby and counting, and I have developed a serious itch that day by day becomes more and more prominent, more and more annoying, more and more present as I open my jeans drawer and once again pull out the fat pants, not the pre-maternity ones. I know that it has just been a few weeks, but having had such a good and quick recovery, I feel that I should be able to slip into and comfortably zip up those once-just-right Gap jeans. But when I do get the courage to slip them on, I squeeze them up my thighs and watch my now empty belly flop over the top. That really sets a bad tone for the day. I have never been an advocate of plastic surgery, but the thought of a tummy tuck is quite enticing right about now. If only this constant reminder of having birthed a child would suddenly melt away instead of hanging around and mocking my desire to get back to normal. But no matter how much I scratch, the itch just won’t be soothed…not until some more time and ab crunches pass.