parenting Archives - pnw mountain mommy

Partial Preschool

August 30, 2020

I can feel it in the air. The Portland summer is starting to shift into autumn. The transition is subtle, something I witness when I sit long enough to feel the light’s gathering weight. I see it in the copper-tipped trees that line the streets, and the brown grass, dry as roasted husks.

This is my favorite time of year. I love when the mornings get brisker, the evenings come a little sooner, and there’s a lazy tranquility in the daylight; an inexorable drifting into the colorful heaviness of fall.

I always find myself alive with possibility in September. It piles up around me in a gigantic heap of nostalgia. Synaptic memory of college classes and new notebooks explodes like 4th of July poppers in my head. That sound of crunchy leaves under foot and the smell of coming rain, still weeks off, but whispering promises through building clouds and moody light.

I am no longer in college, and my children are not in the K-12 calendar year, yet. Even if they were, this year would be a mess of unknowns and hybrids and holding our breath to see if there would be another, greater wave of this pandemic.

So when the cub’s preschool sent out a long, thoughtful message about returning in September, Ben and I had to think about it. And think about it. And think about it some more. It was not an easy choice. Meadowlark, the preschool the cub had just started attending when Covid-19 shut the world down, was an incredibly small school. It only had six kids on any given day, and so, as far as risks go, it was certainly one of the smallest.

However, with my dad in cancer remission and both my parents over 65, I was wary. We currently visit them at least once a week, outside on their expansive property. I feel safe in TumTum Meadow. We are outside, there are multiple acres, and activities include biking, running, leaping through sprinklers, and general outdoor hoopla. We do not go inside their house, and sanitizer and masks are always at the ready. Outside of our weekly visits, the kids and I are primarily at home, only going out if we’ll be in big, outdoor spaces. Ben, however, is an essential worker. He has to be out in the public five days a week. He is cautious, and always wears a mask and sanitizes but the risk is there. So we were forced to weigh an additional exposure from the cub if we sent him back.

Although being home all day, every day, with two kids under five is a lot of work, it is also, at least currently, a sustainable way for us to stay safe. After long talks about Meadowlark, Ben and I decided it was not only in the interest of our own safety that we keep the cub home, but it allowed a slot to remain open for families who didn’t have the choices we did. Families that might have two working parents, or other circumstances that would necessitate a return to school.

I do not need to tell you about how daunting this is for me, I’m sure you’ve gathered in other posts that motherhood is a mixed bag, and I’m always navigating it to the best of my abilities, with or without grace. However, knowing that the cub was officially out of school until spring, I decided I needed to try my hand at some sort of supplemental learning.

I am not a teacher. I am gobsmacked when teachers manage to get the cub to sit quietly and eat his lunch, or listen to a yoga instructor, or follow in a line. I mean, that’s sorcery. I do not know how that happens. I have yet to be successful at any of those. Clearly, I’m not the woman for this teaching job. But, I’m also the only one on the roster.

I found a curriculum online that promotes a more play-based preschool model (if you want to know what model I chose, just contact me and I’ll give you the deets). It should only take around half an hour, five day a week. The curriculum is divided into two week sections and the lessons stretch 190 days. The creator of the content offers supply lists that are primarily found in every home, with some modest additions.

I printed out all the lesson plans last week and I was delighted to feel that little tingle of fall excitement, that anticipation of education and a fresh class. I’m not sure how it will be recieved, and I know the first couple weeks will be clunky as the cub and I try to find our rhythm. As a mom I’m mostly excited about having some small daily structure instead of flying by the seat of my pants like I have been doing since this pandemic started. And the cub is excited about it too. That feels like half the battle right there.

Added bonus–since now the bay leaf is nearly one and the cub has realized she is taking up a lot of attention that could be his–I’ve designated the bay leaf’s first nap as our slotted school time. This means just the cub and I getting some one-on-one quality time. And, in a purely egotistical way, it makes me feel like I’m a crushing pandemic parenthood when I’m teaching something in addition to just entertaining my kiddo. Even if that something is just sorting apples by color, and then eating them.*

So, wish me luck. I start on Monday. I’ll let you know how it goes.

*I don’t think we’re actually supposed to eat the apples until the end of the two week lesson. But two weeks is a long time, and we get hungry. Also, there’s more to this then just sorting apples by color. But how funny would it be if that was the entirey of 190 days of teaching. My kid would be really, REALLY good at color categorization. And it may not be sourdough, but its something!

Sending love from on top of the hill,

Mole Hill Morning

December 30, 2018

The mornings are bright here, the air more open. I am greedily inhaling the first breezes and thin birdsong. The path is hard, caked and dried with beaten down mud. I step with heaviness, my toddler in the hiking pack. This added density is not new to me; there have been many trails and many backpacks that have pressed and prodded at my muscles and bones. This morning the weight is not only physical, it plants itself gently in the back of my mind, enjoying a soft emotional persistence.

These new colors, dusted off in pale morning light, require my attention and now my enunciation. My son points and burbles, excited at each passing sparrow or cottonwood seed. He watches from on high, sponge-like, soaking in the clouds and scotch broom. I feel the gentle tug at the back of my brain, pulling the words from my throat for each new item on the natural curiosities checklist. “Thistles,” I say, walking close enough for my son’s tiny foot to nudge the stock. “Swift,” I announce, following the bird with an outstretched finger as it taunts the dog beside us with an aerial agility he cannot achieve, though he picks up the chase anyway.

The lake we visit in these open acres is tucked behind a mound of brambles. It gets smaller each day, as summer laps it back up into the sky. Due to the early visit and its smallness, we are often the only three here. A deeper river runs further away, the bank a much grander proclamation for canine and human alike. For us three, we prefer the smallness, the daily change as the water evaporates a little more. We document the differences by leaving our imprints in that morning’s newly exposed muck. The dog in our threesome, goes forth with more grace, picking his paws delicately out of the shallow mud in order to wade deeper.

Despite the smallness, our lake maintains a richness in life that compels my son and I to return. Birds roost among the grasses that edge the flat banks, their rustles and murmurs causing us to squint, hoping to catch a wing or a beak. The blackberries that clog up one corner of the bank are heavy with fruit, their green, unripe clusters nodding down in a constant gravitational surrender. I tell my child about all of these things: I tell him about the disappearing water and the hidden birds. I ask him to point out sticks so the dog can splash through the lake’s shallow remains and we can feel the spray when he inevitably shakes off all over us.

We leave our squishy, ancient footsteps behind as we continue back into dry fields; the black dog now slick with water and undercarriage thick with mud. Small planes hum from behind us, gaining in size and sound as they soar overhead. My son is delighted, gushing forth a squealed approximation of “plane!” I uncomfortably admire these reminders of the world outside our shrinking lake and rattle-dry fields. Humanity’s aerial appropriation is memorizing, but it feels clunky here, among the small birds.

We follow the same paths each morning, the damp dog leading with distracted purpose, his nose deep in low bushes or tall grass. Despite the identical daily route, no smell is the same, no tree is the same. Tiny creatures have pressed against the bark, beetles have taken home under new leaves, and each of these things requires the damp dog’s direct attention. As I walk behind him, my skin warms, freckles filled with sunlight. I seek the trees.

I unclip the pack, prying open the rusty kickstand. Plucking my son from the buckles and straps I place him down on the trail and let him explore. The dog and I exchange a mutual stretch and groan. I rub at my sore neck and hips as I watch my son tromp ahead. He pauses at a mole hill, crouching down to stick his fingers in the soft dirt, before flinging it at the ferns growing nearby. He stays here for a long time, intimately getting to know that mound of dirt. I am forced to patience, even as I start to calculate the drive home and his nap, the heat that is beginning to pile up outside these trees, the errands that still need doing.

Eventually my toddler moves on, ready to move deeper into the woods. Only occasionally do I step in, to keep his pudgy hands from grabbing nettles; to stop him from tumbling into the rocks. His complete lack of temporal awareness is his greatest gift. As the pressure of my to-do list mounts in me, his bewilderment at cotton fluff drifting by absorbs him for full, contemplative minutes. I soak in as much of his wonder as I can, before depositing him back in the pack. This process is never smooth, as he would spend his whole day exploring these woods. The tantrum is short-lived as I know a secret cache of newly ripe blackberries the next path over. However, I understand his frustration. I also wish we could spend the whole day under those cottonwoods, touching ferns, and running our hands through the dirt.

~ An Aside ~

It’s clearly December, the new year is upon us. This is a piece I started writing many months ago and I finally found myself creatively inspired again to revisit my blog and this bit of unfinished nature and parent writing. I hope you like it. I’d like to do more posts of this sort, a bit more of a story, a bit less of a diary ramble. But as with most things, the best intentions have a way of adapting to new circumstances. I find myself very busy and carving out time in my mind and my day for creativity is challenging. I’m hoping in 2018 I can figure out a way to continue feeding my soul through regular writing.

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.

Love Letter to a Radish

February 14, 2017

As you may or may not know, for the purposes of this blog I have given both my son and husband a nickname in an effort to keep their lives semi private. I did this not because they asked, but because this is a blog from my point-of-view, and it seems respectful to allow them a little distance. But, let’s be real, I also did it because how cute are pet names? My husband, Big Radish, got his nickname due to his profession (chef) and the beautiful radish tattoo on his forearm (he has a lot of very nice tattoos, btw).

As I see the impending pinks and reds of Valentine’s Day approaching, I feel the need to say a little something about the fella I have chosen to spend my life with. Big Radish and I have been together for five years, and will have been married for two, come August. He is the epitome of what I need in a partner. The man is patient, has a sense of humor, knows how to calm me down with a rational mind which helps reel back my anxious-hypochondriac-worst-case-scenario mentality. He is a perfect counterpoint to my neurosis. He is also the kind of father who looks forward to coming home so much he can barely contain his excitement when he calls me from work to say he’s on his way. He lives for Little Bear and I, and if he could, he would get up every hour to feed our son if it meant he would be helping me out. Of course, as the one with the boobs, I save the interrupted sleep for myself.

I don’t mean for this to sound like bragging, except, it’s totally bragging. I find myself extra mushy because Big Radish is out of town for the next few days, effectively missing that oh-so-cheesy holiday. To be fair, we really don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, as the whole thing seems a bit prepackaged and sappy (no offence, holiday-heeding lovebirds). However, it is not unheard of that we throw an extra ‘I love you’ or maybe an off-the-cuff nice dinner at home in observance. So, with him gone, I feel it a little more than perhaps I would have previously. Typically, both he and I would be working on Valentines anyhow, as for service industry folks the whole holiday is a bit of a cash cow. Though, let me tell you, it’s no walk in the park. I could go into a whoooooole thing about how trying to get the attention of people making googly eyes at one another is nearly impossible or How. Many. Fights. go down in public on this most gushy of days, but, I digress…

Big Radish is away on a boy’s trip with his best friend. They do this trip every year. The two of them meet in Denver and they spend a few days skiing and catching up. When I was still pregnant, Big Radish had inquired if it would be alright if he still went, and if I had any issue with the idea that he would skip the whole shebang. I told him of course he should go. We both agreed that one boys trip and one girls trip a year is completely reasonable. It is a way for us to reconnect to those people we love while simultaneously trusting our partner to take care of the baby. That sort of trust may not seem like a big deal, but it is.

This is the first time I’ve had to solo parent for an entire day and night. My mother-in-law has been kind enough to come down and keep me company for a couple days so it’s not terribly impressive on my end, BUT, last night was my first night that I was all by myself with Little Bear. It took a long time for me to finally get him down, and he was up every two hours, but you know what? I did it. I feel like a total bad ass wonder momma. When I told Big Radish about it I could tell he was proud but he also never had a doubt in his mind that I could handle it.

I had enough doubts for both of us.

But, I handled it. I didn’t just handle it, I really knocked it out of the park. I am capable of doing this. I am capable of doing this because I’m a good mom, even if I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I’m a good mom because I have a partner who believes in me, supports me, and gives me the confidence to tackle these things without feeling like I’m flailing.

So, Dear Big Radish,

I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re tearing up those slopes and I hope you and your boy are having one too many beers and giggling (in a very manly way). I know you miss me, and you miss Little Bear, but we’re doing fine. We’re doing better than fine. I mean, he’s only peed on me twice and spit up down my shirt once, so…

Happy Valentine’s Day, you sexy piece of produce.