the birthologist

We Are ALL Mom Enough.

I majored in Communication Studies in college (the major that one chooses if one desires a journalism degree without choosing a specific medium to focus on). By the end of my four years, after being exposed to mutiple classes on communication theory, history and practice, I left University of Oregon with a deep disdain for the American media (and an above-average grasp of English grammar, thanks to Info Hell, the #1 most useful college class ever taught in the history of college classes). Media is a business, and the people reporting the "news" to the public do not care about anything but selling their paper/magazine/24-hour-news programs/website. They will exploit ANYONE in order to get "the scoop" and sell more advertising; if a story is not "sexy," then it is not newsworthy. My contempt has only grown in the 12 years since I graduated. 

This week, Time Magazine proved once again that major media outlets cannot be trusted. I know very few people who have not yet seen (or at least heard about) the cover of this week's issue, which depicts a mother breastfeeding her three-year-old son while he stands on a small chair. I will say only this about the picture: My opinion is that this woman is extremely brave to agree to be the face that represents all long-term-breastfeeding mothers (of which, you already know, I am one), but also careless to allow her young son to participate in her very public mission. The End.

I cannot, however, contain my DISGUST with Time for the headline they chose: "ARE YOU MOM ENOUGH?" Forget the picture! With those four words, our "trusted journalists" provoke guilt, self-doubt, faulty confidence, and a whole slew of other confusing emotions in EVERY woman who sees that cover. Realistically, most people who see the cover will not read the article. Not that that really matters, because the headline tells us (in relation to the picture it is printed above), loud and clear, what we are supposed to think after we do read it: A mom who does not breastfeed for what our society considers to be a LOOOOOONG time should feel like a bad mom, and a mom who does have a prolonged breastfeeding relationship with her child should feel superior. What the article says does not matter, because the cover does the damage. 

This headline's wording was chosen because it will catch people's eye and sell magazines, with no regard for the fact that they are fighting words. Headlines like this serve one purpose-- to make certain that the argument that there is one "right way" to parent continues. The so-called "Mommy Wars" are a self-fulfilling prophecy; an argument fueled by a media that NEEDS it to continue in the most militant, salacious way possible. If the writers and editors truly wanted to inspire a sincere discussion about different parenting philosophies, they would have chosen a different headline, because honest discourse on any contentious subject is impossible when the introduction to the discussion is hostile and alienating.

My favorite saying about parenting is that there is no such thing as normal (I like it so much, I put it permanently in the title of my blog). I feel passionately that once parents are appropriately educated and have had a chance to have all of their questions answered honestly, they need to be supported in ALL of their decisions, even if we would not make the same choices ourselves. I am well-educated on the subjects of pregnancy, childbirth and early-parenting, and I of course have my own opinions on the controversial topics (which seems to be just about everything these days); I advocate for evidence-based care for pregnant woman and new mothers and babies. The only issue I consider myself an activist for, however, is the issue of CHOICE in parenting, and the importance of encouragement. A well-supported mother is a confident mother, and a confident mother is a happier person.

Of all of the moms that I have known throughout my life, none have parented their children identically to each other (in fact, most moms of more than one child don't even parent their own children identically). And each and every one of them have been "mom enough." Unfortunately, NONE of them EVER felt like they were "mom enough." I believe the blame for the self-doubt that plagues today's mothers  can be placed squarely on the shoulder of the media and their sensational, divisive methods for reporting on parenting trends and "statistics." The headline Time chose this week may have gotten them the publicity they wanted, but at what cost?

Shame on Time Magazine for implying, with a photo and four little words, that certain parenting choices are more valid than others. Shame on them for asserting that some faceless "experts" out there actually believe that a loving mother is not "mom enough" just because she prescribes to a contrasting parenting philosphy. And shame on them for adding credit to the idea that parenting in general, and mothering specifically, is a competition.

Before the Beginning.

Thinking of a surprise gift for Bryce is next to impossible. Everything he wants falls into one of three categories: 

A. Too expensive to buy as a gift without consulting him first.

B. Too technical for me to research/purchase on my own.

C. Both A and B.

For this Valentine's Day, I decided to go the "it's the thought that counts" route, and write him something. Following is the story of how we met, became friends, and decided to be more than friends. This is meant to be a romantic gift-- a public declaration of how my feelings have evolved for the man I have been with for 16 years, married to for 11 1/2 years, and with whom I have three children. It is also a handy reference device, so Bryce can never again makes comments such as: "it was all such a blur.... I vaguely remember that.... Did that really happen?" The narrative is partially transcribed from my journals, and partially just my recollections, and all true. While I hope every reader enjoys this very long story, I really only care that one person loves it.... 

Bryce has said in the past that he knew he was going to marry me the first time he saw me in ninth-grade drama class at Cedar Park Junior High. I am not sure I believe that, but I know that it took me a LOT longer than that to decide that Bryce was "the one." In fact, despite his tremendous effort, I did not even see Bryce as "the one for now" until over three years after we met. In our Sophomore year at Sunset High School, he was my geeky, clever, strangely appealing lab partner in biology, who dissected road kill for extra credit. I am not kidding. I vividly remember one time, arriving in class, setting down my books, and looking up to see Bryce walk out of Mrs.Simpson's office, clad in his typical black jeans, t-shirt, giant grin, and full-arm-length rubber gloves covered in raccoon blood. Fifteen-year-old me could not mentally cope with how intrigued I was by this unique guy, but from that moment on, I knew he was something special.

We spent the rest of the tenth grade dating other people, and got to know each other better during our first musical, "Hello, Dolly!" We were extras in the most literal sense of the word-- there were so many of us, the director did not know what to do with us all. I think he just put us all in the cast so he would have extra help building the set. Bryce taught me how to use an electric drill to help build a ramp, and I met his mother for the first time (she was the costume designer). If I made a list of guys I wanted to go out with during sophomore and the first half of junior year, Bryce always made the list (not that I ever made lists like that or anything). I could not seem to get over the fact that we were so different on the surface, and let's face it, in high school, surface differences are often more important than deep similarities. I was shallow and very immature, and although I thought Bryce was a rare find, I could barely admit that to myself, let alone to the rest of the world.

Everything changed for us during the production of "Oliver!" in the winter of our junior year. He was playing Bill Sykes (the bad guy), and I was, yet again, an extra. We were both single, and we were spending a lot of time together. I remember laying on my bed for hours, talking to Bryce about everything from our relationships, to schoolwork, to our phobias. He encouraged me to think in a way that I did not know I was allowed to think. He made me feel smart, and funny, and pretty (but if anyone asked me, I did not "like" him, and we were just friends, The End). Our phone calls were so lengthy, my parents finally relented and got call-waiting. I could tell, of course, that he felt differently, and at first I was just flattered. We even went to our winter formal dance together. After a few months in this strange purgatory of an almost-more-than-friendship, I started feeling uncomfortable. At the time I thought I was uneasy because my feelings were not the same; in hindsight I now know that I was not mature enough to tolerate Bryce's intense feelings. The well-known theory that girls mature more quickly than boys was not true for us. I was a scared, naive girl who thought I was looking for a boyfriend, but really needed a good, patient friend. Bryce was that friend, until....

After our final "Oliver!" performance, Bryce found me in the hallway, still in full bad-guy costume and make-up, grabbed my shoulders and kissed me. This event could have been like something out of a romantic comedy, where I realize in that moment that he is the one for me and throw my arms around him, while all of our friends applaud that we are together at long-last. Instead, I pushed him away and said "Why did you do that?" Then I walked away, because I already regretted the entire interaction, and did not know what else to do. Thinking about it now, I kind of want to throw up. A couple of friends, who clearly had over-estimated my emotional sophistication, admitted to counseling Bryce about me and our relationship, and encouraging him to kiss me in this grand, public, romantic way. But I was mad. Mad at the friends who had told Bryce to force the issue so suddenly, mad at myself for handling it so poorly, and mad at Bryce for doing it. Mostly, though, I was mad because I thought I had lost one of my best friends.

Bryce and I at our Junior Prom, May 20, 1995. Aren't we fashionable?

In a surprisingly mature and probably stupid move, Bryce called me shortly after The Incident, apologized, and said he still wanted to be friends (remember what I said about needing a patient friend?...). He even took me to our Junior Prom. Our friendship was more reserved and strained, and I knew we needed to talk about it. I was scared, though, because I did not want to lose him, but I was not ready to call him my "boyfriend." So I did the opposite if what I normally do when faced with conflict-- I avoided the issue. I also started avoiding Bryce. Maybe, if I put some distance between us, I could figure out how I really felt about him and us, and make a clear decision. This finally pushed Bryce to his breaking point. We had a phone conversation at the beginning of summer break that went something like this:

Bryce: "So, I take it you do not want to go out with me?"

Ruth: "No."

Bryce: "I don't think we can be friends anymore. I don't want to be around you for a while."

Ruth: "Okay. Bye."

The summer before our Senior year must not have ever happened, because I do not remember it at all. I have no journals from that time and only a few pictures (apparently I went bridge jumping at least once, so that's cool). The romantic in me wants to say that life did not exist without Bryce in it, but I think I am just getting old, and cannot possibly recall everything. Maybe you readers can fill-in some blanks for me? In the meantime, I will jump ahead a few weeks. 

Bryce and I had three classes together plus the same extracurriculars during senior year. The first week or so was awkward, and though we quickly learned to peacefully co-exist, I found the whole "friendly acquaintances" thing exhausting. I knew before we had even turned in our first homework assignment that I had made a mistake, that I should have kissed him back, I should have let him sweep me off my feet. But I was too late; Bryce was already going out with some new girl. I had the misfortune of seeing them kiss in the hallway one day, a sight that caused me to immediately contract a violent illness. I went home and researched GED exams so I would never have to go back to school. After a weekend to recover, though, I dragged myself back to school and distracted myself as best I could.

We did "To Kill a Mockingbird" for our fall play, and Bryce played the lead, while I had a small role. I will never forget the first time I saw Bryce in costume as Atticus Finch. He was so tall and handsome and kind; he looked like a man. I swear, I wanted to run to him and apologize for everything, beg for his forgiveness, and offer to love him forever when he stepped on the stage in that suit. Then I wanted to beg him to kiss me again, and I promise I would not have run away. I knew at that moment that I had to try to mend our relationship, and convince him to give me another chance.

My brilliant plan of attack consisted of talking to all of our mutual friends about my feelings, and following Bryce around so he could not help but think about me as much as possible. I am pretty sure every person at school knew that I wanted Bryce, and we had resumed our almost-nightly phone calls, but I convinced myself that he was still oblivious to my intentions; that he had moved on. My plan appeared to be working, however, when Bryce broke up with what's-her-name. I must have matured somewhat over that prior mysterious summer, because for the first time ever, my excitement outweighed my fear when I thought about going out with a boy.

On December 9, 1995, I was singing with my choir at the Multnomah Athletic Club, and Bryce was at a speech & debate competition in Forest Grove (how is that for a detailed memory?). A good friend of ours, who was perhaps more excited about us getting together than we ourselves were, helped orchestrate a verbal "get together" agreement between Bryce and I. Because this all took place pre-cell phones, making this arrangement while Bryce and I were approximately 29.2 miles away from each other involved many miles of driving. I could barely concentrate on singing, knowing what we were planning that night. Driving back-and-forth (and back-and-forth) between Portland and Forest Grove was a small price to pay for the assistance of a very complimentary go-between (I wonder if he will read this?). To this day, I do not understand why Bryce decided to give me another chance, and I cannot help but think the kind words of my friends helped me out.

I sat in my Dad's Chevy Corsica that night, waiting to hear if Bryce would agree to come to my house the following weekend, feeling more nervous about this decision than I had about my most recent voice competition, or even my college acceptances. I had spent so much time imagining becoming Bryce's girlfriend next weekend, I truly could not comprehend the course of my life if his answer was no. When I saw my loyal, shivering gopher coming back to the car with a smile, the combination of relief and disbelief I felt is what I imagine lottery winners feel. Our first "date" was on for the next weekend, and all I had to do was survive the seven days of waiting.

On December 16, 1995, my parents not only left the house for the evening, they took all of my unoccupied siblings with them, leaving Bryce and I alone. They must have figured that Bryce and I had been friends for so long that as far as they were concerned, if something was going to happen, it would have already, so we must be safe. We decided to use our time alone to... wait for it... play Battleship (this decision is foreshadowing for many of our future activity choices). Bryce was playing the game in a very odd way; he kept hitting one of my ships, then calling a spot far away from where he just hit. I was a little confused at his odd strategy, but I was so excited that he was with me, and we were alone, and he kept smiling at me, and he smelled really good.... Let's just say that I was not paying much attention to what we were doing. I got pretty close to winning, but Bryce seemed oddly impatient, and repeatedly asked me to look at my board. I focused on my board for a moment, realized what he had done, and knew that I was going to get what I wanted that night. Instead of trying to sink my ships, Bryce had caused me to make a heart out of my game pieces (because I did not notice what he was doing, he also had me fill the heart in). He must have thought I was dense, but I did not care at that moment, because he had proven to me, in the sweetest, most understated romantic way, that he wanted to be with me, despite how I had treated him in the past.Later that evening, he asked me, in a very formal way that only he ever spoke, to be his girlfriend. We have never been apart since that night.

Over the many hours it has taken me to write this, I just kept thinking that I cannot believe this is our story. It all seems so far away, almost like I am writing the story that a different couple told me. But I know this is our adventure, because I can recall all of the emotions so easily. Kind of like when you eat a food you really, really, love-- if you think about it later, long after having digested it, you can almost taste it in your mouth again. I feel the remorse after I ran away when Bryce kissed me after "Oliver!"; I feel the sadness and desperation when he was going out with someone else and I wanted him back so badly; I feel the relief and joy when he made that heart for me. So many times in the past couple of weeks, I have wanted to abandon my computer so I could hug Bryce, and thank him for being so patient and wonderful and perfect.

   In Las Vegas, for our 11th wedding anniversary last summer.

Bryce is mature and thoughtful when I am emotional and impetuous. He is lighthearted and funny when I am maudlin. He is a good listener, and is tolerant and compassionate about my myriad neuroses. He is so funny, clever, intelligent, kind and generous. Bryce can befriend anyone, but is never insincere, and confident without being arrogant. He builds me up so I feel strong (I think that might be a song lyric), but always pushes me to improve myself. Bryce actually likes to spend time with me, and I love being with him more than anything. I miss him when he is away, and my heart does a little pitter-pat when I see him for the first time after he has been away, even if it was only for work. He is my very best friend, someone with whom I have a shared history, someone who understands me and accepts me. He was the most incredible boy I knew when I was 16, and has grown into a more amazing man than I ever could have imagined. I pinch myself daily, wondering how I got so lucky that he continues to choose to be with me every day. I am only truly at my best when he is with me. 

 

Questions I Would Ask my Three-Year-Old if She Were Capable of Answering Honestly.

Why must your refuse any offer of help when you are attempting to complete a clearly impossible task? Why must everything you do be your idea? Why must everything I do be your idea? Why do request my "help" every time you go to the bathroom, then demand that I do nothing but stand in the doorway and not watch? Is that really helping you? Why do you refuse to eat breakfast most mornings, even though you are demonstrating the frightening behavior of a starving child? Why don't you eat snack at school? Why are you slowly deciding that you like fewer and fewer foods?

What is SO HARD about keeping your eyes CLOSED while I rinse your hair in the bath? Don't you get cold when you wear nothing but a leotard and snow boots to school in January? Why won't you let me do your hair? How can I convince you to get ready and leave the house on-time (besides giving you candy)? Why do you act so despicable toward me when Daddy is not around, then beg and cry for me when I am gone, and you are home with Daddy?

Why do you still wake up in the middle of the night, every night? Why do you throw tantrums when the friends you have been begging to play with are finally here to play with you? What exactly is it about Go Fish that makes you want to play it dozens of times in a row? Why do you copy only the most inappropriate and rude behaviors of your sisters? How do you manage to always appear so very cute even at your worst moments?

How is it, after three children, that all of these questions remain unanswered?

How to Identify a Resolutionist.

I LOATHE the gym in January. Really, I try to avoid it until mid-March, but sometimes, I need to workout and just cannot do it at home or outside. But the trauma of visiting the gym during the first few weeks of the year almost cancels out the high of a good workout. The misery begins the moment you arrive on the gym's property! Finding parking is nearly impossible; you have to be patient enough to drive around for 10 min, wait for someone to exit the gym right as you pass the door, then slowly and stalkerishly follow them to their car, wait for them to buckle their kids in, put their cell phone headset on, get out their post-workout energy bar, and reverse out of their blessed spot. 

The worst, though, even lousier that the parking fiasco, waits for you when you finally get inside. It is all the new people crowding your gym, your safe place, the place you can always count on to help raise your endorphins so you feel great. I call these interlopers Resolutionists. How can you tell a Resolutionist from a gym regular (besides the fact that you do not recognize them)? Here is my handy guide to help you determine who to glare at while spending a large percentage of your alloted 90-minute workout waiting in line for a treadmill. 

[I refer to the Resolutionists in the feminine because in my experience, most of them are women, and choosing a gender makes the writing process simpler. I do, of course, recognize that the following traits apply to both men and women.]

1. When on the treadmill/elliptical, the Resolutionist takes breaks from her ultra-low-intensity workout at least every five minutes to complete such critical tasks as adjusting her shirt to make sure it covers her midriff adequately, take a sip from her water bottle, change play-lists on her iPod, or take inexplicable, just-less-than-two-minute walks to other areas of the gym with her machine on pause. 

2. Resolutionists often appear at the gym in pairs, and when using two adjacent machines, will talk to each other at a volume that makes it impossible NOT to hear about how proud they are for cutting back to only two glasses of wine per day, how their mother-in-law "totally does not understand" them or that their kids are already tired of their Christmas presents. You may blow-out your eardrums trying NOT to listen to their semi-mobile social hour, but you will not succeed.

3. The most exasperating characteristic of a Resolutionist is on display in the stretching area of the gym. She will place her mat just close enough to the next person to not allow for anyone to squeeze between, but far enough away to take up the maximum amount of room possible. The Resolutionist will spend most of the time just lying down on the mat, possibly talking on her cell phone. If it is the Resolutionist pair, as described above, well, you might as well find something else to do (or just stretch at home), because it will be a while before these completely sweat-free babblers get up.  

4. If your gym has a track, don't bother to attempt to run on it until the Resolutionists have stopped coming. They walk in the lane they are supposed to run in, and let their kids play tag in the lane they are supposed to be walking in. The track is basically turned into an indoor playground.

5. When attempting to use the weight machines, Resolutionists tend to stand around the machine, apparently waiting for it to speak to them, or give them usage directions. They will sit on it, try to use it a couple of times, shake out their shoulders as though they actually just strained their muscles, and walk away.

There you have it, my fool-proof guide to recognizing the fitness dabbler, the casual constituent, the annual, month-long participant. Sometime in the next few weeks, the excuses will win and their visits to the gym will dwindle until the only time we see them is on Saturday mornings for their kids' indoor soccer games. The Resolutionist duos will move their bi-weekly social hours to the coffee shop or their living room, where they belong. We gym regulars will have our parking spots, our treadmills, our weights machines, and our stretching space back.

I recognize that not all newbies are Resolutionists. A few of them will beat the odds, actually stick with their resolutions, and become permanent fixtures at the gym. They will learn proper gym etiquette, use their free personal training meeting to learn how to use the machines, and continue to workout on a regular basis for an extended period. They will earn the right NOT to be called a Resolutionist. [I also know that not every newcomer to the gym is a newcomer to exercise, and some have just changed gyms, or joined  to add variety to their already rich exercise regime.]

Ice, dirt and dog poop.

Apparently I am not fully recovered from the cabin fever I was inflicted with after six days stuck at home with three kids and a giant dog, because I made the totally awesome decision to go for a run outside this morning. The 8+ inches of snow we got has substantially melted, and it was beautiful and cold and sunny outside, so it seemed like a good idea to my impaired brain.

What I did not factor for was that the extreme melt that took place over the last two-to-three days left little rivers running down all the streets and sidewalks, and cold this morning turned all of those rivers into ice. The snow-plow-created mounds on the sides of the road were crumbly and dirty and covered in a layer of ice, forming a new substance that I am going to call "snice"-- part snow, part ice. The piece de resistance were piles of dog poop that occupied inappropriate places on the sidewalk, the street, and basically anywhere I might want to put my foot down (anyone with dogs knows that when snow is on the ground, the poor creatures don't know where the right place to poop is, so they just go anywhere they want, and some owners consider the snow to be a "get out of dog-poop-pick-up free" pass).

Having not considered any of the possible drawbacks, and being blinded by the blissful sunshine and long-awaited solitude, off I went, out onto the frosty, icy, snicey streets. Although I started to slip almost immediately, I was already drunk on sunshine, and was therefore easily able to convince myself that "it will get better." After walking the first slick half-mile uphill, I found some clear sidewalk, and was able to run for a bit. My route choice was based solely on road conditions, but even so, I was really only able to run for about a mile before I had no choice but to walk again. 

When I say walk, I mean "Carefully weave around the sidewalks, grass and gutters to avoid spots of ice, snice, or dog poop." In other words, I traveled at about the pace of an osteoporosis-stricken, walker-dependent senior citizen. For the first time, well... ever, gravel was my friend, because gravel= traction.

Did I mention that I run "barefoot," in those crazy looking five-fingered running shoes that have only a thin rubber sole to protect my feet from being impaled by sharp objects? They are really great running shoes, and I will defend their peculiar looks and the running style they require to the DEATH, but when it comes to the conditions I was traversing this morning, I honestly think I might have been better off sitting down and sliding home on my butt.

About 20 minutes in, it hit me that I probably should have chosen alternate methods for both exercising and enjoying the sunshine. My "run" turned into "get home as fast as possible without making a fool of myself."

The highlight of my adventure, the part I must record on the eternal internet so I can never, ever forget about it, was when, after multiple slips and slides, I finally fell on the snow. I suppose it was inevitable. I did not fall on my backwards, which, I suppose, is good news for my rear-end, but very bad news for anyone driving behind me, because when I fell, I bent over forwards and landed on my hands. The view of anyone behind me was my spandex-clad bottom in the air. This all went down on a very busy arterial street, and although I was averting my eyes as much as possible for fear that someone might recognize me, I could see in my peripheral vision that all nearby drivers were looking at me. And I am pretty sure they were laughing and pointing, too. 

By the time I walked up my driveway, I was not even sweaty anymore. I had gone a whopping 2.25 miles in 36 minutes, according to my GPS, which I suppose, is better than nothing. Normally, after a crappy run, I am in a bad mood pretty much until my next run, but this morning was an exception. All that blessed sunshine gave me my much needed Vitamin D fix, and trying not to break any bones/humiliate myself (more than once) was apparently enough of an adrenaline rush to raise my endorphins and improve my mood. 

Proof once again that in Seattle, sunshine during any month besides August always has a catch. 

That's right, I breastfed for THAT long. And yes, we can afford "real food."

I calculated recently that I breastfed for a total of 7.5 years. Did I just blow your mind? I was the one doing it, and I nearly spit out my Skinnygirl Margarita when I figured that out. When I stopped nursing Isadora last November, Bryce and I had been together for just 16 years, and married for 11. That means I was breastfeeding one of our children for over half of our marriage (68%, to be precise). When I told Bryce, he said, "I guess I am really good at sharing." 

Some of you have furrowed your brow by now and thought,"Wait, she only has three kids. How did she breastfeed for 7.5 years?" Here is the detailed breakdown: I weaned Sydney when she was 15 months old (against both of our wills, because I wanted to get pregnant again. It was a traumatizing experience for our whole family). Ivy weaned on her own three months before she turned 3 (the same month she potty-trained), and I just weaned Isadora at 3.5. Don't think about it too much, or you might feel uncomfortable next time we see each other in person.

But wait!! Why would you feel uncomfortable just because I breastfed my children for what our country considers to be an "extended" period? And why would I worry that you would feel uncomfortable? At first I did not want to admit that I had these concerns, and once I accepted them, I was perplexed by them for months. I wanted to write this essay right after Isadora weaned, but I felt... strange about it. Do I really want the whole world to know that I am one of "those" moms? 

When I was pregnant for the first time, I thought I would breastfeed Sydney for six months, tops. When I had Ivy, I knew I would let her initiate weaning, but assumed that would happen LONG before she turned two. I assumed Isadora would initiate weaning like Ivy did, between two and three. Just like every other aspect of parenting, my expectations were totally OFF! And I had many strange preconceived notions of women who breastfed toddlers and preschoolers-- that they were hippies, super cheap, crazy religious, and just plain weird. I was a big, fat, ignorant JUDGER. My nine-plus years of parenting, and seven years of teaching, have softened me considerably, and I find myself accepting of pretty much any lifestyle that makes a family functional and happy. My years of judging and stereotyping are over. But when I unexpectedly found myself in a "category" of parents that I once found bizarre, I worried a lot that I would be judged.

I learned to nurse discreetly- but not secretly- when Sydney was only a few months old. Not to toot my own horn, but I am a PRO at public nursing (obviously, I have a few years of practice). Nonetheless, I stopped nursing Isadora in public right around 18 months-- when she started looking and acting more like a toddler than a baby. I stopped nursing her in front on anyone but my own kids and husband shortly after she turned two. I had mixed feelings about this-- I was not ashamed of what I was doing; I knew it was a healthy and universal experience, and in the best interest of myself/my baby/my family, but I realized that I just did not want to publicize my choice. Breastfeeding a toddler is neither fashionable nor understood, and I did not want to have to defend myself against uneducated, haughty people who disagreed with my choice, and somehow felt that it personally affected them.

Ivy is my only child who weaned herself. She just stopped asking, and it was wonderful and organic and satisfying and peaceful. I was really hoping Isadora would do the same thing, but she was what our pediatrician calls an "avid nurser." I call her a boobaholic. Even after weaning, she still puts her hand down my shirt for comfort. I can't really blame her, it is warm and soft down there. Our breastfeeding relationship was full of emotional ups and downs, as she wanted to do it ALL THE TIME, and I DIDN"T. Bryce and I made the decision to wean her when I decided I was ready to be totally done, and could not tolerate the idea of continuing indefinitely. That aspect of our relationship needed to change.

Weaning Isadora was not easy, but it was not horrible, either. She continued to ask for "momo" (her code-word for nursing) for at least a month after we were done, but since she was so old, she could be reasoned and negotiated with, so it was relatively painless. Considering how attached she was, I think the whole process went pretty smoothly. I am content with the course we took with all three girls, but until now, I felt strangely awkward discussing it with anyone but my closest friends, and other women I know who have made similar choices. 

I don't want to feel awkward. If breastfeeding is ever going to become accepted for babies of all ages, "regular" folks like me need to talk about it. We need to NOT be afraid to share our experience. I am most comfortable writing about it here, and being more open about it with other friends, in context. Extreme enthusiasm about the cause seems unsuitable, because I think it will scare people away. So here I am. Sharing with you that I am not a vegan (but I do use vegan butter), nor do I make my own clothes (because I am The Anti-Crafter), live on a farm or in Africa, buy only organic cotton, drive a hybrid car (although I would like one), let my children call me by my first name, or any of the other stereotypes associated with "crunchy granola" parents. But I believe that long-term breastfeeding is a healthy, appropriate option that I am no longer afraid to share that we chose.

If it makes people squeamish, oh well. Raw oysters make me squeamish, but if you really love them, go ahead and eat up. 

 

What my social media detox taught me.

1. I really DO have self-restraint!
2. I have a profound need to feel connected. When I feel disconnected, I cannot relax.
3. In theory, Google+ is a better idea.                                                                                                 a. The changes facebook made are good.    
4. There were only a few people I really missed "seeing" while on my vacation. 
5. I missed seeing the pictures everyone posts way more than I had expected. 
6. My children rely on my online presence to keep themselves connected.
7. Once a person uses facebook for communicating, stopping is impossible. I had to check my facebook messages several times over the month (but I did not check a single status update EVER!).
8. Unless it is being used for promotional purposes, twitter is useless.
9. I did not really start to miss facebook until I had been away for about three weeks. I will remind myself of this if I ever start feeling like I "need" to check it 27 times per day.
10. I don't need to be friends (in real life or online) with everyone I have ever met.
11. The people who really needed to found a way of contacting me during my break. I was only gone for a month, so I imagine that if I left forever, a couple of other people might call me eventually....
12. I have very complicated feelings about my own motherhood, parenthood and stay-at-home-motherhood specifically with or without reading other people's (artificial or sincere) status updates. The feelings of inadequacy, dissatisfaction, guilt and general confusion are still there.
13. The feelings competition, however, are gone. My detox did fix that. I guess if I do not know what 306 people are doing, I cannot compete with them in my head.
14. When I left, I had 305 friends and now I have 306. How did that happen?
15. I did NOT MISS the political or religion-based statements from facebook ONE TEENY TINY LITTLE BIT. If I never learn about how ANY of my facebook friends feel about "The Issues," it would be TOO SOON.

Conclusion:  I learned a lot about myself and how I can use social media so it does not consume me the way it used to. Social media is useful and fun, but addicting. Overconsumption is not healthy, and I am glad I took a break. I will probably do it again.

My social media weight-loss plan.

I am going on a diet. No, not that kind of diet. A social media diet. Imagine I am starting Phase 1 of the South Beach Diet, and Facebook is carbs. I was originally thinking of it as a social media "strike," but that sounds too negative. I hold nothing against Facebook and it's peers (Twitter and Google+); in fact, I LOVE reconnecting with old friends and being able to keep in touch with everyone so easily. The problem is that I am pretty sure I am addicted to it, the same way I am addicted to baked goods. I just cannot get enough. If a loaf of freshly baked bread, or a batch of scones or oatmeal cookies were sitting on my kitchen counter all day, every day, I would weigh 300 pounds. Facebook is like a fresh loaf of pumpkin bread to me. If I am going to consume it responsibly, I need to keep my distance for a while to lose my incessant cravings.

The other reason I am cutting back is that I feel the constant access to other people's activities is affecting my mood. Big time. Somehow, "keeping in touch" with my 305 friends turned into "competing with" them. More specifically, I find myself jealous and resentful of those who tend to portray their lives as wonderful, fulfilling and perfect ALL. THE. TIME. You all know those people, right? And the rational part of me knows that their lives are NOT actually perfect, but I cannot help but feel like they must be doing something better than I am to have something sunny and warm to say every day. The irrational, neurotic side of me says "why can't you be more like them?". I feel inadequate and unsatisfied because of stupid STATUS UPDATES, and that is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO not right! It is not that I want these people to be unhappy, it is simply that I apparently cannot tolerate disingenuine people-- not even if everything I know about their daily life can be summed up in a few sentances. Same goes for the chronically negative, but there are less of those out there, so I just hide them.

The truth of the matter is that even mundane, every day posts have started getting to me. It is almost like I am living vicarioualy through other people's status updates. I cannot wait to see what the people out there with new babies have to say, because I miss having a new baby (but no, I do not ACTUALLY want another one); I crave the posts from the single professionals so I can daydream about having a "real" job where I get to wear nice clothes and travel "for business" and have "drinks with my coworkers" and people respect me and all that crap. All day long, I am comparing my life to everything I see on Facebook (not just the really good or the really bad, but EVERYTHING). In other words, I am messed up.

I need a break. Starting immediately after I post this link tonight, I will not check Facebook, Twitter or Google+ on my laptop, phone, iPad or anyone else's device for the next month. AHHH!!! Of course, I want to stay in contact with my peeps, so I will still be checking email, texting, accepting any Facebook messages (I do have it set up so it automatically emails any messages to me), and my blog will upload automatically to facebook, as it normally does. But do not expect me to know who is pregnant, had a baby, got engaged, got separated, got a new job, or ate a really yummy dinner last night, because status updates are persona non grata in my house! 

When the month is over-- mark your calendars for September 24-- I will see if I can slowly ease my way back into social media, and I will keep anyone who cares posted (get it? "posted?" ha!) on my progress from social media addict to responsible consumer. 

My head is buzzing....

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Wake up now! Get out of bed NOW! I need you! Don't go potty first, I need you NOW! I'm Bored! What are we doing today? What are we having for breakfast today? What are we having for lunch today? What are we having for dinner tonight? Can we have dessert? What are we doing tomorrow? What are we doing this weekend? Can I have a play date? What are we doing next Christmas? Can I PLEASE have a play date? I have no one to play with! Will you please make my sisters leave me alone? Can you read to me? Can you play with me? Can you teach me French? Can you play a game with me? Can you take us to the park? Can you take us to Wild Waves? Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! I'm hungry! I need to eat right now! But I don't like that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or thar. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Or that. Why don't you buy any food I like? I only want a bag of pretzels on the couch. Why do I have to sit at the table? I said I DON"T want them in a bag! I want them in a bowl! I want pretzels, too! Me too! I don't want pretzels anymore. Why do we have to go grocery store AGAIN? It is SO boring! I WILL. NOT. GO. Can you puh-LEASE get off the potty now? Stop taking that STUPID shower! I think the dog has to go potty! The dog chewed my toy! I don't feel like playing with the dog. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. I'm bored. Can I watch TV? Can I play a video game? Can I play on your phone? But I don't like to read! I hate reading! I hate coloring! I hate ALL 124 arts & crafts projects I have in my room! I hate you! You're stupid! Why are you so mean to me? You don't love me! I don't like the way you talk to me! Why don't you listen to me? Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Can I puh-LEASE watch a really scary movie that you have said no to over and over again? Can my sisters and I do gymnastics on the couch? Can we draw on the wall? Can we torture the dog by chasing him with the blowdryer? But it is funny! Can we walk down the street by ourselves? Can we bake a cake by ourselves? But you SAID you wanted us to play together!?! Can you help us bake a cake? I don't care that we already baked cookies this morning! Or that it is 90 degrees outside and we don't have air conditioning! You are not the boss! I can do what I want! I don't want to put my laundry away! Where is my favorite shirt? My favorite shorts? My favorite underwear? Can you buy me a new toy? Some more new clothes? A pool? A trampoline? My own cell phone? Some candy? Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! All of my friends have a pool! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! HER play date last week was 10 minutes longer than MINE! It's not fair! It's not fair! I need another play date! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! What are we doing the day after tomorrow? What are we doing the day after THAT? I don't FEEL like going outside! Outside is not fun! Why are you always doing the dishes? And doing laundry? Play with me, and ONLY me! I don't want my sisters to play! I want alone time right now! Ten minutes is NOT long enough! Why do you always have to help her go potty? I am not tired! I don't want to brush my teeth! I don't want to brush my hair! I don't HAVE to go potty! I am NOT tired! Don't sing to me yet! Will you lie down with me? Will you sleep with me? Can I sleep in your bed? I am thirsty. I am hungry. I need to go potty now. I need a good thought before I go to bed. Can I read a book in bed? I don't want that book. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. Why don't we have any good books? Will you buy me more books? Can we go to the library? Tomorrow? The next day? The day after that? What are we doing tomorrow morning? Tomorrow afternoon? Tomorrow night? Can I have one more hug? I love you, Mommy. I love you, Mommy. I love you, Mommy.

My Top Four Books for 3-8-year-old Girls.

In other words, "The Top Four Books I Can Read and Hold the Attention of all Three of my Daughters Without Anyone Being Scared or Confused, or Calling It (or me) Stupid."  

Most of these books are also appropriate for boys, but I cannot personally attest to it, just as I cannot attest to what it is like to be able to stay at the table while my spouse takes a child to the restroom at a restaurant. I have three girls, so my perspective is somewhat limited.

Yes, this was originally a "Top 5" list, but it is SO hard to find books that appeal to my "Harry Potter"-obsessed 8-year-old, my comic book and video game loving 6-year-old, AND my silly yet super-girly 3-year-old!! If I was going to honestly share what I think are the ultimate best, I could only come up with four books. There are, of course, others that I could add that are still pretty good, and our favorite chapter books for the older girls, but I wanted to focus on the real stand-outs that work for everyone. 

 

1. "The Paper Bag Princess" by Robert Munch (illustrated by Michael Martchenko). This clever, funny story has the best ending EVER. It is just what is needed in a house with any young girls who are exposed in any way to the fairy-tale obsessed media. I cannot say enough good things about this book. If I had to choose just one all-time favorite picture book, this would be it. Ironically, one of my least favorite books is also by Munch and Martchenko ("Love You Forever"). Go figure.

2. "Chrysanthemum" by Kevin Henkes. Henkes is an all-around great kids author, and a couple of his other books-- "Julius, Baby of the World" and "Sheila Rae, the Brave"-- would certainly be on my Top 10 list. "Chrysanthemum" stands out amongst Henkes works because its message (differences make each person special, and you should be proud of who you are) is important to me.

3. "Skippyjon Jones" by Judy Schachner. This is the name of the original book, but she has written several follow-ups, all of which have the whole family cracking up. Especially when Mommy tries to do a Spanish accent. 

4. "Ruby the Copycat" by Peggy Rathman. We all know kids who are a little too eager to fit in, and forget that being themselves can be even more fun than imitating someone they admire. Peggy Rathman poetically illustrates both sides of this sticky situation, and makes it easy for young kids to sympathize with both the copier and the copied. This one is a particular favorite of Ivy, who, as a middle child, spends lots of time fighting the copycat game, from one side or the other! 

 

Can you recommend any books that all your kids like (and will sit still for)? Those of you with both daughters and sons-- how do you do it? Do you have to read with them seperately all the time? We all want to know!!

I know one day soon Sydney will outgrow all of these wonderful books, but soon after that, Isadora will grow into the beloved chapter books and early readers that Sydney read and Ivy is still reading, and it will be time for a new list of our family's favorite books.