Archives for January 2017

My Kid Has Aged Three Months, I Have Aged Thirty… Years.

January 28, 2017

Everything hurts. Like, really, everything.

I realize this is going to sound like whining. That’s only because it IS whining. I feel old. It’s not just the interrupted sleep and the lack of anything to say in conversation other than the amount of spit up I’ve seen that day or the way in which Little Bear clings to his ‘monk monk’ (pacifier with stuffed monkey attachment) adorably, oh, and here’s seventy pictures of him doing that, want to see?

It’s the fact that I’m thirty-three and I woke up two nights ago with a spasming back and could barely get out of bed which led to a full-on panic about how I was going to take care of my son when Big Radish went to work for twelve hours. Yes, a spasming back, at thirty-three. To be fair, my back has never been spectacular. I blame a lifetime of heavy backpacking and weird sleep positions, particularly once we got a dog who required me to get incredibly creative in leg placement so as to make sure he was comfortable… I’m not just a people pleaser, I’m a dog pleaser.

Anyway, the story here is that the morning before the back incident, I finally got out of the house with Little Bear and we went to a mamalates class. Yep. That’s exactly what it sounds like. Six mommas with six babies stretching and working out while their kiddos either slept, burbled, squeaked, or occasionally attached to a boob. It was great! I got to see a few friends including the momma who I talk to the most via text but rarely get to see. The class was taught by a friend as well, so overall it was a socially rewarding experience.

However… THIS IS WHY I CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS. I’m old. One low impact mamalates class and I wake up at three in the morning in horrible, wrenching, sob-inducing pain. My poor husband did everything he could think of. He massaged me, he got me Advil, he suggested I take a hot shower, he made sure Little Bear was ok (though that kid has been sleeping like a damn rock lately), and he even made a next day chiropractic appointment.

I was in so much pain that night I ended up taking half an oxy. I have a lot of oxy left from my recovery. Without really getting into my birth story, I’ll say that I got to ten centimeters, pushed once, and then had to get an emergency C-section. I had the enjoyable task of recovering from both. Needless to say, there were pain pills prescribed. I have a lot of feelings about oxy, which I may make a post about later on and go into more detail, but in the briefest of terms: I’m extremely cautious around it. Even taking half a pill gives me a level of anxiety. It was necessary so I could sleep, and the following day I took the other half so I could care for my son without the spasms completely incapacitating me.

I felt so ooooooold. I was hunched and grumbly, I shook my fist at some birds, I muttered about ‘kids these days’ while wiping off a shoulder full of spit up. I was a miserable, hobbling, little creature who couldn’t even use the front pack to lull Little Bear to sleep, and thus, put him in the stroller and rolled it around in circles on the hardwoods until I got dizzy.

We survived, clearly, and when I went upstairs that night and looked in the mirror I saw a tired, hunched, flustered looking sixty-year-old trapped in a thirty-three-year-old’s body. Ugh. This motherhood thing batters the body, and more than just with the birth. They don’t tell you that lugging a little lump of perfection around will throw everything out of whack. The chiropractor was lovely and I have more movement though I’m still a little sore. I do pose a question to all you mommas out there however…

How do you keep your body from completely giving out on you?
Do you ladies stretch?
Do you consciously work on posture throughout the day?
Are you all yoga instructors?

This is the closest I get to Downward Facing Dog.

How Did I Get Here..?

January 25, 2017

Little bear and I.

Despite the idyllic photo you see here, I never really planned on having children. I wasn’t actively against the notion but it just wasn’t on my radar for most of my life. I never considered myself the maternal sort, and though I always thought it might be fun to have a hypothetical child down the line, ‘the line’ had no foreseeable mile markers for that sort of thing. When people asked if I wanted a family when I started edging into my late twenties, I simply responded with: “We’ll see. As of right now, it’ll be one or none.”

When I turned twenty-eight I moved from Seattle to Portland and almost immediately met my future husband. My husband was meant to be a father. I knew that very, very early in the relationship. I also knew very, very early in the relationship that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. I’ll never forget the talk we had about kids. He’s always wanted two, and that number remains on the table as a possibility though I find the subject of siblings mildly terrifying (being an only child myself). The reservations I had about motherhood melted as we discussed our lives going forward. I knew this was a man who would be there for me and our children. He was the sort who would get up at night if I asked him to, or take the baby if I needed to sneak a nap or a shower.

All that being said, we started with a cliche. We got a dog. Now, my reservations about motherhood were reserved solely for babies of the human variety. Puppies? I knew since day one that I was going to be a dog mom. I took to it almost too enthusiastically. Before long, my beautiful little mutt not only took up all the memory on my phone with his photos, but he had his very own Instagram account with way, Way, Waaaaaaay more followers than me.

@marmotthemutt

I didn’t think it was possible that I could love anything more than I loved Marmot. And no, my husband doesn’t count, we’re talking strictly dependents here. But next thing you know, I’m pregnant. Thirty-eight weeks later here comes little bear. He was perfect, and he was scrunchy, and he had this one eye open thing that made him look like an angry little pirate. I felt high as a kite. Best drug in the world, the first time you see a tiny human that you made. YOU MADE IT INSIDE YOUR BODY.

I remember someone asking me when I was pregnant: “what did you do today?” to which, I said: “I made a nose. My body made a nose today. What did YOU do today?”

Anyway, the love for Marmot hasn’t diminished, but the love for little bear is incomparable to anything that came before it. I’m a mom, and as reluctant a phrase that would have been for me five years ago… it’s a privilege to say it now. I’m little bear’s mom, and that’s pretty damn awesome.

My little boo.

Getting Outside… The Trials and Tribulations

January 24, 2017

Little bear peeking.

Getting an infant into the outdoors is hard. There are quite a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, and outdoor-oriented blogs that would make you think otherwise. I mean, to be fair, this blog is particularly dedicated to getting kids out into nature so it may seem like I’m sabotaging my own mission statement but what can I say? I write about the reality of my parenting life, not just the Pinterest-worthy intentions.

My kiddo is a little over two months old and he’s unable to lift his head without neck support. This rather limits my options as far as throwing the kid in a pack and getting outside. This, coupled with the fact that I had a November baby and there’s literally a foot of snow (to be fair, that’s incredibly rare where we live) outside my house right now and you see the issue. I don’t care how good your gear is, when you’re a new mom the very act of leaving the house, regardless of adverse weather conditions, seems impossible.

A girlfriend calls and asks if you want to go for a short hike and you think… dear god yes. I would absolutely love that. There is nothing I want more. I’ve been cooped up in this house forever. I spend most of my time convincing other people that getting into nature should be an absolute priority, particularly if they have children. I’m no hypocrite! Thank god you called. But what I say is: “eh, let me get back to you.” Why? Because immediately I start compiling in my head all the things I need for said short hike:

• Front pack to put little bear in.

• Layers of clothing for little bear so he doesn’t get too cold but also doesn’t get too hot.

• Diapers

• Wipes

• Burp Cloth

• Some sort of cover for breastfeeding in the wilderness. How ridiculous does that sound, by the way? On second thought, I may just free boob it in the bushes.

• Binky

• Food

• Water bottle

• Appropriate attire for myself which also includes layers but not too many layers so little bear’s face isn’t smooshed against a scratchy jacket or zipper which means I might be incredibly cold but totally worth it for my baby’s comfort.

• My camera, because dammit if I’m not going to get some great pictures of my kid and my dog for this blog, my own enjoyment, and their respective Instagram accounts (I have a problem, I know this…)

• An actual pack to put all this stuff in which I then immediately ask my friend to wear since I can’t handle a front pack and a backpack and actually walk successfully.

• Some sort of rain-repellent cover for little bear just in case the weather turns, which, in January, is pretty much a given.

So, you see the problem. When I brainstormed this blog, I thought about it in terms of having a toddler. A tiny kid who could interact with nature without needing neck support. But, being an outdoorsy mom, I will quite literally go insane if I wait until my kid can walk to get into the wilderness. So guess what? I’m going to call my girl back and I’m going to say absolutely. I’m going to say, I hope you’re ready to sling a heavier pack on your back and I hope you’re cool with me free boobing it in the bushes. I’m going to make this work. I have gone on small outings around the neighborhood which seemed impossible at the time but clearly were not. I’m going to do this. I guarantee it’s going to be clunky and probably a total hassle and I may cry half way through but I’m going to get it done, and I’m going to take pictures of it, because that’s what moms do. We decide what is best for our babies and what is best for our mental health and we ‘mom up’ and get after it.

Wish me luck, and if you can recall the first time you took your babe into the woods, let me know what the outcome was because I have a feeling there will be a future blog post entitled: “That Time I Thought I Could Do A Little Hike And Ended Up Sopping Wet With A Poison-Oak-Covered-Baby.”

I made it!

Neighborhood Nature

January 19, 2017

Little bear and I getting outside in the hood.

As you have seen by the mission statement behind this blog, I believe in the power of wilderness wonderment. Deep nature is unlike anything else, and it has the power to transform children into rambunctious little explorers. I cannot recommend the introduction of unkempt places enough. However, that being said, as a new mom to a tiny babe, deep wilderness expeditions are a bit out of reach at the moment, and so I turn to the nature that is a decidedly tamer, more local, and equally rewarding.

I’m lucky to live in the Pacific Northwest, a place that prides itself on natural gems spread out like tiny enticements all over its cities. Portland is a particularly wealthy urban jungle when it comes to the magnitude and magnificence of its parks. Forest Park, which is one of the country’s largest urban parks, has a forty-mile loop system that allows for new and diverse hikes every time you visit. There’s the abundance of designated natural areas around town as well as the meticulously curated Chinese and Japanese Gardens. Even our neighborhoods boast a wealth of huge trees and parking-strips-turned-vegetable-patches.

Getting a kid outside is easier than you think, and although there’s nothing quite like waking up in a tent, there is something equally beautiful about bundling up yourself and your little tyke on a frosty weekend morning and heading out the front door to investigate the dew glittering on your lawn. I will have further posts about the specific activities involved in these adventures, as they apply to both wilderness and weekend wanders: the cultivation of a nature table, or a location-specific scavenger hunt.

Just remember, the most important thing, is allowing yourself and your kid a little breathing room. Just because you feel trapped in the city or even trapped in the house, doesn’t mean you can’t take a couple hours to get to a park, or even ten minutes to investigate the falling leaves in your backyard. Children interacting with the outdoors in any capacity is a gift to them and to you. Take a breath momma, and go indulge in the fresh air.

Little bear taking in the hood.

Exquisite Elaborations

January 19, 2017

Big radish snapping my picture because I made him.

The lull of Instagram… the woodsy children in their homespun clothes gathering acorns and holding them up in a beautiful room with moody wood and quaint, floral accents. I’m addicted to that perfected image of motherhood. I want to join the cult of filters and props that speak of a simple, rustic, and slow moving life. My own Instagram is an amateur’s attempt at cultivating that dreamlike feel of parenthood. Ladies, this may come as a surprise, but it’s all bullshit.

Alright, alright, to be fair, It may not be bullshit for 3% of the Instagram accounts that I follow. I choose to believe that a very small handful depict real life… sort of. These few seem like they actually do own a whole bunch of land that their children run on carefree, and they really did make those adorable little clothes, but for the rest of us shmucks, we’re simply displaying an ideal of a life that just doesn’t exist.

That doesn’t mean you should stop with your beautiful imagery and your Instagram march to maternal perfection. I love your pictures and your message, though I find the constant ‘inspirational quotes’ under impossibly perfect circumstances somewhat annoying, But I do enjoy gorgeous photos with little insights into your lovely lives. I just need to remind myself that because my feed is not as rustic and moody as yours, it doesn’t make me any less of a mother.

Now, now, I know you’re not making these beautiful Instagram feeds at me. I realize this is a lingering guilt that moms can feel when faced with observed fantasy vs. their reality. I understand that I could be seen as a casualty of the ‘mommy wars’ which I have loudly proclaimed to be complete and utter garbage created merely to make women feel bad about themselves as mothers when women already feel bad about themselves for a thousand other reasons.

I know all this, and yet, I still strive for the photo that will show the wonderment of little bear’s childhood. I want people to look at the pictures I post and think I’ve got this mom thing down and how lucky my kid must be with a mom like that. How beautiful that child is in his perfect onesie with his perfect background. This may come as a surprise to no one, but I am a people pleaser. Even people I’ve never met.

Just remember moms, even the most beautiful accounts hide perfectly ugly moments like the rest of us. For every picture those women are posting, there’s a hundred others they aren’t that show their kid having a breakdown, setting fire to those hand-knit woolen britches, or chasing the sheep with a stick instead of adorably feeding it apples.

That has to count for something, right?

Oh, and just so you don’t think I’m cultivating an honest Instagram image either, that picture I took of little bear with the bonsai on my Instagram? Directly after I snapped that photo he slid sideways and that tiny sword fern went right into his eyeball. His eyeball was fine. He was not fine. There was much shrieking, and much holding him and feeling like the worst mom in the entire world. I swore off Instagram right then and there until after he was his happy, cooing self again (roughly twenty seconds later) and I took a look at the photo and thought it was so mind-blowingly adorable that it would be a disservice not to share it with my followers.

It’s a sickness! But damn, if it ain’t a fun one.

I can’t help it.