Below are posts from my previous blogs, Baby Off-Center, and Creativity Practice

CREATIVITY PRACTICE (my arty blog)

My Head Today

(June 7, 2018)

It feels good to get it on paper.

 

The Squeezing Days

(June 6, 2018)

I WANT to be a mom, 100%. My kids are the children I had hoped for all my life. But being a mom isn’t creatively satisfying for me. Writing, drawing, painting, make my little things that allow me quiet, reflective time– these are the things that satisfy me creatively.

When I’m able to get the creative time I desire in a day, I’m an awesome mom for the rest of the day. I’m present with my kids and I enjoy our time together.

But on those days when I don’t have creative time, I spend the day trying to find time to squeeze in work on a project. I keep a notebook and paints in the kitchen so I can sketch a little between recipe steps. I play “coffee shop” with my son so we can sit on the porch and each work in our notebooks. I leave the tv on a little longer than I should so I can get a few moments to read and write.

On these “squeezing” days, I’m not as fully present with my kids. I’m always thinking of when I’ll get my next few project minutes. My lego-playing on such days is half-hearted to say the least.

This leaves me with the feeling that my kids are in the way, that they’re annoying, they’re keeping me from doing what I want. I didn’t realize how strong that feeling was until I pushed away the little girl in my mini-dream illustrated above.

This “annoyed” mindset is not inspiring for me, and I’m sure my kids can sense it, too. I don’t know what to do about this yet– I think it might involve a little digging in my past for why I feel this way. (Was it because I got the sense that I was sometimes “in the way” as a kid? Possibly…) Or is “annoyed” a natural way to feel given the culture we’re living in, where, as a stay-at-home parent, we’re relatively isolated all day?

Maybe being a mom in our culture just means having to squeeze in time for myself. But really, I think a perspective shift is in order. I’m not sure what the shift is yet, I’m open to finding it soon, but right now there’s still a part of me that likes this annoyed feeling, a part that revels in the adrenaline of it.

So what is there to do next? I’ll keep going, keep feeling, and practice being open to being open, even just a teeny bit more.

Repotting Myself

(June 4, 2018)

As I sketched out the above drawing, Leo, my 4 3/4 year old asked what I was doing. I showed him my work and explained it to him. I asked what he would look ok like if he were a plant. He said, “Here, I’ll show you.”

I’m opening up to the profundity of making my “real art” alongside my kids.

Tricking the Ego (Because She’s So Tricky!)

(June 2, 2018)

I tend to create in cycles, I keep things in and quiet for a while, I gather energy and ideas, and then “whooooosh!” I put it all out there. Or I want to put it all out there, at least, but I find I’m scared. So I create ways to not let the “whoosh” out:

“I should do the dishes first.”

“I should reply to Instagram comments.”

“I’m too tired.”

“My hip hurts.”

“Last time I “whooshed” I “whooshed” too much and I felt depleted afterwards, so I probably shouldn’t do that again.”

But man, really? I’m just scared what people will think of me, of my work. I’m scared I’ll have to defend it, argue about it, and lately, since my life has taken a spiritual turn, I’m afraid of a whole new host of things. I’m afraid that people will put me in a box with other “spiritual” people, or that I’ll take a spiritual ego trip and go a little “crazy” (again.)

This ego, she is a tricky thing!

But there’s a part of me that knows that my creative and spiritual work wants to be let out, to see the sun, feel the wind, go for a swim, dance around. But then I think, “Maybe I should save it for later, when I have more time without kids around all the time to devote to my writing and drawing. And maybe I’m not putting it out there the right way if I put it on a blog, maybe the pain in my hip is telling me I should save it all up and pitch it as a book, yeah, then keep it private in the meantime. That’s a good course of action.”

Nope. That’s a fearful and safe course of action. Today I set out on the path of spiritual bravery instead of fear. Putting my writing, my art, my heart out into the world is really, truly, deeply scary for me, but I’m going to be afraid and do it anyway.

And I think I found a little workaround for the fear…

Since this ego is a tricky thing, I’m going to trick her in return: “Hey Ego, it’s OK! I’m not going to post this post. I’m going to just write it out and put in the illustrations and make it look nice and then keep it in the “drafts” section of my blog. Then I’m going to do a bunch of other posts like that and you can still feel safe. There you go, nice kitty.”

(Don’t tell Ego, but I’m totally gonna post this.)

Ok, see you again soon, I hope!

 

Why I Can’t Sleep

(May 6, 2018)

Welcome to Creativity Practice

(January 22, 2018)

So here I am, right at the beginning of the “no fucking clue” phase.

I’ve been able to be with my kids while my partner’s job pays our bills (for which I am endlessly grateful– thanks, Alex!) But I long to do something besides be a stay-at-home-mom. I don’t know exactly what, but I know it’s a CREATIVE something.

So this past November I thought, “2018 will be my year of creativity!! I’ll get through the holidays, then start doing my ‘something creative’ in January.”

And then I thought, “I’ve fallen into this trap before, this ‘have to find the exact right time and get everything perfect before I start’ trap.”

So then I thought, “OK, I’ll get a new blog set up and come up with a name for it, and start my creativity project in the next few weeks!”

And then I thought, “I’m still doing that ‘perfect’ thing. Dammit.”

So THEN I said to myself, “Fuck it. I’m starting right now. I’m just going to post one creative thing I do every day on Instagram.”

“…but I should probably do it on a new Instagram account that I open expressly for this purpose with a new professional-sounding name and a new profile pic. An account that doesn’t also have pictures of my cat….”

“Shut up! I’ll post it on current account! The startup energy is zero, and my current profile pic is really cute.”

“You’re right, it is cute. OK, LET’S DO THIS!!!!!!!!”

I did it! I started that day. The only rule I made for myself was that the project I did each day had to be satisfying. Not pretty, not good, not meaningful, not even intentional, just satisfying.

That day I made this kind of OK flower arrangement:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The glare on the table is pretty gnarly, but I posted it anyway, dammit. I roar in the face of perfect Instagram photos!! (Even though I also love them 🙂 )

I haven’t posted them all, (I’ve gotta keep some things for myself, it turns out) but I’ve done a creative thing every day since.

So here I am, for now, simply practicing creativity.

ONWARD!!!!

BABY OFF-CENTER (My parenting blog)

What Am I Even Doing?

(July 8, 2017)

I just got the book Your Inner Critic is a Big Jerk by Danielle Krysa:

 

She also has a blog, The Jealous Curator, which she created to showcase art that made her jealous of its artists. And dude, I can relate. When I see work (generally books with hand-drawn illustrations by creative women) that I wish I made, I feel so defeated. Like, “That’s already done, guess there’s something else I can’t do,” or, “I could have done that, I wish I had.”

ENOUGH! It’s nice to know that other people feel this way, even professional artists, but it’s time to move on.

I’ve been feeling like all I do all day is “mom,” and that I do nothing else worthwhile. But this is not true.

So from now on, this blog is just about whatever I want it to be about that day. I think it will center on creativity, but who knows? And while I may have the ultimate goal of writing a book about creativity and getting it published and going on a book/speaking tour that includes New York and San Francisco, for now I’m just gonna put. stuff. up.

At the bottom is what I wrote in my journal today. Sometimes my journal is the only art/writing/creative thing I do in any given week*, so there may be lots of journal entries on the blog from now on. But as King Triton says, So be it!

Here’s my page:

* My journal is never the only creative thing I do in a week, that was my inner critic again. This week alone I made watercolor goo-goo goggles, covered myself and my children in fake tattoos, painted my eyebrows pink, did glitter pedicures with my son, wrote multiple grocery lists (it’s writing, it counts), made a new (crappy) collage of strong ladies, and I’m sure some other stuff.

Problems at the Portland Women’s March

(February 18, 2017)

The night before the Women’s March here in Portland, Oregon, I am stoked. I think, “I can’t wait to march for women’s rights!” I mean, I didn’t think I’d have to in my lifetime, but I am feeling the spirit of my feminist foremothers, for sure. Maybe something feels a little off about this excitement, but I ignore the feeling and work on my sign.

The morning of the march I wait at the bus stop outside my house to head downtown. The four other women at the stop are all wearing pink lipstick, and the effect is striking, so I run into my house to get some of my own. I make it back to the bus stop in time to catch the bus and send my mom a selfie text of me telling her I’m headed to march.

In downtown Portland I spill off the bus with the crowd. I finish waterproofing my “Together We Are Strong” sign, and head towards the waterfront. As I get closer the crowd grows thicker and pinker. Soon I’m one body in a mass of people.

I try to meet up with some friends for a while, but I eventually give up — cell phone service is pretty much shot from all the extra traffic. I ask a stranger to take a picture of me with my sign. I hold up a fist of solidarity, but it feels a little …ehh. I’m not sure why yet.

My phone dies, so I start really noticing the signs. The funny: “Ovaries Before Brovaries,” the classic: “Women’s Rights are Human Rights,” the anti-Trump: “Keep Your Tiny Hands off Me,” the off-topic: “Save the Polar Bears!”, and my favorites, the vaginal: “Unapologetic Brown Panocha Power!”

I make my way over to the speakers’ platform.

Even 100 feet away, I can barely hear the people speaking. The people 50 feet behind me, and the people behind them keep impatiently chanting, “Let us March!,” to the point where it drowns out the people speaking entirely. The message of the larger crowd is yelled toward the stage by a feisty woman near me, “Yes! What you’re saying is great! We agree! But we’re cold and wet and we wanna MOVE!”

And this is the first problem I notice.

Problem #1:

This crowd wants to be comfortable more than it wants to wait patiently and hear what people have to say.

Yet I can’t deny it, I am very ready to move, too.

As the marching begins and I walk among the other raincoat-wearing, sign-carrying Portlanders, I think, “Look at this great crowd! I want to see this, I want to see us.” I overhear another marcher utter the same sentiment, “I’d like to see the aerial view.” I detect a hint of smugness in myself and many of the other people there…

But I do want to get a better view, so I head up the on-ramp of the Hawthorne bridge and stand with a crowd of others. From there, I can see the mass of people coming towards us. And boy, (or shall I say: girl,) I wish that my phone were working. I wish that I could get a picture of me in front of that crowd. I wish that I had that image of me looking strong (and cute!) in front of a sea of marchers.

And then I think, shit. I’m pretty sure Elizabeth Cady Stanton wasn’t concerned with getting a cute photo of herself as she fought for the right to vote.

Problem #2:

We seem to like taking pictures of ourselves doing the thing more than we like doing the thing.

I get over myself, and get back to the moment. The marching crowd below us chants, and we chant with them, “Love. Not Hate. That’s What Makes America Great.” And from up there, for the first time, I feel what I had been hoping to feel. Above all of the grumblings of uncomfortable individuals, Portland is showing a lot of love for women. I let it wash over me.

I am glad to witness and feel that love. I go down to the street and march with the crowd for a while to take in all of the heartfelt feeling and energy. Then I jump on a bus headed home.

---

The Monday after the march, as I read other people’s posts, I see that not everyone feels that this event was an outpouring of love and support for all women. I read some perspectives of women of color, and there is a sentiment that the march was a “White Women’s March,” a march where white women get to wear their sassy pussy shirts, feel good about themselves, take cute pictures, and not really put anything on the line.

And yes. That is the big problem.

Problem #3:

I had been feeling like an activist for taking part in this march, but I had no (white) skin in the game. In many ways, I had been treating the march like a game of Women’s Activist Dress-up.

I realize this is why I had felt a little “off” the entire time.

Being a privileged, white, cis-gender, middle class, U.S. citizen woman, I see that there’s no way I can fully comprehend the everyday, life-long racism, homophobia, anti-trans, anti-immigrant sentiment that other women face. I can try, but I can never really know what it’s like to experience that kind of bigotry firsthand. And yeah, I risked nothing beyond getting a little bit cold by taking part in this event.

The women’s movement has been fraught with this sort of racial tension and notions of inclusivity/exclusivity from its beginning. The Portland march itself went through leadership changes as it seemed to change its stance from, “Let’s not also make this about race,” to “We need to be sure to include women of color in leadership positions.” The NAACP of Portland voiced that they would not be supporting the event.

To me all of this means that when I stand up for women’s equality, I must keep in mind and be sensitive to the struggles of all women. I had been mindful of inclusivity on Saturday, but I certainly was not being sensitive.

I apologize for my desire to use a march for equality as a cute photo op. It was deeply shitty of me.

So moving forward, what can I do? I can listen, acknowledge, and strive to understand the struggles of others as best I can. I can be humble in my privilege, call out bigotry within myself and among those near me, and let my activism come from a place of knowing that all people are equal instead of from a place where I just want to look like I care.

As I continue to listen to the struggles of those who have it harder than I do, I realize that that’s what I want from this march. Listening. I want people to listen, to pay attention to the ways that women, even privileged women, aren’t equal.

Because while I haven’t faced racism or other phobias, I face sexism constantly.

I have been sexually assaulted, harassed, followed, grabbed, and uninvitedly humped. I have been told in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that no matter what, I’m never going to be as “valid” as a man. I have been culturally brainwashed to believe that my greatest value lies in having an attractive female body. And while I haven’t been raped or abused, far too many among my friends and family have.

I want this march to let men know that sexism is real and painful, and I want other women to notice sexism in their own lives. I want us all to do our part to fight inequality together, for everyone’s sake.

Ultimately I’m grateful that I was able to march on Saturday. I’m glad that I got to take part in a historical event, and I’m excited to see how mainstream the women’s movement has become. And while I may have been a shitty, petty, smug activist on Saturday, at least I know that now. I’ll work hard on getting better. We have lots more work to do.

 

Things I Pulled Out Of My Baby’s Mouth This Week

(March 27, 2017)

 

Can We Please Start Calling Bugs “She?”

(March 9, 2017)

I was reading a lovely Charlie Harper board book to my baby the other evening, when I had to stop and groan. The page said,

No, he’s not. But she sure is!

Sure, not all insects are female. But when it comes to bees, mosquitoes, ants, and their arachnid friends spiders, almost all of the ones we notice are female. Referring to them as males takes away from all the work that the females of these species do.

So let’s check them out:

Bees:

From Wikipedia on Bees:

So those fuzzy bumblebees you see buzzing through the lavender in the summer? All females. Hey, gals!

Ants:

Worker ants are always female. You may see some winged male drone ants in the summer, but that swarm of creatures marching around the ice cream cone you dropped on the sidewalk? Again, those are females. Enjoy the ice cream, girls.

Bonus Fun Fact: Ant queens can live for up to 30 years!

Mosquitos:

Male mosquitos eat nectar and sugar, females suck your blood so they can lay eggs. So when you slap at a mosquito and say, “He got me!” No, he didn’t, she did.

{More on these disgusting bugs at Wikipedia}

Spiders:

Male and female spiders both spin webs, but that glorious, two-foot orb you see spanning between your hanging plants in late summer? That was spun by the big, fat, female garden spider sitting in the center. She puts forth the effort of spinning a big web so she can catch enough prey for energy to lay eggs. Male garden spiders are much smaller and tend to hang around the fringes.

*   *   *   *

While it’s nearly impossible for the average Jane to tell the sex of many bugs (butterflies, wasps, ladybugs, beetles, roaches, dragonflies) when we see bees, ants, biting mosquitos and large, web-building spiders in nature, they are virtually always female. So let’s call them “she.”

When we automatically call something a “he,” we assume that the world around us is more male than it actually is. This might be OK if we’re using “he” as a gender-neutral pronoun when we don’t know the sex,* but when it comes to these bugs, we pretty much always know the sex. And it’s not male.

Let’s give these hardworking females credit where credit is due. Pollinate (crawl, bite, spin) on, ladies!

 

*Also, probably this is not OK.

 

My Least Favorite Bath Toy

(March 2, 2017)

Alternative post title: “Why I Otter…”

I Never Wanted to Be a Stay at Home Mom

(February 24, 2017)

As a kid, I pictured my adult self as a woman in a hot pink shoulder-padded business suit. My hair would be feathery and frosted, my practical yet stylish pumps would coordinate perfectly with my flashy jewelry. My briefcase would occasionally brush against my pantyhosed leg as I walked briskly down the city street to my next business meeting. I would be an Important Business Woman! (Can you tell I grew up in the 80’s?)

While I’ve always wanted to have kids, what I certainly didn’t want was to be a Stay at Home Mom. How boring! How un-glamorous! How very not “Having-it-all!”

When I pictured a Stay at Home Mom (or SAHM, as the internet now calls it,) I envisioned a woman in droopy beige clothes covered in snot sitting on the couch with screaming kids climbing all over her. She would get up to go to the grocery store, make hamburger helper on the stove, and then go back to the couch with the snot and the kids.

I somehow learned (through cultural osmosis?) that being a SAHM was being a little bit of a… failure. Even as an adult, before I had kids, I asked a girlfriend who had two young children, “What else are you doing these days?” She smiled gently and shook her head as if to say, “This,” and I said back, “You’re just momming, then?”

It’s the “just” that’s always troubled me. To be “just” a mom meant you weren’t really doing much in the world. Being a “Mom &…” was much better.

As in,

“She’s a Mom & she manages all the sales reps in Tampa!”

“She’s a Mom & she teaches yoga!”

“She’s a Mom & she’s the primary breadwinner!”

“She’s a Mom & she’s Beyoncé!”

So imagine my surprise when I became a mom. Not to go into all the gory detail, but being a mom is an incredible amount of work. Someone has to be with the kids ALL THE TIME! My 80’s Business Barbie version of my future self never accounted for the realities of childcare.

After having our second kid, I came to realize that for my family (our finances, our household, my sanity) me becoming a SAHM was what made the most sense. I also really wanted to be with my kids full time. Weird, I know.

But I’m still not comfortable in this role. Day to day with my kids, sure, I’m great, I love being a mom. And I realize that having the choice to be a Stay at Home Mom is a luxury and a privilege. But when I hang out with new, grown-up people, I cringe at the thought of them asking me, “What do you do?”

If I answer, “I’m a Stay at Home Mom,” I’m met with either a blank, “Oh,” or an overly sincere, “That’s such important work,” or, of course, “What else do you do?”

When I do answer the “What do you do” question, I’m often left grasping for straws: “I’m a mom but I also used to run a business and now I’m also trying to start a writing career but not too seriously yet because, you know, the kids, and… uh, and in a few years they’ll be in school so…maybe things will change then, and… yeah.”

However, the real trouble for me is, if I say I’m a SAHM, I feel like I’m defining myself based on my kids. And while my life does currently revolve around my children, they don’t define who I am. Even more than dreading being a SAHM, I’ve always dreaded being what I thought of as a “Mommy.” Someone who lives for and through her children. Someone who derives all of her life’s meaning from them. Someone who has lost herself.

That scares me, because I really like myself, and I don’t want to lose her.

So here I am, a Stay at Home Mom.* I’m coming to terms with the fact that that is what I do, not who I am. In a culture where we often define who we are based on what we do for work, this is tricky to navigate.

But perhaps for me to feel good about my role, all it takes is a little perspective shift:

I don’t have to drive the kids to the doctor/music class/preschool; I get to drive two of my favorite people through the windy, tree-lined streets of Portland while singing along to music I love.

I don’t have to get dinner on the table; I get to foster a life-long love of healthy food while engaging in the dying art of conversation with my little family.

I don’t have to get my son to go potty and brush teeth before bed; I get to carry a limp, screaming mess of a child to the toilet, then I get to stay right next to him while he stinks up the bathroom then tries to run away with his pants around his ankles before I even get to wipe his butt.

Like all jobs, sometimes this one is a drag. But here’s the big perspective shift:

I don’t have to be some imagined version of a Stay at Home Mom; I get to be myself as a mother. And for me, getting to be fully myself is the most satisfying part of any job.

 

 

*Is it just me, or is “Stay at Home Mom” a SUPER UNINSPIRING job title? I’ll work on a better one.

 

My Postpartum Body, Myself

(September 2016)

Three months ago, I had my second baby. I carried her for exactly nine months, grew her strong, then pushed her out fast and hard. And here we are: now she is she, and I am living alone in my body again.

After my son (now three) was born, I felt weirdly invisible for a while. For most of my adult life, I had been relying heavily on what some would call my erotic capital to make me feel good about myself. The term is a relatively new one to me, but I’ve been familiar with the idea for a while. Basically, I’ve given a lot of value to the idea that I’m physically attractive. To dudes, mostly. Now, I’ve never come out and said that so bluntly until now, and it’s still embarrassing for me to admit, but I’ve felt “pretty,” and I’ve liked it.

When I became pregnant, that erotic capital turned into “adorable pregnant lady capital.” I got cute clothes to show off my round belly, and people all over the city would ask, “When are you due?” “Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?” “Is this your first child?” A stranger in a bar even said to me, “You just look SO BEAUTIFUL.” Though I was veering away from our culture’s ideal beauty standards (which, yes, are narrow: size-ist, sexist, racist, pretty much all the -ists), I still felt valued for how I looked. And that made me feel good.

Then I had my son. The round belly deflated, the giant leaky milk boobs grew in, and somehow my ass and thighs seemed to get even bigger. I felt icky. I felt like men didn’t notice me, and I felt unattractive. I sank into a few months of postpartum depression (more on that in a different post), which was more hinged on the fact that I was severely sleep deprived and entirely lost my sense of self-worth, but feeling unattractive played its small part. I felt like my body, which for my whole life held a certain value in our culture, was suddenly worthless.

Of course, while I was feeling that way, I was continuing to GROW A HUMAN. Over the course of his first six months, my son, who I nursed exclusively, grew nine pounds. All of that weight, all of that little body was something that I single-handedly (or double-boobedly) supplied the raw materials for. Astounding.

Still, I couldn’t wait until I was back to my usual size. I felt like the first year postpartum was a limbo for my body until it resumed its prior shape. A big squishy limbo. And once it did go back to its prior dimensions, I felt pretty much back to my normal and desired level of attractiveness.

However, things are different this time around. After being depressed, even for a short time, I became terrified that depression would happen again. So after I came out of the murky depths a couple years ago, I started doing some work so that I could perhaps avoid postpartum depression should I have another baby.

And now that the second baby is here, I have discovered that the work I did to avoid depression is having the added benefit of a completely different view of my postpartum body.

First a friend told me about the concept of Radical Self Love (which sounds like it involves LOTS of masturbating, but probably doesn’t have to) and I bought into the notion that loving who you are – exactly as you are – is a form of activism. As in, our society plays on our insecurities by telling us we’re gross to make us buy stuff. When we love ourselves exactly as we are, we don’t NEED the stuff. Take that, The Man!

Next, my mom led me to the book You Can Heal Your Life. I read it, did some self-searching, and came to truly believe Louise Hay’s notion that all of our problems stem from a lack of self-love. Based on her teachings, I practiced saying in the mirror, “I love you exactly as you are.” It was hard at first, but I kept working at it, and I started to know that believing it was the key to deep happiness.

Then this past winter I went on a prenatal yoga retreat in California. And yeah, I may have, you know, said hi to God and got reacquainted with my spiritual center. But the retreat confirmed and solidified the idea that I am complete exactly as I am. And that loving myself and recognizing the part of me that isn’t my body is the beginning of loving everyone and knowing that we are all the same, no matter what our bodies or even our minds are like.

And the real clincher was reading Lindy West’s Shrill. For the first time I understood and got on board with the fat acceptance movement. Her book plus a talk with a good friend helped me truly understand that bodies and people are all different, and you don’t love people more or less or treat them differently because of those differences. (Perhaps this is the simple concept behind all civil rights movements, no?)

Basically, I realized that postpartum me is still me. It’s not the “potentially thinner” me, it’s not me waiting to “get my body back.” (A phrase I detest.) It’s me, it’s fully me, and it’s a me that can love herself fully.

The last time I had this postpartum body, I was basing a lot of my self worth on what other people thought of me. On my level of attractiveness according to real or imagined “dudes on the street,” and compared to cultural “ideals.” “Ideals” that are carefully crafted to make me feel insecure and therefore sell me shit to make me feel better about myself. But now, the fact that I even got tricked into believing that that’s where my self-worth lies? Well, it pisses me off.

So you know what? I’m three months postpartum. I’m squishy and leaky (and not just from the boobs, people!) I have dark eye bags, spider veins, cellulite. My full, thick pregnancy hair is starting to fall out. My B.O. is such that… well.. it smells like I’m growing onions in my armpits. But I love myself. And when I love myself I can’t help it: I. Feel. Fucking. BEAUTIFUL.

Who knows how long my body will be this new and glorious shape (I’ve referred to this as “The Summer of the Double-D’s!”) Whatever form my body takes can be entirely independent of how I feel about myself. In our culture, that is truly a radical notion.

In short, I don’t have to “get my body back.” It’s right here, and I love the whole thing.

 

Birth of an Imaginary Friend

(October 8, 2016)

“My friend Jake rides dune buggies,” my three-year-old son Leo offers casually. This is one afternoon last week. We are in the middle of playing legos on the dining room floor.

“Oh yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s a big kid. He’s big enough to ride dune buggies.”

“How old is Jake?” I ask.

“He’s three.”

My ears prick up. A three-year-old big enough to ride dune buggies? I’ve gotta find out more about this kid.

 

I continue with my questioning.

“Are you thinking of Jake from our old building?” I ask.

“No,” Leo replies.

“Is Jake someone you met at preschool?”

“No.”

“Is Jake a real person?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you meet Jake?”

Leo stalls…

He plays more legos…

“Ahh Leo, where did you met Jake?” I ask again.

“At the Kid Oil Factory,” he replies.

Well. Things just got interesting.

“At the Kid Oil Factory?”

“Yeah, at the Kid Oil Factory,” he replies.

A thousand questions fill in my head. What does a Kid Oil Factory produce? Does this place make “kid oil,” or is it a regular oil factory with kid workers? So, then, does Leo work there? Does he have a job I don’t know about? And, if so, how is this going to affect my tax filing status?

I inquire further:

“The Kid Oil Factory, where is this place?”

“Right there,” he points to a building on the floor made of legos.

“Ah, I see. What do they make at the Kid Oil Factory?”

“They make kid oil.”

Nice. Visions of the soap-making scenes from Fight Club fill my head. *Spoiler Alert!* In Fight Club they make soap from rendered liposuction fat, then sell the soap back to the people the fat was ostensibly sucked from. But kid oil, huh? I imagine an extremely expensive anti-aging face cream: “now with omega-complex, mango root, and kid oil.”

“So, do you and Jake work together at the Kid Oil Factory?” I ask Leo.

“No.”

“But that’s where you met him?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you play together there?”

“No.”

“But you met him there.”

“Yeah, I made him there,” he says.

“Wait. You met him there?” I ask.

“No, I made him there,” he clarifies.

Ah ha. Details had been getting lost in translation/adherence to “reality.”

“You made him there. What did you make him out of?”

“I made him out of kid oil.”

Duh, mom.

So now the picture is getting a little clearer. My son is basically a Dr. Frankenstein who made himself an imaginary friend named Jake. Out of kid oil. Is this oil somehow extracted from other children? I consider teaching him the definition of the word “macabre.”

He goes on to explain how  the kid oil is poured through cement trucks whose chutes are made of really really really old cement trucks into what I suspect are molds in the shape of children. His idea of this factory seems to be a mash-up of his encyclopedic construction vehicle knowledge and our recent conversation about fossil fuels (coal = really really really old trees.)

I continue to press him for details, but he becomes evasive and shows me clearly with his body language that he is far less interested in our “conversation” than he is in “playing.” It seems I may have pushed him too hard for an explanation of something he doesn’t fully understand, and like an anxious adult after an intense therapy session, he is mentally exhausted.

The next day I bring up the topic again, but he insists he had been talking about Jake from our old building the whole time.

Fair enough, I let it go.

Maybe Leo wants to keep his imaginary friend a little closer to the vest for now, so I’ll back off with the questioning. But going forward, every time he refers to “Jake,” I’ll be listening.

 

Diaper Change Merit Badges

(July 1, 2015)

Being a new parent can be a drag. If you’re a new mom or dad, you might be dealing with an identity crisis, rampaging hormones, a baby who… well… isn’t really that cool yet, and a monster where your spouse/partner/self used to be. Whatever version of new parent you are, you are probably dealing lots and lots of poop. And pee. And barf.

When I was dealing with the liquids of that first year, I longed for some sense of accomplishment every day. Some validation. Some way to show myself at the end of the day that yes, indeed I had been very busy all day even though I had no idea doing what. I soon realized that keeping checklists for myself of my accomplishments of the day helped a little.They looked like this:

Looking back, I could have used more than just a checkmark on some days. Some bodily fluid situations are truly remarkable, and for those, I felt I deserved extra recognition.

Therefore, I am starting a line of merit badges for new parents. To celebrate those really crappy crap situations that we may have gone through. Sew them to your nursing bra, pin them on your changing table, create a mobile out of them, collect the whole set:

SPRAY PAINT: I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of my mom yelping while changing the baby’s diaper. “Ahhh! Ahhh! Whaaa! He sprayed poop all down the front of my shirt!” We turn the lights on to witness the splattery mess. My mom, the changing table, the floor – all are covered in mustard-colored liquid infant poo. The baby, however, is pristinely clean. His super-strong colon does such a good job of expelling the waste that none of it ends up near him.

 

 

SCOOP, THEN DRAIN: Also known as “Potty Bath,” or “Tubby Turd.” “Little Brown Submarine.” “Brand New Bath Toy.” Early on, I sometimes give the kid a bath right after dinner. (I soon learn that post-meal is a bad baby bathtime. Chance of poop is at an all-time high!) Thankfully, my sister has already given me advice in case I encounter a poo-in-the-tub scenario: “Scoop, then drain.” Kitty litter scoops are helpful with this, but act fast! The tubby turd will dissipate quickly, at which point the kitchen strainer comes into play…

 

 

SNORKEL PENIS: We have just changed the boy’s diaper, the new diaper is on, and, suddenly, it is wet. Very wet. On the outside. His dad is perplexed, but I say, “Check the evidence.” Which means, “Open the diaper.” So we do that, and we see that the very end of his little man parts have been sticking out the diaper leg hole. Diapers are virtually pointless when the penis is on the outside!!

 

 

 

POOPERAZZI: Babies make hilarious faces when they’re pooping. If we can capture the poop face– reddening cheeks, lips pursed in a grimacing line, brow furrowed, eyes intensely concentrating– on camera, we win.

 

 

 

 

 

PEE DEFLECTOR or LOW FIVE: The baby, undiapered and on the changing table, starts peeing. My husband uses his hand as a shield to deflect the pee away from himself and back to said changing table. Now, our kid is a boy, so this seems like a pretty normal action to take, but double points if you find yourself doing this with your baby girl.

 

 

 

POOP ART: Baby naps. Baby wakes up quietly alone in his room. Baby poops. Baby removes diaper. Baby re-decorates his crib area with poop. Baby also does some face-painting. While the poop art may be lovely and creative, when I walk in to baby’s poop-arted room, the first thing I notice is the accompanying smell.

 

 

 

 

A TURD IN THE HAND: I really don’t want to clean my floors more than necessary. If this means catching my standing child’s number two in my hand to keep my floor clean, then yes, I will do that. I will hold my hand beneath my boy’s tiny bottom, and I will catch that dainty little poo in my palm. Floor-cleaning day successfully postponed!

 

 

 

 

POOP GLITTER: Also known as “Poodio 54.” Some foods create interesting side effects in the digestive system of a very young person. I have recently discovered that my boy loves quinoa. (I know, I know. I didn’t even know how to say “quinoa” until I was twenty-six years old.) Quinoa is such a cute grain, with its little tail and tiny size. It’s much the same when it comes out the other end into a diaper, except– you know that joke about how glitter gets on everything and is really sticky and hard to get off? That’s what quinoa poop is like in a diaper. Just a little less sparkly.

 

 

So those are the merit badges my family and I have earned. I’d love to hear which merit badges you have earned. Please comment and share below.

(And I don’t have any idea what exciting new merit badges await as we approach potty training. But I’m really not-so-secretly hoping that “Community Litter Box” might be one of them.)

As long as he buries it as well as the cat does, it’s fine with me.

 

Baby Off-Center -or- I’ll Probably Never Wear Clogs

(June 10, 2015)

Shortly after the birth of my son, I was surprised by how much of an identity crisis I had. When I was expecting the kid, my brother, neighbors, strangers told me, “No matter what, you won’t be ready!”  And yeah, they were right. But the metaphysical punch to the side of the head was still more shocking than I expected.

For instance, I understood that I might not get sleep. But the effects of long-term sleep deprivation? I had no clue. I didn’t understand that for months I would desperately long for an uninterrupted three-hour stretch of sleep. That, in the depths of tiredness, I would find myself wailing and lying on the living room floor and asking my husband to bring me something to eat, because I was too tired to get it myself. Then,when he brought me apple slices, I would cry even harder. Apple slices were so crunchy, and I was too tired to chew.

And I figured that my time would be taken up by caring for the baby, but I didn’t know that every square inch of mental space would be taken up, too. I thought that fitting a kid into my life would be inserting a slice into the pizza-pie-chart of my mental space– I’d just cut a little off of the surrounding slices. Problem was, the “kid” piece of the pizza pie was deep-dish Chicago-style pizza, whereas my mental pie had been thin crust. And it wasn’t a slice, it was a whole, entire pie with all of the toppings. And I somehow had to fit that whole thing into my head.

You see, I was tough and capable once. I had really liked that tough and capable person. And the sobbing, mush-minded zombie I had become was not familiar to me and was not someone I was happy to be. I felt thrown completely off center. My tough, capable, happy center.

While I was thrown off by the time and space changes that did happen, there were also some changes that I was expecting to happen that didn’t. I thought my desire for $300.00 handmade leather boots would dissipate, and in its place would pop up a practical and money-saving desire to own and wear clogs. I thought I would suddenly be granted a brand new, deep, full well of patience (maybe the new set of hormones included a “Patience” booster pack?) And I thought I would be one of those people like my old neighbor who said, “Oh, you just don’t know true, unconditional love until you’ve had a child! It’s the best thing in the wooooooorrrrrlllld!!”

Well, handcrafted leather boots still call my name, and I’ll probably never wear clogs*. If the new hormones came with a “Patience” booster pack, mine never fully loaded (however, the “Unbridled Rage” pack sure did!) And “The best thing in the wooooooorrrrrlllld!!” is still either lying on a tropical beach, riding my bike downhill, or a fresh piece of chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream frosting. (Although, sharing any of those things with my kid is pretty good, too.)

Thankfully, I’ve gotten a little perspective at this point. My kid is a toddler now, and to me, at least, “Toddlers Rule, Babies Drool!” (I’ll take tantrums over getting barfed on any day!) I’m now sleeping at least seven hours a night and I have enough alone time to process my deep-dish pizza mental reconfiguration. I’ve had a chance to settle into parenthood and understand who I am as a mom. And I’m starting to really enjoy my life again.

That isn’t to say that the path to understanding who I was as a mom was an easy one. My path involved, among other things, the support of close friends, therapy, vitamins, medication, making new fellow-parent friends, finding reliable childcare, a new understanding of the importance of “down time,” about ten months’ time, and reading a lot of writing by women who have (and haven’t) been moms before me.

What all of that writing reminded me was that the worst and hardest parts of life sometimes turn into the best and funniest stories. Of course. If I could just shift my perspective and remember that, I could let some sunshine back into my life, little by little.

So far, it’s working. However, I know I’m often one overtired and flailing diaper change away from crying on the floor all over again.

So my intention here is to share the little bits of sunshine that sometimes come from my own drearier parenting moments. Because really, there are too many funny and gross things happening not to write about them. I mean, I thought farts were funny before, but having a one-year-old fart on my arm and then proudly look into my eyes and say, “Toot!?” Farts are not just funny, they are endearing now, too.

That brings us here. Please read, enjoy, comment, and share your own wonderful, off-center stories.