Parenting Gods...

...a humble list of requests:

Please let me remember, when I am naming my child, that while names like Timothy are fine, names like Thymmoethieyx (the x is silent) are not.  Kid's got two moms, alright?  Enough is enough.

Please let me never spend more on an outfit ensemble for my child than I spent on groceries that week.

Please let me never get hung up on what the other mommies at Circle Sing or Baby ASL think about my lack of eyebrow grooming.

Better yet, let me not feel guilty about asking Alix to take the kids to Circle Sing or Baby Sign so that I can shower and pee with the door closed.  (Or, heaven help us, maybe we just won't go one week.)


Please let me never ask a babysitter to cook a meal for my child(ren) that involves more than five ingredients or three steps.  The world will not end if they eat frozen pizza.


Please let me remember that things like pajamas, diapers, security blankets, and formula should be in OBVIOUS places that are easily accessible to anyone caring for my children.


Please let me also remember that things like menstrual cups, sex toys, lingerie, and porn should be in extremely UN-obvious places, difficult to access by children and caregivers alike.


Please let me never refer to my child's genitals by anything other than the words "penis" or "vagina."  A penis is not a "unit" and a vagina is not a "hoo-ha."  Really.


Please let me remember that dirt, sand, grass, pebbles, and fur, if ingested in small amounts, will not kill my child, nor even seriously maim them.


Please let me never fall victim to claims that IT IS ABSOLUTELY CRUCIALLY NECESSARY that I buy this newest contraption, guaranteed to soothe/feed/transport/clean my child for the LOW LOW PRICE of $XXX,XXX.  I've got hands, arms, and boobs.  Please let me remember that those are almost always enough.


Please let me never schedule my child's life so much that he/she requires his/her own Blackberry to keep track of it all.  


Please let me remember that I grew up fine without television and so will my children.


Please let me relax and let other people take a turn when it's too much for me.  It doesn't make me a bad mom if I need help sometimes.


Please let me remember, then, that the more people that love my child, the better.  Please help me not to be jealous or resentful when this happens, and instead remember how much fun it was to love on kids when I  was a nanny.


Please help me to never, ever criticize my body in front of my children.  If "Mommy's belly" was good enough for them to live in, it should be good enough for me to live with.


Please, above all else, help me to be calm, to carry on, to do some things right, to fuck other things up, to hug them, kiss them, cry over them, scold them, pull them close, and eventually, let them go.



**This list brought to you by myself and a friend.  Nannying will give you nothing if not ideas of what not to do with our own children!**

Plus One

Saw this on Post Secret today...

It hit a little close to home.  I've written about this before so forgive me if I sound like I'm beating a dead horse.  It's just that this is something I think about a lot.  I've wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember and while that dream has undergone significant metamorphoses through the years, the bare bones of it have remained the same: me, belly, baby, love.  Now, however, there's an element to the dream and the worries surrounding it that I've never entertained before - what if I can't get pregnant?  I've taken a few pregnancy tests through the years (Hi Mom and Dad!), so I'm acquainted with the two minute waiting period, the feeling of sitting on the cold tile of a bathroom floor, sending desperate pleas into the universe, Please say no, please say no, please please please say no.  It's always said no.  I've been lucky.  I certainly didn't want to be pregnant any of those times, and when I held the hands of a couple of friends who were not so lucky, I was acutely aware that There but for the grace of God go I.

Now, though, two diametrically opposed things have happened.  The first - I'm finally with the person with whom I want to have and raise children.  Lucky for me, she wants them as badly as I do and so I know that in the grand scheme of things, I don't have to wait that much longer.  The second - I'm (currently) infertile.  As far as modern medicine has brought us in regards to providing men and women with the ability to choose how and when (if ever) to have children, there is biology millions of years in the making that still has the final word.  And when a body is too malnourished to support life, it doesn't waste its precious energy and resources growing and releasing eggs, let alone supporting a fetus in the event of conception.  Survival comes first.  And since May, my body has been shunting resources far, far away from my (albeit unused) reproductive system.  I'm sure you can see where this is going: Did I waste my chance?  The thought plagues me late at night as I contemplate the perversity of the situation.  Years went by of birth control and the hastily whispered prayers in the bathrooms where an ounce of urine could spell a drastically shifting future and now that Alix's and my ducks are (somewhat) in a row, I've up and quit ovulating.

Physically, amenorrhea as a result of malnourishment is largely reversible.  It's a pretty simple process - once the body isn't desperately harboring nutrients for the support of more important organs, like the brain and heart, it'll start allotting some for the ovaries and uterus and things (should) get kicked into gear again.  Of course, the mental/psychological hurdles to leap over to get to that point are significantly less straightforward.  Which is precisely why I've made a promise to myself: When - not if - I get through this, I'm not wasting any more time.  I'm not going to take my body and my ability to support life for granted anymore.  I'm determined, with a fierceness that I haven't felt before now, to beat this monster that has taken so much from me and from my relationship with Alix.

I will learn to feed myself so that my body can grow a baby, so that I can nurse that baby, and so that I can be the mother I want to be.  I will beat this thing, one way or another.  And when I do?  There will be a different picture heading a blog post.  Something with a plus sign.  My family plus one.  The best one of all.

Trusting Your Insticts

I have a new little one in my life to love.  An 8-week-old, eleven pound, pink clad little munchkin who has already melted my heart into oogey gooey I-want-a-baby-NOW-ness.  Starting yesterday, I get to spend Wednesdays hangin' with this chickadee while her mom does stuff around the apartment, goes to the gym, and participates in adult activities like conversation.  Speaking of which, she and I had a great one yesterday...

J., the mom, is quite possibly the sweetest woman I've ever met.  Case in point - she gave me a hug and called me gorgeous when I walked in the door (we'd met once before).  We also spent all day together yesterday and truly enjoyed each other's company.  In the land of mother-nanny relationships, this is huge.  We talked, we got coffee, we oohed and ahhed over her daughter and she asked me a million questions about baby-raising that I tried to field as best as I could.  It turns out that she and her husband had hired a baby nurse to come in after the little one arrived and the nurse has only left within the last week, leaving J. feeling a little scattered.  (Yes, this is New York City.  Yes, "normal" people get baby nurses that live with them full-time and charge exorbitant amounts of money to, in this case, wreak havoc.)  Now, to be fair, I think that a baby nurse can have a lot to teach first-time parents and if that's how people want to spend their money then it's no skin off my nose.  What does get my panties in a knot is when baby nurses make sweet, capable, loving women like J. feel like she's a horrible mother and that none of her instincts are correct.  Which is exactly what happened.  Apparently, the nurse went so far as to follow J. around, correcting her every move and telling her in no uncertain terms that she was going to "ruin" her daughter by "spoiling her so young."  Grrr....

Your daughter is eight weeks old.  She needs you.  Being needed and responding to your child's needs is called parenting, not spoiling.

I said as much to J. when we were discussing whether or not to go get her little girl when she's woken up from her nap.  The first time, J. asked me to wait to get her, and so we both waited for two or three agonizing minutes while the little peanut worked herself into a screaming, squalling, inconsolable mess.  J. was also a mess - her milk had let down, she was flushed and anxious, and when she finally let herself pick up her daughter she was practically in tears of her own.  I kept quiet, knowing it wasn't my business to interfere.  Later that day though, J. came back from the gym looking refreshed and bright-eyed and she told me that she thinks she'd like to forget what the baby nurse said and get the little one as soon as she wakes.  I applauded her.  I told her that was fine, that was great, that's what feels right for her and she should be proud of herself.  I told her she was a rock star mom and that there's a school of thought that responding right away to your infant's needs helps them learn to trust you and know that you are there, responding to them when they need you.  It sets up a foundation for teaching them patience later, when they're emotionally and psychologically ready to be told to hang on a minute while you put the dishes away.  I told her gently that I'm sure there were some awesome things she learned from the nurse, but that hey, the nurse is gone.  Your daughter is here to stay - with you, her mom.  And doing what feels right, trusting your instincts, all of that will help create the loving, safe, consistent atmosphere that her daughter needs to thrive.

Her relief was visible.  She smiled at me over her daughter's downy head.  "Do you really think so?" she asked me.  Yes, absolutely.  You've got this, I told her smiling.  You've so got this.

This is what I want to do with my life - helping women believe in themselves, helping them to know that they are strong, they are capable, they are rock stars in their bodies and in their ability to give birth, to parent, and to love.  No one, I don't care how young or old or inexperienced or scared they are, should be made to feel like they aren't capable of being a good parent.  And if I can help women learn to trust their instincts, to trust their bodies and their hearts and minds for this awesome, amazing, terrifying journey called motherhood, then hot damn, I can't wait to be a midwife.

When Is It My Turn?

I babysat for my boys the other night, while their parents went out for a birthday celebration.  Once the baby was asleep, and after baths, teeth brushing, pajamas, four stories, evening prayers, a "pocket tuck" for LM, a "burrito wrap" for Bee, (yes, young children are very particular about how they are tucked into bed), and two kisses for each, I turned out the light, whispered good-night, and closed the door.  I sat on the couch, waiting calmly.  Ten...nine...eight....seven...six...bingo.  Creak...the door opens.  "Caywin?  I'm thirsty.  And I have to do a pee."  So, I patiently helped LM do his second pee in ten minutes, pointed out the sippy cup of water that I had placed next to his bed and re-tucked him (pocket, NOT burrito) into bed. 

Once they were all asleep, I finished cleaning the kitchen and folded the fresh laundry while I ran another wash load.  An hour later, all the chores done, I relaxed on the couch with my book and contemplated dozing off.  Forty-five minutes later, I sat up with a start.  A tiny noise had awoken me from my doze.  There it was again, louder this time.  Bee was crying, a squeak at first, but now escalating to a wail, "Cayyyywwiiinnnnn!!!" in between choked sobs.  In his room, I found him slumped over his crib rail, crying unintelligibly, most likely due to a bad dream.  I scooped his warm toddler body up into my arms and rocked, standing in their dark bedroom, whispering past his sweaty curls, "Hush, Bee, it's okay now.  Everything is okay now.  I'm here.  Nothing's going to get you.  Let's get you a dry diaper, okay?"  Deftly, in the dark, I swapped his wet diaper for a dry one and replaced his pajama bottoms.  As I hoisted him off the changing table to put him back into his crib, he latched his arms around my neck and sank into my arms under his bottom.  I paused before putting him back to bed.  Just for a minute, I thought.  We stood by his crib, listening to the fan, and I rocked him slowly, ever so slowly, back and forth, before settling him back into bed.  "Here's Pooh Bear," I whispered, tucking the tattered bear into his arms as he rolled over, already asleep.  I tiptoed out and quietly closed the door.

My heart cracked.  Again.  And again, and again, and again.  I sat back down on the couch and cried.  When, when is it my turn?  When is it my turn to be the sun around which some child orbits instead of the babysitter or the nanny who rocks them in the middle of the night, teaches them words, changes their diapers, and loves them up and down and all around until inevitably, my heart breaks again and I have to leave?

It's summer in New York, which means every woman of child-bearing age is strutting around with an ever-growing belly under her sundress or tunic top.  I look down at my own flat torso and long for the day when I will be something other than a passing figure in a child's life.  This job is wearing me down.  It's not the specifics - the hours or the tantrums or the diapers - it's the whole idea.  I want to be more to someone.  I want to be someone to anyone.  Anything beyond the monotony, the anonymity, that I am now.

Great Thoughts (that aren't mine)

I'm reading this book right now, called Committed, by Elizabeth Gilbert (you know, the one that wrote Eat, Pray, Love).  She's writing about this huge personal study she did into the institution of marriage because while she and Felipe (the man she met in Bali at the end of her year of self-discovery) fell in love and committed themselves to each other, they also vowed never to get married.  Alas, the United States government had other plans and told them that unless they got married, Felipe would never be allowed back in the US. So here these two people are, both in their forties and fifties, both the battle-scarred survivors of horrid divorces, having vowed to never again enter into an institution that they consider to be all kinds of horrible.  And yet, they have to get married.  So Elizabeth, in the exceedingly long interim that it takes the US to figure out when and how Felipe can come back and they can get hitched, goes on this meandering research tour of marriage to find out exactly what are her issues with it and how she can get around them.

It's a great read for so many reasons, but this one particular passage stood out to me because at this moment in my life, I'm having a bit of a personal crisis.  There are two things I desperately want to do with my life.  One is to be a mama (most likely the stay-at-home kind, at least for the first few years of my children's lives), and the other is to become some kind of women's health professional (right now the top contenders are nurse practitioner and midwife).  The problem (at least in my mind), is that I'm doing nothing towards reaching either one of those goals right now.  I'm working, yes, but I feel like I'm spinning my wheels.  Anyway, that's a whole other post.  This one is about a passage in this book that stood out to me because I can identify so much with what Gilbert is saying.  Here it is:

"And this is my beef, by the way, with social conservatives who are always harping about how the most nourishing home for a child is a two-parent household with a mother in the kitchen.  If I - as a beneficiary of that exact formula - will concede that my own life was indeed enriched by that precise familial structure, will the social conservatives please (for once!) concede that this arrangement has always put a disproportionately cumbersome burden on women?  Such a system demands that mothers become selfless to the point of near invisibility in order to construct these exemplary environments for their families.  And might those same social conservatives - instead of just praising mothers as "sacred" and "noble" - be willing to someday join a larger conversation about how we might work together as a society to construct a world where healthy children can be raised and healthy families can prosper without women having to scrape bare the walls of their own souls to do it?"

Amen, sister.

Late Night Dreams

It's no secret that my anxieties keep me awake at night, often for hours at a time.  Every night for the past few weeks, it's taken longer and longer for me to drift off, as I panic about needing to wake up so early (what if my alarm doesn't go off?), needing to interact with my bosses (especially now that I'm finishing my last two weeks), needing to say good-bye to my sweet, darling boy, and wondering, as all twenty-somethings seem to do: what am I doing with my life?!

No, these are not productive or healthy ways to spend one's minutes and hours before sleep, but they're what occupy my mind unless I make a huge effort to replace these thoughts with others.  Last night, as Alix and I laid in bed and I started working myself into another round of useless panic, I stopped myself and quietly asked her, "Can we think about something happy so I can fall asleep?"

"Of course," she said, pausing to think for a minute.  "Let's think about the day when your belly will be so big, it'll be impossible for me to hug you because our unborn child is taking up three quarters of our (not very big) bed."  A slow grin spread across my face and stayed there as we whispered to each other for at least another hour about what it will be like to embark on such a remarkable, terrifying journey.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again, there's something very sobering about the fact that pregnancy and parenting will never just "happen" for us.  No matter when it happens, it will be a very deliberate, very expensive, and very labor-intensive (no pun intended) task.  But last night, as we talked of the cradle my father will build for us, the blonde curls that will grace our first child's head, and the knowledge that this person exists because we (plus some generous anonymous sperm donor) created, all I could think about was how happy the idea made me.  No matter what I'm currently doing with my life or what I wind up doing with my life, or what catastrophes come our way, knowing that I've found the person that I want to create and nurture new lives with is a blessing I can't even fully comprehend.  How on earth did I get so lucky?

And then, yes, I fell asleep.

Gay Parents

Someday, Alix and I will be them. We will be that same-sex couple - God willing, not the only one that everyone knows - who have a few kids in the local school and do things like bring vegan brownies to bake sales and nurse their infants in public. We'll probably even own a jogging stroller, wear our babies in slings, use cloth diapers and positive reinforcement and have strict rules about TV watching and homework. Maybe you approve of these things, maybe you don't, but regardless, they're going to happen. And it bothers me to no end that our parenting styles will be noticed, appraised, and judged more than others' simply because we are a same-sex couple.

Long before I knew that I was not entirely straight, when I imagined myself as a mother, it was almost always as a single parent (perhaps this should have indicated to me at the time that I didn't feel a strong connection to the idea of spending a lifetime with a man). But the fact remains that even this choice, had I made it, would have been far more socially acceptable and tolerated than the family that Alix and I will create over the next few years. Even - perhaps especially - the process of creating a family will for us be far more complicated than the average couple. Most people who decide to have children at some point use the "Well we're not not trying anymore..." approach and then wait to see "what happens." Inevitably (if they're blessed), two pink lines show up on a stick and their lives are changed forever. For us, it will involve processes I don't even understand yet, but I think will go something like this: find eligible sperm donor through reputable agency, acquire enough sperm for multiple children, buy sperm, have inserted into uterus in gynecological office (how romantic!) and then wait and hope for the two pink lines.

Whatever the end results, I can only hope that our kids turn out to be anything like this young man. He is a credit to his mothers.