Where We Are Going and Where We Have Been

The other day I had the rare opportunity to go to an Ashtanga class while Henry was at school. The class happened to be at the same time as the Crawlers & Toddlers class that I took Henry to for so long—where we moms did Kundalini while the babies played around until their turn. As we were laying in our final rest pose, I could hear our old class through the wall. I could hear the babies crying, the moms singing “The Longtime Sunshine Song”, and finally, the gong.

And just like that I was transported back, back to what seems like ages ago. That dark time in the months after Henry’s first birthday when I was finally coming to terms with all I lost in his traumatic birth. When day after day after day of his 14-hour stretches of wakefulness were finally taking their toll on me. When I was trying to come up for air and couldn’t get a breath to save my life. That class every week was my lifeline, the only time I could ever really breathe with my child in the same room.

I lay there in the dark warmth and listened, limp, with my eyes closed. I thought about how grateful I am for every minute of that time, every single one of those nights when I laid in bed the entire night with my eyes wide open, heart racing, wondering if I would ever be able to shut my mind off enough to sleep again. If not for those days, I wouldn’t be where I am today, here, finally on the other side, and ripe with possibility.

Letter to Henry Wallace, Autumn 2009

Dear Henry,

Your seasonal update is almost a month late but I’m not writing to you about anything after the solstice, OK? So this fall you started preschool, and I hoped the transition would be smooth. Not only did you already have two of your playgroup buddies there, but I did have to start leaving you with a sitter when you were 10 weeks old… and then another, and another. Surely my neglect would finally pay off. It did and it was all old hat to you: you carried your lunchbox right up to the gate, gave me a kiss, and barely looked back. I went back to my car and worried: Would you feel comfortable enough to ask for help? Would you make it to the bathroom on time? Would you not curse or mention cold beer as you tend to do when the weather is warm?

You’ve really thrived at this school. You sing all these cute little songs. You’re polite and say please and thank you. Not only do you now help me clean the kitchen, I know you dream up new arrangements for the dishes at night. Why else would you suddenly bolt awake from a dead sleep: “Can we go cut a pear? And then we can put the knife over there!” I can tell from the work you bring home that you enjoy cutting— both paper and your shirts. You like to sew and paint (you’re currently in your Blue Period.) Apparently you are always checking to see that the dolls are well fed and have dry diapers. You’ve been known to offer to breastfeed your classmates. You’re gentle and your teachers report that, yes, you do curse, but not in an angry tone and always in German so as not to offend the other children. In fact, they wondered if we had recently screened “Run Lola Run” for some good old fashioned quality Bucher family time, what with the frequency of your little “schiesse” transgressions. So, yeah, sometimes pick up is a little embarrassing but this family is a work in progress.

Early in the fall we traveled to the Oregon coast for your Aunt Leia & Uncle Tyler’s wedding. It was your first time at the beach, and most of the California cousins whom you’d never met were there to share it with you. Almost every night—even now, months later—as the sun sets, you say, “’Member that sunset? Ya ‘member it with Dub?”  (“Dub” being cousin “Deb.”) This is when your father and I stop and thank the universe that we left NYC to have children so that they could grow up with Texas accents. After the wedding we spent a few days in Portland to show you Trader Joe’s and Powell’s, the two most culturally relevant tourist destinations for any two-year-old. We did make it to the zoo and you particularly enjoyed watching the Lorikeets (rainbow colored birds the size of your fist) attack your father, a full-grown man, not once, but twice. We nearly lost the camera.

After Oregon we hit Nana & Grandpa’s house in Colorado for a few days so you could experience snow for the first time. I don’t really have too many stories of you there since you were basically kidnapped by your grandparents for the duration of the trip. Or maybe I just got a little too into the Wii competition and sort of forgot who all was around me? Either way, it was fun and I don’t even think we had to resort to the emergency plane dose of Benadryl on that trip!

I suppose the last autumn highlight was that we moved you out of our bed and into a big boy bed in your room. Henry, I’m just one of those people who needs 3 inches of space around every part of my body at all times during the night. Clearing that space is just one of many elaborate rituals I must go through in order to actually fall asleep at night. If I’m going to cuddle, I’m going to be awake. Besides, I like the covers on and you like to kick them off. You were really excited to fix up your bedroom and now we have the most perfect sleeping arrangement of all. Dad lays with you until you fall asleep and then when we’re ready to go to sleep, he gets back in bed with you. Everyone’s needs get met: you still have someone who can cuddle you and quickly put you back to sleep after your night terrors and sleepwalking attempts; your father can sleep without being clocked in the kidneys all night for snoring; and I get my 3 inches (and more!) of space. I need to write that again: Everyone’s needs are being met. Well, that, my love, is when you can say that we are in a groove.

Love,
Mama

Reclaim Your Right to Birth Right

Nice piece from Dr. Northrup in the Huff Post.

Surprise!

Imagine my horror when I opened this week’s shopping list for the cleanse and saw….

An Enema.

Two of them.

I should have known.  I guess that’s why they call it a cleanse.

When A Parent’s ‘I Love You’ Means ‘Do As I Say’

Love the Alfie Kohn in the New York Times this week.

Letter to Henry Wallace, Summer 2009

Dear Henry,

I know it’s been awhile since the last letter.  It doesn’t mean I love you any less.  I’ve learned to fit my life into 140 character updates while I’m juggling two careers is all.  But now I’ve finally dropped the PR, for the most part, mostly so I could have more time to annoy you with pesky questions like, “Henry, why are you sticking that tampon in your nose?”, “Henry, is that your poop or the dog’s poop on the floor?”, and “Henry, was that a french press you just threw at Nacho’s head?”

Lots of big life changes for you over the summer.  After waiting for you to wean yourself of the boobie, I decided to take matters into my own hands.  It was time.  I felt like boobs had become for you what straightening sheets is for me: a compulsion.  Like maybe you really were tired of ordering the caesar salad every single time, but since it was on the menu and you knew you liked it you had to stick with it.  The dressing is just so hard to get right.  But then someone showed you the club sandwich and you realized, oh, snap, what have I been doing all these years? You thought the caesar salad was the main meal but you realized it could be a prelude to something bigger and better.  You could still order it, have a few bites, but then you move on.  Or, in your case, you can still lift up my shirt, ask to see my “mountains” (which are now flat as flapjacks), and stick them in your “eye, other eye, ear, other ear, and nose.”  Whatever works.  I know someday you’ll be able to soothe yourself, but in the meantime, I’m just so over the moon to still have this close relationship with you without the breastfeeding component that I will allow most any fetish.

After months and months—since January, really— of the stripping and pissing the bed so as not to piss your diaper routine (despite duct tape and backwards zipped pajamas), we bit the bullet and potty trained you.  Perhaps it would be more accurate to say you potty trained us.  It took a weekend— and that was more us getting used to the idea and remembering to take you to the bathroom upon departures and arrivals.  Dinners may be difficult: you will only eat oatmeal, eggs, applesauce, nut butters and toast; driving can be repetititve: you will only listen to Elton John, over and over and over again; dressing in the morning can be a struggle since you hate wearing clothes and shoes.  But you love wearing underwear and you know how you like it: clean.  You get really offended when I bring out the pull-up for overnights, but you know, I’m just not ready to go there yet.  We tried that once (on accident) and I woke up in a puddle of pee.  Since I didn’t have the requisite 12 shots of tequila it would take for me to wet the bed, I’m pretty sure it was you.

So that brings me to our last big change which is that you’re back in our bed again for the most part.  I actually really love it now that you’re not attached to my boob the entire night.  I can actually sleep!  With you in the bed! It took me awhile to get used to the fact that those hands in my shirt waking me up for the day at 5:30AM were not your father’s, but once I hear your little voice asking for a kiss or to see the mountains or go get a snack in the kitchen and go to the lake for a run, I remember.  Once Ikea gets the bed we want for you back in stock, I’m sure this will all change (yeah? maybe?), but for now it’s the sweetest part of my day and totally makes the early wakeup calls worth it.

Love,
Mama

New World Record

Tonight I breastfed a frog, a lizard, a cheetah, a cat, a doll, and a toddler.

Did the Universe Just Slap Me?

Total weirdness: On the day Henry was born, Buehrle pitched a no-hitter.  Today, the day HW was conceived, Buehrle pitched a perfect game.

And my maiden name was Pitcher.

Like Father, Like Son

I should never have laughed at the story where Matt crawled up in his older brother’s bunk in the middle of the night and bashed him in the forehead with a metal dumptruck.  When I picked up Henry from school today, I was informed that he hit a 4-year-old over the head with a shovel and the boy had to get stitches.  And in the time I was being told this, he picked up a basket and threw it at a girl’s face and she started crying.

I guess it’s time to go spend this week’s paycheck on koosh balls so we can practice throwing soft objects vs. throwing hard objects.  And throwing into space vs. throwing at people’s heads.

Our pediatrician always tells us how little boys are way more difficult than little girls and that by the time our friends who have girls start freaking out, we will be in the clear.  But this man has three boys himself.  Is he just trying to make himself feel better?  Because then our boys will be driving. Thank goodness I never laughed at *those* stories about Matt.

Welcome to Motherhood

As I was leaving the doctor’s office today, I glanced at the bottom half of the checkout sheet: “Diagnosis: weight gain & fatigue.”