motherhood Archives - pnw mountain mommy

Try Some Self Care, They Said

April 16, 2020

I woke up with a vision.

It was sunny, it seemed soft and inviting. Tulips were everywhere, our trees were parading their fresh green leaves around like it was Paris fashion week.

I. Was. Feeling. It.

So I made a grand pronouncement to my family:

“I will be taking my coffee on the deck.”

Everyone was impressed. They didn’t say they were impressed, but I could tell by how they reacted: Ben smiled with a mixture of hope and pity while he grabbed his coffee to go and headed to work. The Cub wailed about how he didn’t want to eat his oatmeal while simultaneously eating his oatmeal, and he couldn’t POSSIBLY go outside with me until he had eaten all of my eggs. The Bay Leaf smiled a big gummy smile and immediately had a blow out.

I was off to a great start.

Once the Cub had eaten all his oatmeal and his own eggs, and then eaten mine, he seemed open to the idea. Once the Bay Leaf had been changed, for the third time this morning, she also seemed game.

With my coffee still lukewarm, I struck out for the sun-washed wooden mecca of my perfect morning. It took three trips. First trip: the Bay Leaf’s baby quilt (handmade by my best friend Eryka who runs an amazing little etsy store which is currently dedicated to making masks instead of quilts). Second trip: My coffee mug and toys for continual baby distraction. Third trip: The Cub’s bike, and consequently, the Cub.

In my vision I sat on the handmade little quilt with my sweet bitty Bay Leaf. She would look up at me with frequent love and adoration, but would mostly just babble at her toys. In my vision the Cub jumped his bike off the little step on our deck and rode around in the sun, occasionally stopping to give me a hug and a kiss and tell me what an amazing mother and best friend I was. He’d offer to freshen my coffee, maybe bake me a scone. I would look out and see the top of Mt. Hood silhouetted in the morning light while I sipped my coffee and smelled all the cherry tree smells.

So, these things didn’t happen.

My coffee got steadily colder as I tried to keep the Cub from running over his baby sister. I waged a losing campaign to keep the Bay Leaf focused on her toys instead of trying to stuff pine needles in her mouth. I had to get up and wrangle Marmot who was barking at the neighbors (who, I’m pretty sure are convinced, I keep a rabid dog for fun).

Despite the often harrowing attempts at keeping the children from self-inflicted injury and choking, I did manage to sit in the sun for a bit. I got to watch the Cub scoot around on his bike and he asked me to take so many slow-mo videos of him my phone died. The Bay Leaf only managed to eat like… three pine needles and possibly an ant. Marmot, despite the ferocity of his bark and the fluffiness of his hackles, didn’t jump any gates and did get in a sun soak.

And I, in great swaths of seconds, managed to look at Mt. Hood and drink my coffee before tearing off after the toddler.

Was it my vision? I mean… no. But, it was nice. I did it. And I even got a kid-imposed workout in there too. Turns out my mom reflexes are still in tip-top shape. Ain’t nobody flying down a flight of wooden stairs on my watch.

Sending love from on top of the hill,

Easter. Nailed It.

April 11, 2020

I got a text last night at 9:30 from the Easter Bunny.

She wanted me to know that there were eggs out front. She had tucked a couple in some tulips, a few behind the daffodils, three near the cedar tree. She wanted me to know where they were because she knew I wasn’t an ‘Easter mom’. I have yet to dye an egg or purchase chocolate. I haven’t made a goodie basket or busted out the pastels. I haven’t let my toddler do any holiday-related crafts. What even is a holiday-related craft?

You see why the Easter Bunny had to step in.

Luckily, I’m on extremely good terms with the Easter Bunny. We’ve been friends for a year now, and she’s willing to throw me a cadbury bone during this childhood benchmark. All she asks in return is I occasionally grab an item at the grocery store if we’re going, or send Ben over for a handyman project from time to time.

We live across the street from her.

Did I not mention that? Her name is Rebecca. She’s lovely.

So thanks to Rebecca and her generous bunny ways, we had a successful egg hunt this morning and the Cub was delighted and had many questions about why the “Beaster Bunny” wouldn’t stick around after leaving all these eggs. The best I could come up with was: “The Beaster Bunny has to head home. She’s tired! She’s healing from a foot surgery! She needs to put up her paws and enjoy a cup of coffee. She’s earned it. She loves you and can’t wait to bring you more eggs next year.”

It looked like that explanation wasn’t going to cut it, but then he realized that all the eggs were full of chocolate.

So, there you go. Easter. Nailed it.

Sending love from on top of the hill,

Lukewarm Equilibrium

April 9, 2020

Today I am perched at the end of my writing chair. I’m wondering why the keys on my laptop are SO INCREDIBLY LOUD and how I didn’t notice that before. My back is hunched and also stretched slightly to one side, in an attempt to maintain front-heavy equilibrium. Why am I so uncomfortable, you ask? Won’t that hamper the writing process, you ask?

Yep. It’s extremely counter productive.

But it’s also the only way I’m keeping this baby asleep.

She refused to nap in her crib. She did this new thing while nursing, I’ll refer to it as: ‘The Snapping Turtle’ and after my continual surprised gasps, apparently couldn’t get comfortable. Obviously my fault. How dare I express verbal discomfort. Nipples are for snapping, mom. I decree it.

So decreed, I find myself with a napping baby in the sling. I’ve dedicated this first nap of the day to creativity and so, even in this less-than-ideal turn of events, I’m writing. I’m even drinking tea! Not hot tea, of course. Can’t chance a spill. So, you know, lukewarm tea. It’s good though. As a mom, most of the things I drink are lukewarm. Rarely are hot beverages drank hot or cold beverages drank cold. Lukewarm is the state of my beverages and somehow the state of my being.

It’s beautiful outside again today. These seventy degree days make shelter-in-place a lot more fun. Being in the sun helps everything. Of course, it also starts the internal simmer. Days like this I want to be in the mountains. I want to feel my shoes on dirt trails and the smell of growing things.

Lucky for us, we moved into our dream house a year ago and the smell of growing things is everywhere. The landscape here is unreal. The cherry trees, the dozens and dozens of giant tulips and carpets of bluebells. Even trilliums! We have bunches of trilliums here! I’ve never seen a trillium domesticated, so having some of my very own is about as magical as it gets.

The cherry blossoms are starting to disappear, replaced with new green leaves. There are less petals to sweep up, though they continue to form little drifts along our walkway like some delicate pink-stained snow. Spring is beautiful on top of the hill, with its birdsong and big trees and lush gardens.

Soon we’ll be back out in the yard, the Cub will be riding his bike all over the makeshift ramps that Ben built, and Bay will be in her sling, peeking out at the world, soaking in some Springtime scents and sights. I’ll be drinking lukewarm tea or maybe a second cup of lukewarm coffee. It’ll be wonderful, and now that we’re observing shelter-in-place, there won’t be nearly as many people out to see me weirdly hunched over and leaning to one side while I carefully shuffle around trying to maintain baby sling buoyancy.

Sending love from on top of the hill,

A Scoop of Decaf

April 8, 2020

I recently learned an approach to writing that was new to me. My instructor told me that when I sit down to write, I should empty my head. Seems simple, right? It’s not. It’s not because I have a thousand ideas every day. It’s not because I have things that happen in my life and I think: I have GOT to write about that. Now THAT is something people will love.

To be fair, sometimes I do write out all the things in my head, but those pieces rarely make it onto the blog. A lot of those things are just needing to be said, to get them out of my head, into the universe, unburdening me of their attention seeking.

When I sit down to write now, I release the pressure of expectation and I sit at my laptop, looking out at my cherry tree. I light a pile of christmas lights that sit tangled and pretty to one side of my desk. I put on some writing music (typically a wordless film score) and I sit. I sit and I start typing. A lot of times it starts with the way the light is filtering through the petals or the smell of my coffee. I start there and see where it takes me. Sometimes it doesn’t take me anywhere of profound interest, but it always takes me somewhere I enjoy being. I just let myself see what comes.

This morning I feel jittery. I typically try to mix in a little decaf with my morning brew so it doesn’t get me too wound up. I’m sensitive to coffee. I love it, and with two little kids I need it, but it can make me rapid and distracted. I guess there wasn’t enough decaf this morning, or maybe I didn’t eat enough eggs with toast. The great mystery of April 8th. I’m sure this is riveting…

The jitters are not just in my coffee, the jitters are in the air. I see the jitters in neighbors when we cross the street to avoid being too close. I see the jitters in the way we check the media, eyes half-lidded, as if that might shield us from the worst of the statistics while still giving us the knowledge we need to stay connected.

Rapid heart beats, distraction, an excess of unproductive energy. This is the state of our world, and of our quarantine. I feel it when I miss my parents and my friends. I feel it when I see the refund from the airbnb that was supposed to be our home base for a hike-filled girls trip in Sedona.

It’s not just the coffee…

As we move forward in this new temporary normal, some things begin to fall into place: This constant vigilance is tempered with the routine of the moment. We get up, we eat breakfast, we play with toy bikes, we play in the yard, we watch shows, we go through our day. Activities, rest, snacks, tantrums, repeat. All very humdrum, all very normal.

So that’s our scoop of decaf.

As we continue to move through the day and play and clean and laugh, we help take the edge off. It’s not a large space, our house and our yard. But, when you’re three and seven months, there’s plenty to touch and pick and prod and bike over. As this pandemic stretches on, and as we continue to shelter-in-place, a tempered brew is being poured. It tastes the same, smells the same, exists in the same universe. But it slows me down instead of winds me up.

Sending Love from on top of the hill,

Sleep, Sleep, Selected Poems

April 7, 2020

I have a stack of books next to me. Two different sleep training methods and one collection of Mary Oliver poems. The two sleep training books are out because it’s time to sleep train Bay.

There are as many approaches to sleep training as there are opinions about it. To be fair, we’ve already tried to sleep train the Bay Leaf, but it was traumatic. She cried, and choke-cried, and banshee screamed for six hours even with our many checks and shushes and holds. And that was using the gentlest method I found among our archives… So, we’ve been dragging our feet picking it back up again.

It didn’t help having a global pandemic sweep through. Suddenly things felt more fragile, more temporary. I wanted to give my children everything—love, attention, closeness, security, physical availability. The instinctual reaction to the unknown is to pull inward, grab those closest to me, and refuse to let go until the danger has passed.

The danger has not passed. The danger may not pass for months. It’s here and it’s dictating our current existence. So, we’ve continued to press our children close.

But, there’s something that scratches at the back of my mind. On mornings where I feel thin, or evenings where I feel brittle, the scratch turns its nagging drags into long, deep cuts. This painful reminder is for physical space. With everything going on in the world, the children and I are spending most of our days in the house or on the patio. We are all smooshed together while the pandemic plays out and most days it’s a relief. Having us all be together and safe and healthy and cared for, fills me with profound gratitude.

Of course, I worry about Ben, out in the world, possibly exposed to the virus. But, we know he’s out there doing what he needs to do to support our family in this era of crippled restaurants. He’s doing everything he can to keep the businesses going and keep us as financially stable as we can be.

When he’s home, the Cub and him are riding bikes together, playing on the ramps he built, generally soaking in one another’s company. The Bay Leaf spends time with her dad but eventually is only mollified by mom.

She is very attached to me.

I mean that in an emotional and physical way.

She is attached to me unlike the Cub ever was. This is new territory.

Particularly at night, she cannot abide Ben. It can only be me. She doesn’t transfer, she only wants the warm comfort of mom curled around her pudgy little body. Protecting her little heart and soft skin. And I love her babyness, her sweet puffs of breath, her search for my breast and my warmth. I love having her with me because I know this is the end of our babies. And I was never needed in this way with the Cub. It makes me feel special and necessary.

But the scratch-scratch of self-preservation continues. I need to have some physical autonomy for extended sanity in a world that is keeping us all home and smooshed. We need to sleep train Bay so that Ben and I can spend time with each other in the evenings. We need to sleep train Bay so I can write. If we can get her sleeping at night, naps might be longer and a writing practice can be carved out for more than twenty minutes at a time.

Speaking of twenty minutes, we’re at minute thirty-two and so you can see I’ve got a tag-a-long.

So, I’ll look at these books, we’ll try again. It’ll be hard and awful, but it’ll be necessary for all of us. I’m not looking forward to it, but I know it’s the best thing we can do for her, for me, for all of us.

Oh, and I included the Mary Oliver because sleep training is the fucking worst and she is the fucking best, so… a little poetry helps the pill go down.

Sending love from on top of the hill,

Writing Instead of Eating

April 6, 2020

It has been a year since I’ve written in this space.

A lot of things happen in a year.

Time, for one thing, has disintegrated into the stratosphere. Now there are two children instead of one. Two children who require constant observation. Except for now, right now, the baby is asleep and the toddler has been given my phone to play games for the duration of Bay’s nap. The typical nap duration for this particular baby is about twenty minutes on a good day, so, this writing will be short.

I’m writing instead of eating. I haven’t eaten anything yet today. I did have coffee (the most important part of my morning) and I did feed both of my children. Somehow, my own basic human needs got pushed to the side. I’m not hungry first thing in the morning because I’m busy. Both Ben and I are busy. He’s up with the Cub, I’m up with the Bay Leaf. Whichever one of us is up first makes oatmeal with blueberries for the toddler and coffee for us. Somewhere in the middle of that there’s changing diapers and the cub’s favorite show and feeding Marmot and making sure Marmot has his meds and then Ben has to head to work and here we go!

So, I’m writing instead of eating. I’ll eat when the baby wakes up. I’ll make myself something quick and easy for lunch while simultaneously spreading peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat for the Cub. I’ll dish up some veggie/fruit puree for the Bay Leaf to smear all over herself. That will be lunch. It will be a chaotic affair with laughter and messes and push back and impromptu dance parties. It will be, another lunch in quarantine.

I’m writing instead of eating because I haven’t written in a few weeks. I took a class, a writing class, with a bunch of very talented writers online for a few months. It was amazing. I wrote every single day. I wrote in ways I had never written before. One thing I learned was to come to my writing with nothing on my mind. Start typing whatever pops up and then go with it, follow it through the thickets and into the dark corners or the open spaces where the light pours through. Go in and keep burrowing until you tell your truth, whether it be mundane or earth shattering.

So, I’m doing that. I’m sitting here, listening to my stomach growl and writing my truth. Writing is one of my basic needs, and though it isn’t feeding my stomach, it is feeding my soul; trite but true. I’m going to let my son look at my phone for twenty minutes so that I can feed my soul. I’m sure a few parenting blogs out there would be scandalized.

Twenty minutes is not enough time to get into the vastness of the current climate. This shelter in place, this pandemic, this unease. There’s a heap of anxiety surrounding our lack of information. I have a sneaking suspicion that all of us will know people infected with this virus (I know two, and I may have been three), we may even know people who die. This is a time that will define a generation.

But there are bright moments. There are little corners I can sweep up and let the light in. As tiring as it is to have no break from my kids, I love my kids. Being together has been an eye opener on how much fun we have as a family. It’s not perfect. There’s screen time guys, and sometimes, a lot of it. But there’s also building little bmx tracks for toy bikes, there’s singing songs and making mac n cheese. There’s bouncing babies who giggle and running toddlers who can twirl and do a two-step.

I have been stepping up in a way I didn’t realize I could, until I had to. I’m crushing this constant parenting expectation without escape. I thought a week in I would be muttering to myself and eyeing my beer fridge (we have a beverage fridge full of beer, because, pandemic priorities) by nine a.m. Turns out? By nine a.m. I am elbow-deep in cardboard ramps and makeshift foam pits. By nine-thirty I’ve done two silly dance contests and paparazzi-ed my baby.

It’s not that bad, in fact… it’s pretty good.

I’m worried about my loved ones, may parents, my extended family.

But, with what we’ve been given? I’m pretty content in this moment, sitting at this computer, not eating, but typing. Giving myself the space for creative nourishment.

That being said, twenty minutes are up.

Time to grab a baby, feed my stomach, my toddler, and maybe try to wash a dish.

Sending love from on top of the hill,

A Baby Goes Camping for the First Time*

November 3, 2017

Camping with a baby is not easy. There’s a lot of calculated risk in deciding to bring your little one away from his home, his routine, his sleeping arrangement…

As a couple of parents attempting to navigate our way through the dicey, and frankly unpleasant sea of sleep training, we were not immune to the possible horrors we might be facing: Our tiny, otherwise happy infant could decide that the time to feel his first twinge of teething pain was at 4:00 a.m. He could be inconsolable and one of us would end up walking in the woods with a head lamp trying to keep Little Bear asleep, keep enough distance between us and the campground to maintain the peace, and generally keep ourselves from getting eaten by a cougar.

We also had a limited supply of diapers (not that I wouldn’t jerry rig some diapers out of maple leaves and sap) and I had a sneaking suspicion that someone in that campground was a psychopath and was probably plotting to steal my baby. I told Big Radish that the single guy the next campsite over was clearly a homicidal murderer. My husband pointed out that the “homicidal murderer” had a wife and toddler who were currently out of sight.

Despite this potential dread, or perhaps, despite my internal dialogue of potential dread, we not only survived camping, we owned camping.

I am a firm believer that if something is important to you as a person and as a parent, it is paramount that you share it with your child. You want your kid to know you, right? Then take them where you want to be, let them see what you’re passionate about, teach them what makes their parents happy. You know what makes me happy? Being outside.

I’m a backpacker by upbringing, and car camping has never held much appeal for me. I prefer to be away from people so I can hear the birds, smell the fresh air, and soak in some well-earned solitude. However, Big Radish is an experienced car camper and has shown me how fun and convenient if can be. If you’re going to car camp, Big Radish is the man you want to car camp with. Marrying a chef has a lot of perks, and one of them is what we eat while camping; just scratching the surface includes duck, grilled peaches, aged balsamic, and char-dusted grilled corn.

No watery, limp hot dogs for us! I assume that’s what most people eat when car camping… and no judgements. When backpacking, you end up eating freeze-dried and rehydrated mushy concoctions that all generally taste like teriyaki slop. Though, when you’ve been hiking up a mountain all day with a huge pack on your back, teriyaki slop is delicious.

We arrived to our campsite in the early evening, having to leave after Big Radish got off work. By the time we got there, we were scrambling to put up the tent, build a fire, get dinner going, and put Little Bear to bed. While I nursed, and changed the baby, Big Radish started coaxing a bed of coals into existence and pulled out the cast iron. We wouldn’t be able to eat until after Little Bear went to bed (assuming he would) so we pulled out the aluminum foil to ensure if the food got done before the baby went down, we wouldn’t be eating cold meat.

Sleep training is all about putting your baby down ‘sleepy but awake’ in an effort to teach them how to soothe themselves to sleep. When you’re camping, may I suggest, you change that particular mantra to ‘nurse them into a drunken coma’. Don’t beat yourself up, you’re doing what you have to do and the rest of the campground will thank you. Every single time Little Bear woke up; my boob went straight into his mouth until he passed back out again.

It’s survival. And I’m going to be upfront about this, parents. You are not going to have restful nights. Between a dog laying on top of our legs, a baby wedged in my sleeping bag, and two adults trying to share a confined space… well… we weren’t exactly communing comfortably with nature.

But! In the time between putting Little Bear to sleep in the tent and the time we went to bed, Big Radish and I got some awesome alone time snacking on steak and watching the fire while we sipped some wine. I’m not going to pretend that one of us wasn’t checking on the baby every six minutes to make sure he hadn’t somehow rolled himself into a corner and smooshed his airways closed. Despite the new parent fears, we all made it through the night with copious nursing and a lot of awkward “sleeping” positions.

It can be done, parents! It can! At any age, really. It just depends on your willingness to go with the flow and know that things won’t always go according to plan. We managed a six-mile hike and two full nights in the tent with a seven-month-old. Was it easy? Not always. Was it fun? Hell yes. Would I recommend it? Absolutely!

You’re not really sleeping now anyway, right?

*I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but general parenthood got in the way. We were camping in June of 2017. Although most of what I wrote can be applied to any camping experience, November requires a lot more forethought about weather and warmth. You can camp whenever you like, just remember that preparation is key. Make sure you have the full measure of what fall camping is like, particularly in the Pacific Northwest where November can become an extremely snowy month in the mountains.

A Laundry List of Little Things

October 7, 2017

There are things I used to take for granted. Things, that, were you to tell me would become beacons of hope, I would worry about my quality of life.

You know.

You know exactly what I’m talking about.

Here’s the compendium of motherhood’s tiny triumphs:

Coffee

Duh. We can all agree (or a lot of us anyway) that coffee is our new parental life blood and to be separated from our morning mug is to court psychosis and possible bodily injury to loved ones when they ask simple questions like: “could you grab <insert anything here> if you’re going upstairs?” or perhaps: “Good morning!”

A Shower

For some reason, I was under the impression that once my baby hit six months, I’d be taking a shower every morning like clockwork. In my sleepless, postpartum blur, I told myself that once my kid was half-way to a year, I’d be living that good smelling, non-greasy life. That… never happened. Sure, I can shower when he naps. He naps two-three times a day but the naps can be anywhere from 25-75 minutes and so jumping in the shower is risky. I’ve all but given up on shaving my legs or blow drying my hair. Also, those naps are precious. Typically, I have to choose between cleanliness or productivity. I could wash the yogurt out of my hair and the drool off my extremities, OR I could wash the dishes, OR I could try and meet a writing deadline. Typically, overwhelmed with choice and not sure which is the most productive, I end up on the couch eating leftover pasta and watching Project Runway.

A Beer

I appreciated beer before I was a mom, but back then a beer was a spontaneous, social thing. Now, the moment that kid is down for the night, I shuffle to the fridge and pull out a beer and take a deep breath while I pop the cap. When I tell you I enjoy that beer? I mean, next level enjoyment. That beer represents a very real distinction between baby time and personal time. I have a few hours between when Little Bear goes to sleep and when I go to sleep, and in those hours I tidy, I write, a lot of times I let my brain slowly drip out my ears while I futz around on Instagram. It’s my time, and my time is greatly improved with a hoppy little sidekick.

A Hobby

Remember that? It was something you did outside of work and family time? Like, a little project you did to pass the time. Don’t laugh. We actually used to have those. I recently decided to try picking that up again. Botanical drawing is something I find lovely and so beyond my capabilities. I can’t draw, at all, but that makes it more fun because I’m starting from the bottom with no illusions that I will actually have the time to get even remotely proficient until I’m sixty and my kids are out of my house. I started it three weeks ago… I think I’ve maybe sketched a dozen petals. In three weeks.

Reading

I used to be a founding member of a book club. I was a literature major. I prided myself on my ability to read every day and knock off books weekly. I realize that sounds like bragging, and I probably did brag about it back then. Yeah. Back then. Now if I’m lucky I can manage to read two pages in bed before my forehead is sandwiched between the text and drool is slowly being absorbed into the pages.

Sleep

I thought I understood my relationship to sleep. I thought a good night was getting eight uninterrupted hours. Now, if I get three hours in a row I feel like an absolute champion. If for some unknown reason my baby decides to sleep longer than that, I have to stop myself from signing up for an iron man I feel so good. The flip side to this, of course, is anytime my baby wakes up before three hours I turn into a sobbing shell of a person who can only rock back and forth while clutching a coffee mug and mumbling incoherently at the wall.

Comfy Clothes

Notice I didn’t say actual clothes. Comfy clothes are a completely different category and, I’ve decided, far more satisfying than traditional clothing. Why wear something with a button and a zipper when you could wear something with an elastic waistband made from angora rabbits, or spun clouds, or llama tummy fur. They’re not ‘pajamas’ because that implies you only wear them to bed. This is all-day baby battle gear. Since you’ll be covered in spit up, pee, splattered puree, and other unknown items, it’s really the only thing that makes sense. You’ll be gross, but you’ll be comfortable.

Partner Small Kindnesses

Your significant other lets you sleep in. Your significant other picks up some food on the way home for dinner. Your significant other makes breakfast. Your significant other tells you you’re looking nice that day. Any of these things before a baby would be gently appreciated. After a baby your significant other is a saint who has never been sexier than when they’re changing a diaper so you can drink your coffee while it’s still hot.

Free Time

I remember this being a fun, relaxed time, where I would fill it with whatever struck my fancy. Now when I’m given a few hours to myself I have no idea what to do. A family member offers to watch the baby for a bit and sets you free to… what? It’s maddening. I spend the first twenty minutes of freedom debating what to do and secretly thinking I should be taking this time to sweep the living room so my baby stops shoving dust bunnies in his mouth. Eventually I’ll settle on something but by the time I get comfy, I’m usually panicked I need to get back and don’t really immerse myself in the freedom. Freedom is now, apparently, terrifying.

Adult Conversation

I still haven’t figured out how to do that. Most of the time when I meet people without children, I stare blankly into their eyes and try to come up with some sort of topic that doesn’t involve weaning or nap schedules. Most of the time I am unsuccessful and watch as their eyes glaze over and they politely begin inching away.

It’s the little things… or maybe the lack of them. Onward and upward, parents. Just take it one, sleepless, lukewarm cup of coffee at a time.

Acknowledgement, it’s a thing.

April 23, 2017

There is something inherently isolating about the first time you become a mother. In the cosmic sense, we’re all one, motherhood blossoms a beautiful connection to your baby, you are part of the bigger maternal narrative… yadda, yadda. I mean, not like, dismissive yadda yadda because that’s actually all pretty cool, but not the point I’m trying to make here.

Isolation, let us all be clear, is not loneliness. I do not feel alone. I have a strong community around me that includes a supportive family, husband, motherhood tribe, and friends. However, even with all of that support, the isolation of motherhood is present and constant and I’ve found it takes a great deal of effort to connect with other moms. Trying to acknowledge this experience can often times feel very singular and separated.

Little Bear squawks in my ear and I explain how my entire life has become about our baby’s sleep schedule and how the four-month regression can just STOP IT RIGHT NOW before I go out for milk and never come back. Kidding, kidding… It clearly would be beer. I’d go out for beer.

The thing about a baby and his sleep schedule when it goes ass-over-tea-kettle is that it completely consumes your life. Motherhood itself completely changes your life in every conceivable way, but there’s something about the sleep… I literally spend my day looking at the clock and planning out the time I’m going to begin the process of putting Little Bear down for his next nap. Currently? My kid has six naps a day because he naps like a jerk and doesn’t sleep longer than thirty minutes so a nap every hour and a half to two hours is the only way I can seem to get enough sleep in him. My day has become a series of repetitions that involve trying to get him to fall asleep inside my house, because god forbid I go outside, where I can’t control the environment and a motorcycle wakes him up or a particularly high curb jostles him and one planned nap is out the window.

It got to a breaking point this past week where I felt absolutely helpless and incredibly depressed about my inability to coax him to sleep and my fear of messing up this tentative nap schedule I’d created. Big Radish had to explain that staying cooped up in the house all day, every day, so I could make sure Little Bear had six naps, wasn’t worth it. He also mentioned that it clearly wasn’t really doing anything since six naps seemed to have no influence on how much he was sleeping at night, which, just so you guys know, was and is, bupkis.

Sleep schedules and personal sleep deprivation aren’t the only thing that can create isolation, just general day-to-day activities can contribute to the experience. Before I had a baby, running errands would take twenty minutes if they were quick and close by. Now, if I get up the gumption to actually attempt them, it takes an hour just to get out the door between feeding, changing, packing the diaper bag, grabbing the car seat, and making sure I’m actually wearing pants.

I’m not the only one who feels this overwhelmed and isolated. Hell, just within my circle of mom friends (those who are new and those who are going through it for the second or third time) it’s a common topic of conversation. It’s nearly impossible not to be isolated when the majority of your time is spent keeping a tiny person alive and trying to make sure they get enough sleep. The only people I talk to on a regular basis (besides my hubby) are other moms through text messages, and most of the time it’s while holding my breath hoping my fingers tapping the phone wont wake my sleeping baby. I mean, texting is silent, but… things become irrational around the waking of your kid.

For example, the mailman is now my mortal enemy. Not because I have anything against him, but my dog does not like him, and if my dog barks, the nap is over. Ipso facto, the mailman and I have beef.

Even with all the support, there are some days I wish I could hear “you’re doing a good job” over and over again because saying it to myself just isn’t enough. A lot of times when I’m at home with my baby and I’m obsessed with naps and the feeding schedule it can just feel like no one really cares how hard it is. Going from a job in the public sphere to a job in the private sphere is extremely abrupt. When you work in the service industry you have a constant stream of feedback letting you know your work is appreciated. The dedication I had to my profession was reflected in monetary and audible compliments. People could see the hard work, the polish, the experience. When you move from a high-profile position to one that is even more important in some ways, the job of being a mom, the people who see your dedication dwindles down to your immediate family, and regularly the only people who watch me day in and day out are my baby and my dog, and they’re hardly tipping me based on performance.

I feel guilty that I want recognition for this job. My husband works long, long hours. He is basically the sole provider of income for our family which puts a lot of pressure on him. He currently just opened a restaurant and is still the head chef and partial owner of another. Yet, he is the picture of stoicism. The man doesn’t complain; he takes on all the hard work and gets it done. I… want to be like that. I sometimes feel like I hold onto hard, trying days, so I can tell Big Radish about them because if I don’t explain or, let’s be honest, whine, about how hard my days are then it’s like they never happened. No one else sees me, no one else will ever know how hard my days can be because no one is around to bare witness. I feel like if I’m stoic then it’s like saying this is an easy job, and, it’s not!

Little Bear is perfect. He’s adorable, he loves to smile, his laugh melts me, the way he lights up when he hears my voice… I mean, there’s nothing better. So, when I’m exhausted from no sleep and I feel like some days are just so hard, too hard, it makes me feel like something is wrong with me. I know I’m a good mom and I try so hard, but sometimes it just never feels like enough, and all the triumphs and tragedies of motherhood happen behind closed doors where no one seems to notice or particularly care that you’re covered in spit up and it has taken an hour to get him down for yet another nap, which, will only be thirty minutes.

I’ll leave you with this:

Feeling like you want acknowledgement is not only a real emotion, it’s a normal one. When your whole life goes topsy-turvy because suddenly your job is no longer primarily outside the house (and even if it is), it’s ok to feel like this is really hard. Sometimes you just need to say THIS IS REALLY HARD, or type it in a desperate text message to another mom friend (my friend Katie tends to get these texts like three times a day), because you’re exhausted. Guess what, you’re probably getting some stuff wrong, I know I am, but at least we’re all trying and we love our babies. Those two things, more than anything else, will get us through this.

Also, beer.

How to Snowshoe with a Baby

March 13, 2017

Getting outside, as I’ve said before, can be difficult. Getting outside in the winter, comes with its own unique set of additional challenges, not the least of which involve clothes for you, clothes for your baby, a diaper bag with even more clothes for your baby, a 4-wheel drive, copious amounts of coffee, and a will to persevere, dammit.

As a family, we’re the snow-loving sort. I have a whole slew of things I envision doing with kiddo when he’s a bit older. I daydream about hot coco in the lodge after a long day of sledding, or the awesome runs we’ll ski. There will be mittens and forts and cross-country skiing and catching snowflakes on our tongues… Of course, our kid is only four months old. He has just mastered the art of rolling over, so the whole skiing and sledding thing is a ways down the road. There is a snow sport that does lend itself to babies, however. It’s decidedly slow-paced, but I find it very approachable with an infant.

You guessed it: Snowshoeing!

So how did my husband and I accomplish this feat? Well. Here’s the list of things we brought with us on our journey up the mountain:

Warm clothing for us.
Pack for water bottle, snacks, extra layers, and the contents of the diaper bag.
Patagonia onesie (with built in mittens) to put over the onesie Little Bear was already wearing, plus a hat.
Snow shoes.
Leash and bags for our pup (because he loves a snow day as much as the rest of us).
Full tank of gas, 4-wheel drive Subaru with tires in good condition.

It’s not as straight forward, of course. There’s always nuance when it comes to wrangling a baby outside the home. Namely, momma, be prepared to breastfeed in the car right before you go for a hike if your babe is still on the boob and you’re not toting around a bottle (formula or otherwise). If you are toting around a bottle, just remember you’re heading into the snowy expanse and things get cold. If you don’t have a fussy eater, you don’t have anything to worry about. If you do… well… perseverance, dammit! As far as myself, I simply fed him in the car before we headed out on our snowshoe.

Now, just so we’re clear, I am not being paid to advertise for Patagonia or Ergo, but, I want to be honest with all you outdoor enthusiast mommas, and tell you the real deal about what I use and why. The Patagonia onesie is awesome and fuzzy and not cheap. Luckily, we got ours as a gift, but I’ll tell you what, I would have bought it, regardless of the cost. It’s perfect for winter weather. Though not waterproof, this fuzzy little encapsulation keeps hands and feet covered as well as offering undeniable insulation. Alright, so, say it’s snowing, or, knowing where we live, say it’s drizzling over the beautiful white landscape. Well! The Ergo is everything. It comes with a little hood, it fully covers the back of the baby, and though tiny feet poke out (at least Little Bear’s tiny paws are always dangling down), it is still a top-notch protector. Plus, the Ergo is great for ease of transportation. Just throw the little one in there and the nice walking motion and warm belly means you’ve got a sleeping baby in next to no time*.

Things to keep in mind? There are elements. As in, you’re on a mountain, in the snow. This is not rocket science. Make sure you have provisions in case the weather turns horrible. Have water for yourself, follow the trail maps and don’t go wandering off the designated path unless you are extremely familiar with the area and brought your compass. I cannot stress this enough. When there’s snow, a lot of landmarks you may be used to in the summer WILL NOT BE VISIBLE. It is extremely easy to get lost in the winter if you head away from the main track. Everything begins to look the same in a snowy forest.

We brought a changing pad, because, my husband informed me that he would have no problem changing Little Bear on a snowy hill, which… you know… go for it; that being said, if you’re us, and you’ve got an infant, the chance of you being on a hike for longer than a couple hours is unlikely. In that time frame a diaper change won’t be necessary… one can hope. Especially, if, like us, you give him a quick change in the car before you begin.

That being said, we still brought the pad and the diapers and the whole new outfit because if there’s one thing you learn as new parents, it’s that you cannot be over prepared. Or, well, maybe you can… because that backpack definitely could have been lighter, but, I mentioned we’re new parents, right?

So, my advice to you? Keep it to two hours maximum, for the sake of your back (if you’re the one with the ergo), feed the kid and change him right before you hit the trail, follow the signs, bring extra layers, and have fun. Seriously, stop worrying about your (hopefully) sleeping infant and start looking around at the gorgeous landscape. And, if you’re us, wake up your sleeping infant so you can take an ungodly number of photos and feel smug when you share it on social media later.

* I only have the one baby and know nothing about other babies so what works for Little Bear may not work for other babies. Sorry if it doesn’t, because you deserve something that works. You’re doing a great job, though! Go get yourself a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate.

We Kept a Baby Alive for Three Whole Months!

February 6, 2017

See? Alive! That’s right! Sooooo alive!

We did it! We kept a baby alive for three whole months! And not only that, he seems to be doing quite well. I’m not going to pretend like it was all a perfectly natural, no hiccup experience. Not to say it hasn’t become second nature, because it has. My ‘new normal’ is getting very used to interrupted sleep, greasy hair, a general sheen of spit up on myself, my house, my husband, and my dog. However, mild sloppiness aside, you guys, we kept my baby alive for three whole months!

When we brought him home I was quite open about the fact that I was not qualified to have a newborn. I am an only child who grew up without knowing any children younger than me. I didn’t hold my first baby until I was twenty-eight, and the whole time I was convinced I was going to drop/break/scar him for life. But here I was, after an almost forty-eight-hour labor, followed by an emergency C-section. They handed me a bundled up Little Bear, I slid into the wheelchair, and Big Radish rolled me to the car.

Little Bear leaves the hospital.

The subsequent month was challenging… to put it mildly. Sleep disruption turns me, apparently, into a monster. Big Radish had to put up with a lot of snarky, half-asleep comments and grumbling whimpers. To his credit, the man was and has been an absolute rock. Without him I don’t even know how I would have made it through the beginning stages of this crazy journey. Breastfeeding hurt so much. For the first few days I wasn’t producing enough, and for the first week and a half I couldn’t latch him properly. What ensued was a lot of silent crying as I spent forty-five minutes trying to get Little Bear onto a nipple and then once he was finished eating I’d have about an hour before I had to feed him again. I dreaded it. This was not what I was led to believe breastfeeding would be like. I got so irritated when people would tell me ‘I think he’s hungry’ or ‘looks like he could use some milk’! Because I knew it meant another agonizing hour trying to get him to latch and then trying to bear the pain of his firm little jaws snapping down to feed. Not to mention, I would leave to feed him in the nursery, effectively keeping myself isolated to figure it out in a haze of exhaustion, frustration, and a pervading sense of failure.

But, like everyone always says, it gets better with time. I also had an excellent one-husband-cheer-squad. Not to mention the benefit of a full month of help from my in-laws and parents. That being said, those first two weeks when people would say by the second month everything would be a lot easier, I thought there was, absolutely, no way I was going to make it that long. My nipples ached, I wasn’t sleeping, my hormones were insane and I dreaded feeding my child or picking a fight with the equally tired Big Radish. But, they were right. I met with a lactation consultant, my milk came in like gangbusters, I figured out how to latch him on the first try, my nipples toughened up, and my hubby praised me constantly for my relentless effort. Those first two weeks were the scariest two weeks of my life. I didn’t think I was cut out to be a mother, I was so afraid my husband and family thought so too. But I started getting the hang of things. Little Bear didn’t need as many feedings, he started sleeping longer, and we started feeling each other out.

Fast forward to today. Little Bear is three months old. You guys, I kept a baby alive for three whole months. Now? We have little routines, little moments that we share, little looks and coos and touches that speak to a growing sense of familiarity and fondness. I’ve created little games for his expanding mind, I read to him every day, and we dance around the house instead of doing the dishes. This has been the craziest quarter of a year I’ve ever had. And I don’t just mean in the sense of motherhood. I mean, I became a mother, I watched an election go horribly wrong, I started writing again, I became addicted to my morning cup of coffee, I allowed myself to be vulnerable, I cried, I raged, I leaned on my husband more than I ever had, I surrendered, and I became who I am now.

Who am I now? I’m a mom, a child co-creator, and an environmental educator to my kiddo and those kiddos I can reach through this medium. I worry, I laugh, I fear for the climate in this country and I mean that in both senses of the word. But here we are! Three months! Little Bear is a bundle of health and exploration, and I’m a bundle of coffee, the occasional beer, a good podcast, and a whole bunch of dance moves.

Here’s to the next three months!

We snuggle… a lot.

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.

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.