Eat Like a Baby

*I wrote this post before the move. Otherwise, it would not have made it to this space. It's rather a jumble of disconnected words, so maybe it shouldn't have been published. Ah well. This week (and I realize it's only Tuesday) has not unfolded as I planned. More of my sob story (and my chance at growing in holiness!) at a later date (actually, the way things are going, I should say a much later date). :-)

Welcome to the July Carnival of Natural Parenting: Let's Talk About Food

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama. This month our participants have written about their struggles and successes with healthy eating. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

***

My girls recently had the pleasure of eating ice cream cones at a friend’s house in honor of a little one turning two. They smacked their lips as peanut butter frozen yogurt (yum!) dribbled down their chins. Those happy girls savored every lick. Their eyes were big and full of glee. The girls gobbled up the creamy goodness, and they enjoyed every bite without a side of guilt.

On this special day, my girls were enjoying what I'd call a "fun food." I've found that most of what we eat falls into one of two categories: Nutritional food and fun food. Nutritional food is our fuel; it’s what nourishes us with the nutrients we need to lead a healthy, active life. Fun food is, well, fun. It may be lacking in nutrition, but it serves the purpose of giving us pleasure.

There’s nothing wrong with indulging in fun food from time to time - especially when you’re celebrating a sweet, little friend’s two years of life! Eating should be pleasurable. While ice cream and frozen yogurt is more of a fun food and isn’t something you should gulp down by the pint (even if it does have calcium), it’s also not something you should associate with guilt, anxiety, or therapy. (Not that I’ve ever wallowed over a bowl of ice cream when my heart has been bruised. Ahem.)

When I was recovering from an eating disorder, I had a really hard time with the fun food category (and sometimes I still do). It was very difficult for me to eat anything like brownies, chips, or ice cream sundaes without some anxiety. But seeing how my girls mindfully enjoy their food - whether it’s veggies or a chocolate chip cookie - is helping me to rethink how (as well as sometimes what) I eat.

My 15-month-old is the luckiest one of all in our family since she gets to nosh on a fun and nutritionally-rich food when she breastfeeds. Food is love to her and what a beautiful thing that is. I used to believe equating love with food was dangerous because it could lead to overindulging or eating just because you wanted to make someone you cared about feel appreciated for serving you delicious food. However, my little nurslings have shown me differently. Food can be pleasurable. It can be an expression of love. And yet, saying, “no thanks” to food (or a nursing session) when we are on the receiving end is not the same as unrequited love.

Neither is my kids looking at the dinner I just slaved over like it was poison. I've learned to not take it personally if my kids don't like something I cook although we do have a rule about being polite about anything that ends up on their plates. And I think my kids - at least my oldest who is five-and-a-half - get it. Not only is nursing for both comfort and nutrition a way to show my daughter how much I love her, but preparing food for my entire family is a sign of love, too. My work in the kitchen is an important part of my vocation as a wife and mom. When I cook with joy and choose wholesome ingredients, I’m showing my love for my family. When they try what I cook and thank me for cooking it, they're showing their love and appreciation for me.

The kitchen has, in fact, become a perennially satisfying place to gather. It's by the stove, side by side, our hands dusted in flour, where my daughters and I share memories. We share good food, too: chocolate truffles, zucchini muffins, and whole wheat yogurt pancakes. Whatever baked goods we're whipping up together, my five-year-old likes to say she's adding sweet pills as we're mixing the ingredients, and there is something sweet about the bread, cookies, and muffins we make.

When we hover over the mixing bowl together, I’m also teaching my children important skills. Knowing how to bake a delicious batch of cookies or understanding the difference between finely chopped and just plain chopped carrots will serve them well later on in life. Then there’s the actual product of our labor in the kitchen, the giving of ourselves and our time. We don’t finish off the entire batch of cookies or muffins on our own; we share them with others as an offering of our love.

We recently moved into a new home and there’s an older gentleman who lives alone next to us. The girls and I are planning to make some muffins for him. Sharing food is a wonderful way to show kindness and to make new friends. (This week's baking menu also includes brownies for Daddy's birthday.)

But food can quickly become a source of angst if we're not careful. Food used to be something I feared. It was the enemy. It was what threatened to make me feel like I was no longer in control. Mealtimes were to be avoided. I preferred eating alone rather in a communal setting. I pray my daughters maintain a healthy approach to eating. I don't want them to have a misguided relationship with food. I do want them to eat healthfully and to be able to enjoy treats on occasion with gladness - not anxiety.

Yet, I also don’t want to be so concerned with how or when they eat that I start controlling their appetites instead of letting them listen to their bodies. This helps explain why I allow fun foods in our diet and yes, even permit some nutritional losers like lollipops to slip into my children’s mouths. My wish to let my girls be in control of their appetites and cravings is also why we spend a lot of time in the kitchen baking recipes they have handpicked. It’s why I nurse on demand, not by the clock. It’s why when my five-year-old leaves the tiniest crumb on her plate and asks me to save it for later, I don’t chuck it but instead stash it in the fridge.

I’m learning that I have and should have control over what to offer them to eat, but it’s up to me to allow my children to have control over how much they eat, when they want to eat (within reason; when my preschooler started asking for a snack every night in bed as a ploy to postpone going to sleep, I refused her), and even if they don't want to eat at all.

Mealtimes can quickly turn into battle zones for a lot of parents and children. I understand why. It’s difficult to watch your child turn her nose up at everything you offer her. My first two daughters have always been great eaters, but my third is more of a food snob and often eats very little (thankfully, she makes up for it in the nursing department). It's difficult to not worry she'll waste away if she doesn't eat more of her meal (except for the fact that she has more rolls than the Michelin man), but I’ve learned to respect my kids’ cues. Healthy children won’t starve. Their bodies won't physically let them. If they say they’re not hungry or if they push their food away (or fling it off the high chair tray), I don’t force them to eat even "just one more teeny bite." I give them permission to skip a meal.

And while I encourage adventurous eating, I don’t punish my kids for not liking a new dish. I always ask my kids to try new foods, but they are never expected to clean their plates. Ever. And if they don’t like something, I thank them for sampling it and offer them food I know pleases their taste buds (within reason - like sliced apples; I refuse to be a short-order cook though).

What’s wonderful is my more relaxed approach to serving meals to them as well as their way of appreciating fun foods and eating intuitively is rubbing off on me and making me healthier, too. I remember a mom asking me what my “dieting secret” was following the birth of my second child. I told her I’ve learned to start eating like my kids who innately listen to their bodies and eat mindfully and don’t see food as “good” or “bad.”

One day my oldest pushed a plate of half-eaten cake and ice cream away from her.

“Do you not want anymore?” gasped her sweets-obsessed mother who always has her cake and eats all of it, too.

“Nope,” she said. “I stop eating when I’m full.”

And she does. And so do her sisters. Kids, especially babies and toddlers, eat instinctively - if we only let them. Maybe they stop when they’re full because they still see delicious, fun food as an occasional and allowable pleasure rather than a stolen one. They haven’t screwed up their natural appetite through deprivation diets. They eat based on internal signals (am I still hungry or not?) rather than external ones (I’m going to clean my plate because it will make my mom happy, or it will make me feel less stressed or less sad). They know that today’s ice cream cone won’t be the last. They savor smaller, more frequent meals throughout the day – a way of eating that virtually every health expert encourages people to adopt since it keeps your metabolism up and blood sugar levels more steady.

My babies eat nutritious food as well as fun food mindfully and with joy and love and pleasure. They eat the way I want to always eat, too.

***

Visit Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

(This list will be updated July 13 with all the carnival links.)

• Welcome to Two — All About Food — In case you hadn't heard, there is a conspiracy afoot from the two year olds of the world. Shana at Tales of Minor Interest stumbled onto their newsletter!
• Four Seasons of Eating Locally — Jenn at Monkey Butt Junction has pointers for what fresh produce can be found year-round. (@MBJunction)
• Happy Families Can Have More Than One Diet — Deb Chitwood at Living Montessori Now has figured out a way for her family to live happily as vegans and vegetarians with relatives who eat meat. (@DebChitwood)
• My Own Omnivore’s Dilemma — Seonaid at The Practical Dilettante prioritizes responsible consumer choices for her family.
• No Gluten — No Cry — Joni Rae at Tales of a Kitchen Witch Momma learned to cook balanced meals when her son's food sensitivities prompted a diet overhaul. (@kitchenwitch)
• Try, Try Again — Stefanie at very very fine has become an enthusiastic consumer of locally grown food.
• CSA — Week 1 — Casey at What Love Is wants her children to know where their food comes from, so she joined a friendly CSA. (@CBerbs)
• Food: Parenting or Homemaking? — Michelle at The Parent Vortex sees food as part of a parent's nurturing role. (@TheParentVortex)
• 5 Tips to Help Kids Develop Healthy Eating Habits — If you struggle with healthy eating, helping your child develop healthy habits might be a challenge. Dionna at Code Name: Mama shares five easy tips that will help your kids learn to make good food choices. (@CodeNameMama)
• Family Food: Seeking Balance Between Healthy, Sustainable & Affordable — Kristin at Intrepid Murmurings has a whole list of ideas for how she can improve her family's eating, both now and into the future. (@sunfrog)
• Whole Foods in, Wholesome Feelings Out — Jessica at This is Worthwhile has turned her back on the processed, preservative-ridden food of her childhood. (@tisworthwhile)
• When to Splurge on Organic (and When It Is Okay to Skip It) — Becoming Mamas tell you what foods to prioritize when buying pricier organic food, and where you can find it cheaper. (@becomingmamas)
• A Locavore's Family Meal — Acacia at Be Present Mama tells a story in pictures of her family taking a trip to the local organic farmers market and then preparing a summer meal together with their bounty.
• Eat Your Food, or Else — Why should we not bribe a child to eat? TwinToddlersDad from Littlestomaks (Science Driven Real Life Toddler Nutrition) explains. (@TwinToddlersDad)
• Food, Glorious Food! — Luschka at Diary of a First Child describes three easy ways her family has started eating healthier. (@diaryfirstchild)
• Celebrating Food — Mrs Green at Little Green Blog believes in food as medicine and thinks it's worth paying more to keep healthy. (@myzerowaste)
• Oil and Yogurt — What have you been motivated to do with the current oil spill crisis? midnightfeedings has started making her own yogurt. (@midnightfeeding)
• Growth-Spurt Soup (AKA "Beannut Stew") — BeanMa has a special stew to help her baby through growth spurts that keep her up all night. (@thebeanma)
• Why I Love The Real Food Community — Much like many people who follow AP/NP values, Melodie at Breastfeeding Moms Unite! takes the parts of the "real food" philosophy that work for her family and leaves the rest. (@bfmom)
• Feeding a Family of Six — Mandy at Living Peacefully with Children gives helpful tips for feeding a family of six.
• Starting Solids at 6 Months — Did your doctor recommend that you give your baby cereal? Sheryl at Little Snowflakes discusses how whole foods are so much healthier (and more delicious) than traditional cereal. (@sheryljesin)
• Am I What I Eat? — Andrea!!! at Ella-Bean & Co. has figured out a way to avoid grocery stores nearly altogether.
• Are We Setting Our Kids Up To Fail? — Megan at Purple Dancing Dahlias found that cutting out the junk also transformed her sons' behavior problems.
• Changing your family's way of eating — Lauren at Hobo Mama has techniques you can try to move your family gradually toward a healthier diet. (@Hobo_Mama)
• Real Food — What kinds of fake foods do you eat? And why?! Lisa C. at My World Edenwild talks about why she chooses real food.
• A Snackaholic’s Food Battle — Julie at Simple Life wants to stop snacking and get into the old ways of cooking from scratch and raising her own food. (@homemakerjulie)
• Food, Not Fight — Summer at Finding Summer doesn't want her kids to grow up like her husband: hating everything green. (@summerm)
• How Do You Eat When You Are out of Town? — Cassie at There's a Pickle In My Life wants some tips on how to eat healthy when you are out of town.
• Carnival of Natural Parenting: Food! — Sybil at Musings of a Milk Maker hopes that by serving her children healthy, balanced meals, they will become accustomed to making good food choices. (@sybilryan)
• There's No Food Like Home's — NavelgazingBajan at Navelgazing revels in the Bajan food of her upbringing. (@BlkWmnDoBF)
• This Mom's Food Journey — Kat at Loving {Almost} Every Moment made a journey from not paying attention to food to growing her own.
• Who Knew Eating Was So Hard? — The challenges involved in changing to healthier eating habits take on a whole new dimension when you have a child who has difficulties eating. kadiera at Our Little Acorn shares her own experiences. (@kadiera)
• Loving Food — Starr at Earth Mama truly believes food is her family's medicine and is willing to spend days preparing it the traditional way.
• Food Mindfulness — Danielle at born.in.japan details how her family spends money on each category of food. (@borninjp)
• Food for Little People — Zoey at Good Goog wants to bless her daughter with happy traditions built around good food. (@zoeyspeak)
• Eat Like a Baby — Have you been told that you should not equate food with love? Kate Wicker at Momopoly shows us why that's not necessarily true. (@Momopoly)
• Food — Deb at Science@Home tries to teach her children three rules to help them eat a healthy diet. (@ScienceMum)
• Healthy Eating Lactose-Free — MamanADroit gives us tips on how to eat healthy if you are lactose intolerant (or just don’t want cow milk). (@MamanADroit)

Muddy Memories

There has to be an award for moms who invite their children to frolic in a mud pit left behind from an early evening thunderstorm. This same mom never complains about washing muddy bodies coated with blades of grass or stained clothing. (Extra points for that.)

Then again, maybe the reward is the joy that rises up from the moment itself, spilling over even more than the murky pools of rainwater.

You're only a child once. Their happiness was worth the mud, the stains, the grit in the fingernails, the later bedtime, and the second bath in one day. These are the moments children remember - moments when my voice says yes more than no, moments when I look beyond the mess and see the joy. These are the moments I remember, too, when my children take me back to the fields of my own childhood and my sense of wonder and my appreciation for a good mud puddle returns.

*I suppose sharing this kind of happiness is one good reason to pop in here from time to time. :-)

 

Parenting the Easy Child

It’s early morning. I’m nursing the baby in the quiet. The sunlight is just beginning to seep in through the slants of the blinds when my toddler shuffles in. She looks at me, and I place my finger on my lips and whisper, “Shhhh...”

She pauses and then cuddles close to me, burrowing her face in my leg. Her hair tickles my leg, and I flinch, moving it away from her. Then there’s a nearly inaudible sigh as she climbs to her feet. She glances in my direction before shuffling out of the darkened room.

I almost missed it - that soft sigh of resignation. Mommy cannot be my everything.

One of her favorite stories comes to mind now, Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present by Charlotte Zolotow. In the book, a rabbit is trying to help a little girl come up with the perfect birthday gift for her mother. Together they brainstorm.

“What else does she like?” said Mr. Rabbit.

“She likes blue,” the little girl said.

“Blue. You can’t give her blue,” said Mr. Rabbit.

“Something blue, maybe,” said the little girl.

“Lakes are blue,” said the rabbit.

“But I can’t give her a lake, you know,” said the little girl.

“Stars are blue.”

“I can’t give her stars,” the little girl said, “but I would if I could.


Rachel always pipes in at this part and says, “I would if I could.”

And at this moment, watching my little girl slip quietly away, when I catch that shade of longing and see life from her bright, brown eyes I want to say these same words, too. It’s how I feel sometimes when I know I can’t fill everyone’s emotional wells at the same time.

I would if I could...

There’s a deep tug on my heart. My arms ache to hold her. I wish my lap was big enough to always accommodate her and her nursing baby sister who suddenly seems so long to me sprawled across my lap with kicking feet and twitching toes. I’d planned on tandem nursing, but two months before her baby sister’s birth, Rachel, always the easy-going child, stopped asking for my milk and I stopped offering. Just like that she was weaned from my breast. But she wasn’t weaned from my physical touch, my love. Sometimes I have to remind myself that she’s still a baby in many ways who requires lots of her mama even if she's not one to complain. Her needs are still there, but she often doesn’t make them known. The signs that she needs a little extra TLC are more subtle and could easily be missed. Soft sighs. A gentle tug at my shirt. Pleading eyes that look up at me and find their way to my heart.

My sweet Rachel certainly has her toddler moments. When she’s overtired, she mutates into a screeching and onerous feudal lord, and we are all serfs expected to bend to her will and demands, but, mostly, she’s a laid-back child. She’s also taciturn, contemplative. When we have friends over, she often prefers self-imposed seclusion. I’ll check on her and find her immersed in an imaginary land all by her lonesome while her older sister corrals her friends together for a boisterous, active game she’s concocted on a whim. Both girls have vivid imaginations. One is just less showy about it.

I have to be careful to categorize my children by their personalities, but I’ve always seen my first as my more challenging child. She’s strong willed, spirited, and programmed to test limits and push buttons. I cannot contain her energy. She is a little primate who treats everything as a piece of jungle gym equipment. Three weeks after she broke her arm in two places, she was playing with a neighborhood boy and busted her nose. I don’t even try to keep her from stretching her limbs and moving her body anymore. She has a need to run, climb, skip, and jump. As active as she is, she’s going to suffer more playtime casualties.

It’s my first who has always prompted me to seek counsel from more veteran moms. And recently, I got a surprising morsel of advice that I’ve been chewing on ever since. I was chatting with a mom-friend who knows my children well. I was bemoaning the fact that it seemed that no matter how much I gave to my oldest, she wanted more.

“She’s always negotiating for more,” I said. “I feel like I can never give her all that she needs.”

“Madeline is fine,” my friend replied. “I’d worry more about Rachel.”

Huh? Rachel always seemed satisfied. Read her one book and then tell her she needed to go off and play on her own, and she would easily acquiesce to entertaining herself.

My friend went on to talk about how she had a sibling that her parents were always worried about. She was a tenacious child who would likely be described by the experts as “high need.” She was always on her parents' radar screen. They constantly kept their finger on her emotional pulse to make sure she was okay.  But my friend, well, she was more quiet and easily pacified. Yet, sometimes she felt like her parents didn’t notice she was drowning in the efforts to always meet the demands of her older sibling and never had a chance to come up for air.

“Make sure you’re giving Rachel extra attention, too - even if she doesn’t ask for it,” my friend advised.

Shortly after our conversation, Madeline went off to spend the night with her nana and pop. Rachel and the baby remained with me, and I decided I was going to plan some special things together.

We headed to the kitchen to make a smoothie, one of Rachel’s favorite treats. Her little hands scooped up strawberries, and she plopped them into the blender. When it came time to mix the ingredients, she asked if she could push the button to turn on the blender.

“Of course,” I said.

“Because Maddy’s not here?” she asked. Her brown doe-eyes met mine, and I felt that tug in my heart again.

Madeline always makes a big fuss about turning the blender on. She's polite about it, but it's her responsibility. Rachel has never even asked to do it, so I always have let her big sister be in charge of setting the blades into motion. Rachel’s job has always been to toss in the fruit.

But just because a wheel’s not squeaky doesn’t mean it doesn’t need a squirt of oil from time to time to keep it turning properly.

Parenting the easy child, it turns out, isn’t always so easy after all. In many ways, I have to be even more attuned to Rachel to make sure she’s getting what she needs. And when I’m not able to fill her cup completely, then it’s important for her to know that I still notice her, love her.

The next time I hear that soft sigh, I’m going to pull my Rachel back to me. If I can’t give her what she needs at that moment, I will whisper into her ear, “I would if I could...”

And when my hands and heart are free, I will give her all the hugs and love I can - even if it’s only adding to her surplus. This way, I hope, my sweet girl will have just what she needs even when she doesn’t ask for it.

A Humble Offering

Last month (yes, it's June already!) we weren't able to attend a May Crowning for Mary. Last year's event left quite an impression on the girls, and they were terribly disappointed to not pay a visit to Our Blessed Mother and crown her with flowers. So we decided to have our own ceremony. We ventured outdoors, and the girls picked wildflowers, weeds really. Then we came home, and Madeline spent half an hour arranging clusters of white clover and dandelions around Mary

I can't be sure, but I don't think the Mystical Rose minded shining in the midst of the scraggly dandelions one bit. Like most good mothers, she recognized the love behind the gift. I would be wise to discern it, too, behind all those small gifts my children offer me every day. From the handpicked flowers to the crayon scribbles, pieces of my children's hearts are found in these humble offerings.

Joy Observed

A drooling baby walking toward me with outstretched arms, giggling with each wobbly step.

Little girls painting outside, the sun shining down on them and their creation, a muddy cloud of colors.

Baking jam-filled muffins in the kitchen. Squeezing lemons and limes to make homemade lemonade and then sipping it together, lips puckering at its tartness.

Praying a decade of the rosary for a friend who lost her baby and for my husband, their daddy.

Writing and illustrating a "book" called The Mystery by Madeline Wicker in which a big giant terrifies a town.

A dance party in the living room. Blond hair and silky nightgowns swirling. Baby laughing. Mom sweating. Calories burning. No need to exercise tonight.

Stories by candlelight. The flame flickering. A child's heartbeat fluttering against my arm as she leans into me. One small hand on my leg. A head on my shoulder. The smell of coconut shampoo.

A nest of blankets and stuffed animals. Soft sighs on either side of me. Little girls cuddled close and sleeping. I slip away. I write letters to my daughters in the journals I keep for them. I want them to remember this day. I want to remember this day.

Now it's time for me to join them, to find sleep. But not before giving thanks for a good day, a rich day, an ordinary, extraordinary day where I let my children set the agenda. I should let them fill our days more often.  They're much better planners than I am, probably because they don't plan at all.

Small Miracles

 

Today we wandered outside to have a picnic lunch. A ladybug immediately caught Madeline's eye, and she gently picked it up to examine it more closely. Rachel didn't want to be left out, so we gave her a chance to hold the tiny critter. She didn't mean to, but she toddler-handled the poor thing, meaning she squished it.

"Oh no, Baby Rae, it's dead," Madeline said.

Rachel looked at the smushed bug on the pavement and said, "No, it's not."

Madeline, ever the empathetic one, patted her sister's shoulder. "It's okay, but it is dead." She looked at me for confirmation.

"Yes, I think it's dead. We just have to handle bugs carefully because they're so much smaller than us."

"I 'sowry,'" Rachel said to the deceased.

"Ladybugs don't understand apologies, especially dead ones," Madeline pointed out.

Rachel crouched low and looked at what now looked like a red smear on our patio and gently started blowing on it.

Then she began to shout, "It's alive, Mommy! I 'blowed' on it, and now it's crawling."

Sure enough the ladybug was creeping away from us, his smushed body peeled from the pavement.

"Wow," I said. (I really thought that bug was a goner.)

Madeline watched the ladybug scuttle away, and then smiled. "It's a miracle," she said. "A real miracle."

With the sun shining down on us, the baby digging in the dirt, and my two girls marveling at Lazarus the Ladybug, I whispered a quick prayer of gratitude, "Thank God for small miracles, and thank God for the children who recognize them."

Pace Yourself

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

The world is theirs.

“An artist,” says the five-year-old.

“A ladybug!” shouts the two-year-old.

“A-yiiiiiiii,” says the baby.

They cuddle close, waiting for their lives to unfold.

Waiting. I fear it. I want to micromanage. Take my life - and sometimes theirs - and make it happen.

So I am racing, racing, a passenger on a raging train. I look out the window and see nothing but a muddy palette of blurred colors. I hear nothing but an acoustical background filled with the tapestry of small but persistent voices: Mommy, look at the sky. Isn’t it beautiful? Mommy, read me a book. Mommy, let’s snuggle. Mommy, feed me. Feed me with your body, with your life.

Something inside of me stirs, but I’m paralyzed by the temptaton to stop doing. I idly sit on the speeding train watching everything pass before me, but these voices keep urging me to slow down—to free myself from a relentless schedule and to stop and see what lies on the way to my unknown destination.

Mommy, we love you just the way you are. You are someone to us. You don’t need to be something.

I'm afraid to slow down but as I do, everything becomes more vivid. Is that a daffodil beginning to bloom already? I would have missed that. Yes, I see that fleecy cloud in the shape of a dinosaur ambling in the blue sky. Oh, yes, that is delicious. I hadn’t tasted it before. I was too busy swallowing to notice its texture, its flavor.

Modern day life is about racing, but raising children is about pacing. Pace yourself, Mommy. Let our joy and wonderment be yours. The sweetness of life is not a stolen pleasure; it's supposed to be savored. Soak up the smell of our skin, the softness of our little feet. Watch the trees dance in the breeze. Clean the dishes, yes, but notice the magic of the pearly suds, slippery on your busy hands. The whole world waits to be discovered and appreciated.

Use Love

Welcome to the January Carnival of Natural Parenting: Parenting resolutions!

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama. This month we're writing about how we want to parent differently — or the same — in the New Year. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

My personal parenting goal is to work on nurturing my relationship with my middle child, my 2-year-old daughter, and to “use love” when things get dicey.

I’m nursing the baby and reading with my oldest daughter from Teach Your Child How to Read in 100 Lessons when my toddler starts to fall apart. She throws a crayon. She hits her big sister. She starts screeching.

“Use words,” I screech back.

More tears spill from her big, brown eyes, saying what words cannot. I need you, Mommy.

Later that same day we are cuddled next to one another. She places her hand on my cheek, a tender gesture that never fails to tug at my heart.

And then she uses her words very well. “Mommy, why do you yell at me when I ‘cwry’?”

Good question.

When my baby cries, I immediately respond with a gentle touch or soft words. I scoop her in my arms. I nurse her. I kiss her sweet tears away.

When my 5-year-old cries, we talk. I can actually have rational conversations with her about feelings or consequences if her behavior is out of line.

But when my middle child, who has recently hit the 2-and-a-half-year-mark, cries or shrieks or hits, I’ve been too quick to snap lately. Sometimes her angry outbursts and apocalyptic approach to the smallest problems are infuriating, not to mention completely irrational. It is not the end of the world that you can’t get one of your socks on your foot. You will not go sock-less for the rest of your life. Bruised, blistered feet are not in your future, and you will somehow survive this atrocity.

Sometimes I’m just tired. I don’t feel like I have any more to give. I’m homeschooling my oldest child for the first year. I have a 9-month baby who is still nursing almost exclusively and is rooted to me like a barnacle both day and night. My 2-year-old has always been my easy child, the one who complies, who slowly weaned herself at 18 months, my one child who sleeps and doesn’t put up a fight. When she's recalcitrant, I’m taken aback and often short fused.

But there’s no excuse for my insensitivity. So I apologize to my daughter as we cuddle in the stillness of the day. The baby is asleep while my older child is having quiet time in her room. It’s just the two of us. My toddler curls beside me. Wisps of her honey-hued hair tickle my face. I smile at her. She beams back. All is forgiven.

The next day when she throws a fit, I crouch down to her level. “Do you need a time-in?” I say looking into her glassy eyes.

She stops crying, wondering what that means.

“Come here. Let’s cuddle for a bit.”

She climbs onto my lap, and all her frustrations melt into my arms. She is calm and quiet.

And so am I.

I’m trying to teach my little girl to “use words.” But she’s imparting a far greater lesson. She’s teaching me that above all, we should “use love.”

******

Visit Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

(All the links should be active by noon on Jan. 12. Go to Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama for the most recently updated list.)

• To Yell or Not to Yell — The Adventures of Lactating Girl
• It Is All About Empathy: Nurturing a Toddler's Compassion Potential — Baby Dust Diaries
• To my babies: this year… — BluebirdMama
• Mindfully Loving My Children — Breastfeeding Moms Unite!
• January Carnival of Natural Parenting: Resolutions — Code Name: Mama
• Imperfect Mother — Consider Eden
• Resolutions — Craphead (aka Mommy)
• FC Mom's Parenting Resolutions 2010 — FC Mom
• What’s in a Resolution? — Happy Mothering
• January Carnival of Natural Parenting: Parenting resolutions — Hobo Mama
• Natural Parenting Resolutions — Little Green Blog
• This year, I will mostly... — Look Left of the Pleiades
• Parenting Resolutions — The Mahogany Way
• I Resolve to Breastfeed In Public More Often — mama2mama tips
• Moving to Two Kids — Megna the Destroyer
• Use Love — Momopoly
• My parenting resolutions — Musings of a Milk Maker
• Talkin' 'bout My Resolutions — Navelgazing
• Parenting Resolutions — One Starry Night
• Invitations, not resolutions — Raising My Boychick
• No more multitasking during kid time — The Recovering Procrastinator
• I need to slow down, smell those roses AND the poopy diapers — Tales of a Kitchen Witch Momma
• Resolutely Parenting in 2010 — This Is Worthwhile

Snow Day

Proof that it snowed today in Georgia

 

My children never stop reminding me that it's the little things in life that bring us great joy. When the snow first began to flutter outside our window, my 5-year-old invited us all to do a snow dance; its choreography consisted of us running around in circles, screaming and laughing and saying, "It's snowing!" over and over. When the snow kept on falling, she announced, "All my dreams are coming true."

 

Here she's checking to see if the snow is sticking (it wasn't), but snowflakes are still falling and the temp is dropping so maybe we'll get lucky.

 

Sampling a snowflake



I'm so happy!

 

But I'm not. I'm cold. (My poor 2-year-old is just getting over a virus and didn't share her sister's enthusiasm for the nippy weather.)

 

Gazing

On Sunday both Rachel and M.E. were napping and under the watchful care of Papa and Gaba. I looked outside my parents' big windows at the brilliant blue sky dappled with just a few fleeced clouds and the lake water sparkling with sunshine. It was a day that begged for me to be outdoors.

"Madeline, do you want to go on a walk with me?"

Of course she did.

So my oldest daughter and I set outside. We brought only a bottle of water, a ball, and good conversation with us. We walked, pausing to notice the squirrel scampering up a tree and the glints of silvery mica on the ground.

Madeline started to skip along the gravel path. "Skip with me," she said.

So I did. And it felt good to skip and to smile beside my little girl.

When we were approaching the water's edge, Madeline said, "Mommy, let's just go sit by the water and gaze at it. That's a good idea, isn't it?"

It was.

We found a fallen log and sat on it. She tossed some pine cones in the water. We watched a family of mallard ducks glide across the glassy surface of the lake. And we gazed. Together. Just the two of us with no toddler or baby pining for my or big sister's attention.

The lake was beautiful but not as beautiful as the girl beside me. I noticed the way the fall sunshine painted her hair a honey hue and the way her cheeks were rosy from her skipping. When she noticed me gazing at her and not the water, she smiled, her big brown eyes bright. I smiled back. I thought, She's the best scenery of all and she's in front of me every single day, but I don't spend as much time gazing at her as I ought to.

"Let's go, Mommy," she said, taking my hand in hers.

I followed where she led me, watching her all the way.

As the Twig Bends

So the baby's first feeding went well. M.E. eagerly opened her mouth like a little bird and smacked her lips when she got her first taste of solids a week ago. She giggled and grinned. Her body language and lively expressions suggested the experience was fun, yummy, and something she'd enjoy repeating.

But the next day when I attempted to feed her, she recoiled and glared at me with absolute repugnance. Since then I've unsuccessfully tried to feed her mushed up avocados and bananas, placing them in front of her so she could eat and explore their textures on her own.

Both dishes inspired disgust. When I used my finger as a spoon and placed a taste on her tongue, she looked at me with wide, pleading eyes that seemed to be saying, "Please stop poisoning me."

Then she started to gag. Oh dear. We have another drama queen on our hands.

I'm following her lead. I'm content to nurse her as often as she likes. I'm not worried about her reluctance to start solids even when all the parenting books say she shows all the signs of being ready.

Fortunately, both Rae and Madeline gulped down solids as soon as they hit the six-month mark. I never had to worry, but I admit I probably would have - especially with my firstborn. As a new mom, I paid far too much attention to all those milestone charts. Was she on schedule to do this or to do that? My Type A personality definitely trickled down into my parenting. I was overly eager for each new phase. When she was rolling, I was ready for crawling. When she was crawling, I couldn't wait to see her toddle along on her two feet. I anticipated the day when her conversations with her toes would become exchanges with me. I was well prepared for her pediatrician checkups and could recount exactly when she first sat up unsupported, when her babbling turned into real words, when those tiny fingers mastered the pincher grasp. Her achievements were documented to the hour, minute, and second.

Now I do well to remember exactly how old M.E. is. Getting close to 7 months, right?

Oh, it's still exciting to watch my baby change (seemingly by the hour these days), but I'm not in a hurry for the next stage. Maybe it's because I know that when a baby meets a milestone like eating solids, she's that much closer to no longer needing my body to feed her or to being comforted simply by nestling close to me and hearing the familiar rhythms of my heart.

Babies don't keep. Neither do toddlers. Or preschoolers. Milestones now seem to be nothing more than evidence of this.

When I was asked, "How many times a day does she nurse, and for how long?" at M.E.'s recent well-child visit, I wanted to say, "Enough." But I knew the nurse wanted numbers, so I made some up.

"Have you started solids?"

"Yes, but she's not interested yet."

"Well, she's obviously growing," the nurse remarked giving props to her chunky thighs and Michelin Man rolls.

Perhaps M.E. will be ready for solids next month. Or not. As the nurse observed, she's obviously thriving. That's the important thing. No need to fret over the whens or hows of her development.

Baby by baby, I'm learning that it's usually best to allow young saplings to grow according to their nature. You can bend the twig all you want, and you can be sure that the tree will grow - but maybe not by your own or that competitive mom you meet at the playground's timetable. She may not grow how you expected her to grow either. The ballerina you dreamed of may prefer digging in the dirt for earthworms to practicing pirouettes. While you can prune your children to encourage new growth and to help them lean into the Light, they will take their own unique shape. Just as I tend to kill houseplants by watering them too much, I have to resist the temptation to micromanage my children. It's my job to give them strong roots and to invest time in nurturing them. But then I have to take a step back and give my children the space and the freedom to bloom all on their own.

*I really wanted to post a photo of our little one and her delicious rolls, but something is wrong with our computer that stores our ridiculous amount of digital photographs. We have approximately 2,372 (give or take) of our firstborn and about 20 of M.E. (Well, probably a few more than that, but we're past the stage of taking pictures of every single milestone like when your precious offspring picks her nose for the first time). We're not sure when we're going to be able to fix the problem. My husband built the computer himself, but he's been too busy with work and studying to perform surgery on the ailing beast and computer nerd I am not. (Though my nerdiness manifests itself in other ways such as in my love for charts and lists, an occasional snort-laugh, and in this completely unrelated addendum to an otherwise un-nerdy post.)

An Answered Prayer

On Monday night I walked the lonely path of a dark corridor over and over with a hurting infant in my arms. My march endured for hours. I only found rest when I stopped to nurse. The baby would drift off, eyelids fluttering, but if I made any attempt to put her down, she'd writhe in pain and begin to cry again. Her cries came from so deep inside of her it made me hurt, so I’d scoop her into my arms again and resume my nocturnal trek.

When it was well past 1 a.m., I was numb with exhaustion. That’s when I sprung a leak, and my own crying began. I asked for God’s help. I begged him to please, please let me sleep. I even asked him to give me a sign that he loved me and was with me.

I walked in the darkness, hoping winged angels might swoop down and say something like, “Be not afraid.”

But there were no signs or wonders. Just me and a baby who would not sleep.

I woke up around 7 a.m. after having slept fitfully since a 4 a.m. feeding, and I felt more than a crushing lethargy. I was angry. I felt like God wasn’t upholding his end of the bargain. Why were my prayers not answered? If God wanted me to follow his will for me and fulfill my duties as a wife and a mom, why couldn’t he at least give me more than four hours of fragmented sleep? Why did he only send his Mother to speak to children in Fatima? Where was my burning bush? Why did prayer feel more like spouting off words into a vacuum than sharing a two-way conversation with someone who supposedly knew me and loved me? And if God knows me so well, I thought, can’t he see that I’m reaching my breaking point?

I dragged myself out of bed and I went downstairs with a baby (who was now sleeping peacefully) in my arms and two hungry little ones treading close behind. I served my older girls breakfast and held the baby close. I watched her stomach rise and fall gently and that’s when I started to cry again, silent tears trailing down my face.

“God, help me,” I whispered in my heart.

And there it was: My lightening bolt, an answer to my prayer. My 4-year-old looked into my weepy eyes and began to softly sing, “The light of Christ comes shining through, and I’m so blessed to be with you.”

And I smiled through my tears, realizing I’d been looking in all the wrong places for answers to my prayer. Rather than searching the heavens for a sign, I only have to look around my own world to find God. I do not have to wait for a thundering voice from above. Instead, God may choose to speak through the voice of an earthly angel, through the sweet singing of my child. It’s up to me to listen, to open my heart and to accept the sound.

Love Has No Limits

Me: How much do you love me?

Preschooler as she outstretches her arms: This much.

After a brief pause...

Preschooler: Actually, I love you more than that, but my arms aren't long enough to show you.

I needed to hear these words. We all need reassurance from time to time, but lately my mommy ego has been suffering some slight bruises. Since the birth of our baby, our tenacious, high spirited, and strong-willed 4-year-old has started to inform me that I'm "the worst mommy in the world" when I, gasp, enforce bedtime, quiet time during the day, or tell her throwing toys in the house is unacceptable, or make her sit on the potty to "listen to her body."

As far as the BMs go, we thought we'd overcome the "holding in poop" issues, but it seems any change means she's back to her old habits (and adding another baby to the mix is a big change for a child, especially a high-need child).

Dear Madeline takes a capful of Miralax (an adult dosage) every day per our pediatrician's recommendation. We were told she would not be able to physically hold her poop in any longer (this was almost two years ago), but when you have a truly tenacious child, I've learned anything is possible.

Last night it took 45 minutes of potty time before she succumbed and "listened to her body." We were going on day four of no poop and also watching her do lots of ballet dancing (she walks on her tip-toes when she's trying to hold it in). Our record is 15 days. It's a battle of wills...constantly. But the whole "choose your battles" doesn't apply in this category because I cannot allow her to hold her poop in for the sake of her physical health. So I cajole. Sometimes I fight. I always praise when she does go poop. Yet, it can be trying. It can test my limits.

Then again, should I even have limits? Madeline's love doesn't, after all.

Truth is, sometimes I get frustrated or even angry. Sometimes I raise my voice a little too loudly or squeeze her arm a bit too sharply. Sometimes I do snap after I've been up at night with a newborn. I am not proud of my behavior. There are nights when I fall to my knees and pray for God's graces and ask him to please, please help me to correct and to encourage with a firm gentleness and not in anger.

When I do put a limit on my love and throw my own tantrum, I ask for forgiveness from God and then I apologize to Madeline. I remind her of my love for her. I wait for her response, and this same child, whom I have learned to recognize as "high-need" and "high spirited," shows more empathy than most adults. She'll wrap her arms - the ones that cannot physically express her love for me - and say, "It's 'otay,' Mommy. You're a wonderful mommy," or, "I know you're sleepy," or, "It's tough being only one mommy." There have been times when she's even offered to pray for me.

I'm so thankful for this tenacious, beautiful child and the wisdom beyond her years she seems to possess, and I'll take poop conflicts any day if it means I can enjoy the company of this angel of a girl.

I realize, too, that she is right: Sometimes it is tough being one very human mommy to three very precious but oftentimes demanding black holes of need. Sometimes it's tough to be the bad guy (AKA "the worst mommy in the world") and to set boundaries or to enforce certain non-negotiable rules. Sometimes it's even tough to show love when you're children are exhibiting unlovable behavior (kicking or screaming or vocalizing a litany of why you stink), but a mother's love cannot be contingent on how "easy" a child is or how "fun" mothering is at that particular moment.

I say I love my children every day, and I certainly do feel an intense love for them. But feelings aren't enough. The way I feel about my kids is about me; however, the way I show my love, what I do, how I act toward my children, is what matters to them. This is a tough lesson - one that I'm learning and trying to embrace every day.

So I ask myself: How much do I love all of my children? There should never be arms long enough to quantify it. Like Madeline's unconditional, wide-open love for me, there can be no limit to my love. Sometimes I am required to just keep on giving even when the temptation to run and hide, throw my own tantrum, or withhold my love is great. This is, perhaps, the very reason why the call to motherhood is so sublime. Being a mother is surely a way of growing in selfless love and holiness - if we only allow ourselves to be stretched like the arms of my preschooler.

My Two Cents on Discipline

I’ve enjoyed reading everyone's comments after this guest post, and I’ve been inspired to put in my two cents on discipline. As a caveat, I’m no expert. I have a degree in journalism for goodness' sake, and I’ve only had a little more than four years of on-the-job-training. Still, I have my own ideas on what discipline is and what it isn’t.

The original post included one expert’s thoughts on coping with tantrums. (It goes without saying that dealing with a young child's emotional outbursts is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to discipline, but I went ahead and said it anyway.)

The author doled out streamlined tips, and the post did not go into great depth about tantrums in general - what causes them, etc.

I agree 100 percent with what Kris wrote in her comment when she mentioned that there are different types of tantrums. In her words:

“[There are the] totally out of control ones and the ones your kids can control that they are using to try and get something from you.”

When Madeline (who recently turned 4) throws a fit, it’s usually because she wants something or because she’s really sad or disappointed (or just plain exhausted). I make every effort, although there are days when I'm more tired and maybe even more frustrated than she is and this takes Herculean strength, to always begin with empathy when dealing with these tantrums. “I know you’re sad.” Blah, blah, blah.

Then I briefly explain that her behavior is still not acceptable and ask her to go “cool her oven off" (usually in her bedroom). I've found that giving her some power (and the confidence that she is in control of her own emotions) and not mandating time outs for specific time periods is very helpful.

Rachel Marie, on the other hand, is only 19 months. When she fusses (she hasn’t had a full-blow tantrum yet – knock on a big, old piece of wood now, please), I don’t send her off to a corner even though many experts do recommend starting time outs at this age.

Usually, a hug or simply trying decode her gestures and tears is much more effective in calming her down. I also try to not say "no" all day long. I reserve a firm, “No!” for the big things - reaching for the hot stove or hitting, not for pulling out every piece of Tupperware I own for the fourteenth time while I attempt to make dinner (even though this can really grate on my Type A nerves sometimes).

Now I don’t like to label people or parenting styles, but if I had to subscribe to one school of thought I’d call myself an attachment parent. I’m typically cautious about “confessing” this because I’ve discovered that there are a lot of misconceptions about this parenting style. I’ve had people think that this means I don’t ever want my child to leave me and that I’m turning my kids into leeches.

Similarly, it’s often assumed that because attachment parents often stress the importance of loving discipline, that we’re a bunch of Kum By Ya softies who let our kids run all over us.

Now I realize that some AP parents out there (as well as parents who embrace other parenting styles) do allow their kids to be the boss of them. They give in too readily. They ignore children’s tantrums even when they’re sitting in a public place and are disturbing others instead of removing the screaming child from the scene.

But most AP parents don’t think discipline is bad. On the contrary. We see it as absolutely necessary. However, the way we approach discipline (always thinking about teaching empathy, for example) may be a little different. (Then again, maybe not. I think most moms want to be gentle parents; it's just tough to do that sometimes when your toddler goes from docile to manic in a matter of seconds.)

To me, what good discipline is really about is character formation. How you go about doing this (forming character through discipline techniques) may vary somewhat even in your own home since children's innate personalities and emotional needs do not exist in a vacuum.

As I’ve alluded to before, a big part of my job description is to arm my children with the tools they need to overcome defeat, frustration, disappointments and sadness like tenacity, adaptability, optimism, and a faith and trust in God and his plan for them. One way to do this is to discipline the right way (or at least to always try to do that).

Do I sometimes snap at my kids when I should instead discipline them with gentle firmness? Of course. Have I always been a model mom who disciplines with love and patience? No way, Jose. I aim to live up to certain parenting ideals, but I fall short All. Of. The. Time. That’s where God’s forgiveness and grace comes in.

As for the “big picture” when it comes to discipline, I try to turn difficult situations and disruptive, unacceptable behavior into teaching moments. I make an effort to compliment more than criticize. When it’s necessary that I give my preschooler a bigger consequence for her actions, I try to be firm, gentle, but also matter-of-fact. There’s no need to always explain myself or offer a dissertation on why I expect certain things. I have no problem with sometimes saying to my kids, “Because I said so, and I’m your mom.”

I also agree wholeheartedly with what Lerin wrote in the comments section:

"We are so inundated by pop-psychology from the media that we over analyze our basic instincts. The more parenting 'advice' we get from secular psychology, the more our expectations for our children's behavior degenerate."

This is one of the big reasons I'm reluctant to label myself (or anyone else) as a certain type of parent. Common sense is often our best guide when it comes to discipline and every other area parenting. So, don't forget to trust your mom (or dad) gut. You are the best expert on your child and what she needs.

To sum up, I’ll leave you with a quote from Elizabeth Foss, a mom and writer I greatly admire, from her book Real Learning: Education in the Heart of My Home:

“We are in authority over our children. God put us there. That does not mean that we must be tyrants. That does not give us license to berate, belittle, or scream at them. That does not allow us to excuse our own weakness and impatience. Remember: Charity, above all. Be a friend to your child. Listen with interest. Speak with courtesy. Think of him as a friend. When he behaves in a way that would not be in your desired best friend, speak the truth in love. Must you correct or admonish? Of course you must. For this is a child. And while he is our friend, he is still growing. You must shape him so that he is a good friend.

Yes, we need to form our children. We want them to be worthy and loving friends. We absolutely need to guide them with loving firmness. I am not advocating that you relinquish authority. To do so would be to plunge your child into a sea of confusion and bewilderment. I am simply advocating that you treat children with the respect and gentleness of an excellent mentor, an older and wiser friend, whose strength inspires the heart of her student.”

Now, that was definitely more than two cents’ worth.

Laugh Tracks

I'm a silly person by nature. As a mom, I've now got a good excuse to act goofy. A theatre minor in college, I’ve discovered my inner Thespian again and love to act out Dr. Seuss books, hit myself in the head with a toy bat a la The Three Stooges, or belt out Annie's “Tomorrow” at the top of my lungs like a crazed opera singer – anything to get a laugh out of my kids.

These days, I have license to run around the house with a pot on my head and bark like a dog and blame my craziness on the kids. "I'm their free entertainment and a whole more interactive than Elmo," I can say.

Now I have someone to watch Finding Nemo with (I admit: I love that flick) and someone who thinks hairy legs feel funny, not gross (sadly, I can attest that bristly legs are ticklish to a child's curious hands). There are days when we stay in our PJs and “campout” in the living room. I take my daughters to the playground and push them in the swings and then let their legs gently kick my bum. When I dramatically bounce forward, they convulse with laughter, and I feel like an acclaimed standup comedian. I dance around the living room with the best dance partners in the world – a twirling preschooler and a naked baby who could care less if I don’t know how to tango.

The laugh track around my house is constant. And I love it. I've found silliness and the belly laughs that follow are one of the best ways to give me a lift when I'm feeling tired or frazzled.

Some women epitomize, “I am woman. Hear me roar.” I prefer to live by the mantra, “I am Mommy. Hear me laugh.”

Do your kids bring out the silliness in you, too? What have you done lately to make your kids (and yourself) laugh?

My Purse Contents: Burdens or Blessings?

My purse was looking particularly bulky today, so I decided it was time to sift through its contents. Here's what I found:

• Three empty Ziplock bags
  
• Several coupons that expired in April
  
• My super-duper coupon organizer
  
• A plastic Eeyore figurine
  
• Four size 5 diapers that would actually fit the baby and one size 4 diaper that would not
  
• A "note" from Madeline (AKA lots of scribbles and a few elementary "Ms")
  
• Two grocery receipts with obscene totals
  
• Three pens and one highlighter
  
• One crumpled tissue and two pocket-sized packs of tissues
  
• Two pennies
  
• One dime
  
• Some Goldfish crumbs
  
• One piece of gum (still in its wrapper, thank goodness)
  
• My wallet that includes absolutely no pictures of my second-born child
  
• A prayer for vocations
  
• A rosary
  
• A small stuffed bear
  
• A brochure for our local botanical garden
  
• A Tide-to-Go pen
  
• A package of mixed dried fruit
  
• A mixed berry fiber bar
  
• Two boxes of raisins
  
• An empty Snack Trap
  
• A lint brush
  
• A Bandaid
  
• An umbrella
  
• Baby wipes
  
• A diaper changing pad
  
• One bib
  
• A kids' sun hat
  
• My nursing cover
  
• Sunscreen
  
• Hand lotion
  
• A hairbrush
  
• A reminder for the baby's 15-month well-child visit
  
• Balmex
  
• A nail file
  
• My Family Y picture ID
  
• One piece of pinestraw, two pebbles, one dried flowered (all gifts from Madeline)
  

Okay, so my first thought as I looked at this heap of junk was that I probably don't need to be carrying around all of this stuff everywhere I go. Second thought: Nothing quite says "Mom" like baby bum ointment and an endless supply of snacks.

That got me thinking. Here I was trying to unburden myself of all this extra stuff I carry around these days. It wasn't too long ago when I carried a fashionable clutch and its contents embraced the minimalist mindset - there was an ATM card, my driver's license, a tube of my fave lipstick and maybe one or two other essentials, but there certainly weren't any cracker crumbs or shiny pebbles.

I could think of my overflowing purse as a burden. I could long for the days when I didn't need to lug around enough edibles to stock a small pantry, diapers, and natural artifacts my preschooler picks up wherever life may take us. I could think of motherhood and my children as burdens as well, burdens that rob me of "alone time," sleep, trendy purses, and the freedom to do what I want when I want to do it.

But I choose not to. I choose to see my children and my vocation to be their mom as a gift and a blessing. I've heard it many times before that God doesn't call the equipped. Instead, he equips the called.

I have been called and thankfully, it's not only my purse that is well-equipped to handle any situation that might arise being a mom of young children. God has equipped me, too. As I was reminded with this past Sunday's Gospel reading, if I make Christ's way my way, then the sometimes heavy, exhausting labor of motherhood is made light. What's more, Christ has the power to make all those things society tends to see as burdens - from being a mom to many to an unexpected pregnancy - and turn them into blessings.

Fireworks

I've had my share of fireworks this past week. Oh, I'm not talking about the WHAM-BAM, sparkly kind. We actually didn't get to see any real fireworks this year because the sky opened up just as the sunlight slipped away.

No, I'm actually referring to the figurative variety.

I never really thought of myself as controversial. I typically cover fairly benign topics like the silly things my kids do and say and my love for horses.

But something happened to my idyllic, little corner of Cyberspace this week. First, I left a comment on a popular mom blog about my 13-month-old daughter's abrupt reluctance to nurse and I happened to mention the acronym AP (as in attachment parenting). That got people talking and it made me reconsider ever labeling myself as anything other than a "Catholic mom and wife doing her best to meet her family's needs." Yet, this discourse was only the beginning.

Things got really interesting after an article on InsideCatholic was posted about why I nurse (discreetly) at Mass. This weekend I received my first piece of hate mail in my inbox and a slew of other negative comments in the comment section for the article.

I have arrived.

Seriously, I'm keeping a sense of humor with all this. I see all the exposure (no pun intended. I'm an advocate of nursing discreetly, after all) as a good thing. In just one week I've been described as a lactivist, and a vain, self-absorbed and insecure mom, and it's even been suggested that my nursing at Mass is a part of Satan's plan to degrade our Blessed Mother. (I can't begin to explain that last one either.)

I suppose I should be fretting over the negative feedback, perhaps even questioning myself and the choices I make as a Christian mom.

But I'm not. Not one little bit. And it has nothing to do with the fact that for every naysayer, I received an influx of positive and encouraging comments from both men and women.

It's kind of weird, really, since I have the tendency to worry too much about what others think. However, this is just one of the wonderful gifts motherhood has given me - thick skin and a nice helping of resolve, too. Thick skin to not let all those "expert opinions" out there make me second guess the way I mother and resolve to keep praying for God's approval and no one else's.

And it was God Himself who gave me my body, including my breasts, to be given up for my children. Unfortunately, it's only here in the Northern Hemisphere that my article would cause any debate at all. We have sexualized breasts to the point that a woman discreetly feeding her infant makes people squirm.

I don't consider myself a lactivist at all. I did not write that article about my decision to start nursing at Mass out of my love for breastfeeding or even my love for my children. It was really about my love for Christ and my desire to be at his table as often as possible. Somehow that point got lost when I mentioned the word "breast."

I want to go to Mass and I think Jesus wants me there, too, hungry baby and all.

Weaning Mommy

Love hurts, especially when you’re trying to nurse a baby who keeps biting you. For the past two days my baby Rae has refused my breast. She either pushes it away or gives me a quick (and painful) nip.

This doesn’t stop me from trying to offer it to her. I’m like a lovesick teenager who keeps crawling back to the same boy who’s already going steady with someone else.

The baby’s beginning to get more adamant about her feelings toward her mommy stalker, who constantly asks in a hopeful tone, “Milk?” and has even been known to pump in front of this said baby in a sorry attempt to make her jealous.

She’s trying to be gentle with me, but I think she’s reaching her limit. Her most recent bite was much more emphatic. She's also resorted to waving her hands furiously in the motion of a frantic “finished” sign.

C’mon, Mommy. Take a hint.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Only two days ago she’d still been nursing four to five times a day. Now she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind when I open and close my hand like I’m squeezing an imaginary udder (the sign for milk).

Maybe I am a little crazy, but this is all too soon and too sudden. I think of myself as an extended breastfeeder. I always assumed I’d be the one doing the weaning – not the other way around.

That’s the way it was with my firstborn. I had to gently wean my first daughter at 22 months, enticing her with fancy sippy cups because my husband and I were ready for another baby and ecological breastfeeding works as a way of natural child spacing for us. (I conceived the month I weaned.) Actually, my high-need preschooler still occasionally asks to nurse at bedtime and even verbalizes why she wants to be close to Mommy. “I want to be a baby,” she told me recently.

So what about Rae? She is still a baby. She just turned 1 about a month ago. Why the big hurry to grow up? What’s next? Asking for permission to shave her legs?

I know I shouldn’t be taking this personally. Besides, maybe this is only a nursing strike. Maybe not.

Either way I know the facts. I’ve nursed one child until she was nearly two. My mother-in-law is a lactation consultant. I’ve read enough about breastfeeding to know all about the stumbling blocks, the benefits to both mom and baby, and the reality that natural weaning is child-led and there’s no set timetable.

I know that some babies do naturally wean at around a year, although it’s not the norm (experts consider 4 or 5 years to be the average age of weaning worldwide, according to La Leche League International). Most gradually wean while the minority of babies make what seems like a rather abrupt, spontaneous decision.

So why isn’t my baby in the majority? Why does she have to be such a rebel? She was supposed to nurse until I needed to wean in order to conceive baby number three. That was my plan and I can’t help but feel a twinge of inadequacy that my baby’s decided otherwise.

Just yesterday I watched as Rae held her sippy cup with chubby, deft hands, downing the breastmilk I’d pumped earlier after she’d nipped my nipple yet again.

So it’s not the milk she doesn’t want. It’s the container. It’s me.

Was it because I left her last Sunday to attend a conference (this was my longest time away from her since her birth)? Is the paci to blame (Madeline never used one)? Is it because I rushed her through too many nursing nosh sessions in the past so that we could get her big sister to swim lessons or even to the potty in time?

I needed some answers. I pulled The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding off my bookshelf and looked up “weaning” in the index. I found a whole section devoted to the mom who was ready to stop breastfeeding, but there was nothing about the mom who wasn’t ready to wean.

I know why. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about my baby. It’s about meeting her needs and right now, for whatever reason, those don’t include nursing.

But knowing something and accepting it are two very different things. If I accept that my baby’s ready to wean, then I’m also accepting that she’s growing up more quickly than I want.

For the past year, I’ve responded to her cues. I must do no differently now. Even if her “cue” comes in the form of an unexpected nibble that hurts in more ways than one. When she cries or reaches up to me, I must still react. But maybe I need to offer her my arms instead of my breasts. (She, too, knows the sign for “milk” and can tell me if that’s what she wants.) She may want to be rocked, cradled close to me while I sing a lullaby. She may want another story or for me to count her tiny toes or to tickle her beneath her chin. Sometimes, though, she may ask me to ransom her from the constant care I’ve grown so accustom to giving.

Really, parenting is just one long process of weaning. First, newborns are weaned from their mother’s womb. Then, arms open wide, they’re sailing down a hill on their bikes and we’re screaming, “Keep your hands on those handlebars!” Before we know it the very children we thought would never sleep through the night or get out of diapers are heading off to college with an assured (and perhaps inflated) sense of wisdom. I don’t speak from experience. My oldest isn’t even four yet. I can only guess how quickly it comes time to say good-bye and there’s no longer a baby wedged on a hip, flapping fat fingers at you while babbling, “Bye-bye.”

To be parents, I’m learning, is to teach my children to be less dependent on me and more dependent on themselves. This is just one of the ciphers of parenting: to figure out when you need to hold on and when it’s time to let go. I’m only just discovering that the holding on is much, much easier to do.