Epidurals

I have been thinking about how to write about this topic for quite some time. There are few
words as loaded when it comes to childbirth. Doulas, midwives, nurses, your sister-in-law —
they all have opinions. I remember a complete stranger yelling at me across a playground when
I was pregnant the first time to “Just get the epidural. I am a nurse.” She shouted. What the
fuck, lady? Simmer.

I am definitely not a doctor, but I sort of understand their argument. Years of study, very little
long-term risk, way less pain = get the needle.

Nor, am I a doula/midwife, but I think their key argument is something along the lines of:
intervention is the devil and ends in C-section = squeal like a donkey.

I have had two labours now, and it pains me (literally) to say that #1 was drug-free and with #2, I
took the shot.

With W I was dead-set on drug-free; nothing in the world could have convinced me otherwise.
And so I did it. And I did it well, I think. But W came out pissed. He was red and angry and the
room was chaos and my husband looked like he was going to pass out and I did pass out. But it
was wonderful, obviously. I felt everything and I felt really in tune with the process. I knew what
was happening and where the baby was and, for lack of a better term, it was very “animal.” I just
went to a zone and got that baby out. (This is the short version of the story).

With LouLou, if I am being totally honest, my heart just wasn’t in the fight. Maybe because I
knew what the outcome would be, maybe because some part of my mind hadn’t “forgotten” how
bad it gets. I took hypnobirthing, I had my doula, I was ready with all my coping techniques, but
when the pain got really intense (both my labours were Pitocin-induced at ten days over) I just
cried and said, “Please get me an epidural.” I just wanted it; maybe I was curious, and maybe I
was tired. I’m not saying it was an easy choice, but at the time there was no choice. I was out of
my mind with confusion and contractions. Fast-forward about an hour: the doctor checked me
and said “You are ten centimetres. You can push.” I was actually laughing when LouLou came
out. The room was quiet and so was she. I was definitely high and it was definitely different.

There was a young student doctor in the room, fascinated with my previous natural birth, who
looked at me as I snuggled my newborn and said, “So you preferred the epidural, yes?” I am
still shocked at my quick thinking in that moment. I said, “Well, no. I loved both my births and the
one prepared me for the other. I was able to survive this one because of the first one.” There
was no way I was giving this girl the satisfaction of hearing that, yes, an epidural is superior.
And I don’t think it is.

I simply wish there wasn’t an argument about epidurals. Or breastfeeding. Or homebirths. Just
do what you have to do. Get the baby out and try not to kill yourself in the process. Be flexible in
your beliefs and accept some days you are able to get a nine-pound human out of your vagina
and some day’s life is easier if you get a spinal tap.

-Tightrope Mama

Crappy Parenting

Here's a book I would read: Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures, by blogger (and "artist") Amber Dusick, is out this week. Published by Harlequin (right...), it's the hard copy version of the blog, which you can find at www.crappypictures.com. Really, you could just read all of the blog, which is the thing about blog book deals that I don't get, but I think the book will be lovely. As lovely as a "crappy" book can be.

Check it out, along with the book trailer, here.

And of course you should love the hell out of www.crappypictures.com. It's hilarious and honest and shockingly poorly illustrated with the kind of pictures I draw whenever Cookie yells at me to draw with her. I'm a kindred spirit, in other words. I would like to frame some of the drawings as iconic moments in my life, like this one.

And this one -- when did she break into my living room to draw this? 

-East End Mama

Still Point of the Turning World

I came across this review in the NY Times and had to read it. But I am
scared to read the book. This woman’s writing had previously captivated me
in her 2011 article where she called herself a Dragon Mother in response to
Amy Chua’s novel (which I briefly wrote about here).

As I said, I am definitely scared to read Rapp’s book. She is brave, but her bravery makes me
intensely sad — and worried. Can reading about her troubles manifest them in my own life?
Stupid, I know, but these are exactly the type of crazy-momisms that she had to completely
abandon to care for her son. From what little I have read from her and about her, her journey
was about letting go. Something the average mom is just not equipped to do on the large scale
she is on.

Maybe one day I can honour her and read her book; she deserves that much. SO many of us
moms are writing and talking endlessly about potties and napping — she deserves a space too.
Her journey is not ours and therefore terrifies us all (or me, at least).


-Tightrope Mama

Sloppy Seconds

With W I read all the books, I sleep trained him. I nap trained him. I taught him sign language. I NEVER turned on the TV when he was awake. With LouLou… I feed her.

I love her, of course, but I have given very little thought to her play development, her tummy
time, and her nap schedule. As I write this she is breaking every “sleep rule” there is. She fell
asleep in her car seat, so I woke her up, nursed her back to sleep, and left her passed out on
the couch! As I glance over at her, she looks completely blissed out. All milked up, Mommy
nearby, and no cold, lonely crib in sight. I suppose there is something to the whole birth order
argument that says second children are typically mellower than the first. (Right, that is a thing,
right?)

LouLou is a happy baby; she is lovely, seriously a pure joy. She rarely cries. She rarely fusses.
She sleeps all night (since birth) and all she ever really wants is for me to pick her up and talk
to her. I really feel like I have won the lottery, but I do have moments where I think, Oh my god,
she has NEVER been in her crib. She has only Jolly Jumped twice. She doesn’t know how
to sign “milk.” How will she survive? I know this may sound funny, but I am kind of serious.
Her whole life is just running parallel to our lives. I feel — wait for it — guilty. I regularly skip
playgroups and opt for a mommy movie over a child-friendly drop in every time.

But through all this perceived “neglect,” she smiles. This is the lesson of baby #2: they don’t
need much. They just need you. Obvious, I know. But as a new mom I never would have
believed this. I would have argued that simply accompanying you is not enough. A life without
structure is nothing at all. Oh, how silly I was. When you have a husband, a toddler, two
businesses, and every household task on your plate, baby is along for the ride. I comfort myself
by thinking about how much she is absorbing about how strong her mommy is. She is soaking
in female empowerment by witnessing me doing bank deposits or talking to staff while she
snoozes in a Baby Bjorn. Right?

She is happy, after all; this I know. She is sleeping like a baby… Maybe I should go join her.


-Tightrope Mama

[image: painting by Elizabeth Norse (1860-1938), via marvelous kiddo]

Fabric of Life

I went on a silent retreat a couple of months back. It was completely silent for three
days. I had a very busy 2012, with a number of up and downs that left me tired and
confused. So I was referred to this retreat. It ended up being the best experience I have
had to date.

It was the first time I would be away from Lo for more than 24 hours. My partner would
have to fend for both of them and, yes, I was worried.

My partner thought it would be a great idea to drive me to the retreat with Lo. A kind of
last hurrah! The weather was horrible, Lo was tired, I was dealing with a crisis at work,
and we fought the whole way…right up to the front door of the silent retreat.

Ironic.

As I walked into the retreat, I was bombarded by silence. Quiet, beautiful silence.

The first 24 hours I just slept and ate. Literally! I was surrounded by other people, but it
did not make a difference; we were all there with a common purpose, which was silence.
There was a sense of freedom that I had never experienced. There was a sense of
comfort in the silence. There was no judgment, no awkward moments, no social faux
pas, no fake smiles. I could go on and on.

As I was coming to the end of the weekend, I sat in a room on my own, writing in my
journal and reflecting on the weekend, my life, and what I would do when I returned
home to maintain a bit of silence in my life.

Once I was picked up by my partner and Lo, I realized that, first off, silence is impossible
without actually carving out the time to be in silence. I also realized that I love the noises
of my life — the good and the bad.

It became very clear to me that the different noises and experiences we have create
the fabric of our life. I am finally beginning to figure out how to have a bit balance and
include a bit of colour from all aspects of the colour wheel.

And yes, my fabric is colourful.


-Gray Mama

[image: Grandma's Quilt, by Rachel Caldwell]

Are We Really This Miserable?

Recently I read a couple of books by Amy Sohn, Prospect Park West and its somewhat-sequel,
Motherland. I was told that they were smart, sexy novels that told the truth about parenthood,
or something like that. I can’t remember; all I know is that they were on my TBR (to-be-read, for
those who haven’t had a spare moment to read in the last several years, and I know that’s most
moms reading this) list, and so I put them on hold at the library, and then one day they arrived
and I read them. I place a priority on reading for myself as well as Cookie, but that doesn’t mean
there’s any real logic to what I read.

Anyhow, I found these novels to be fascinating on many levels. They present a witty and spot-
on view of parenthood in many respects, but they’re also heartbreaking, or at least for me they
were. No one is happy! The parents are miserable or deluded or bored or medicated. They’re
middle class or upper middle class or Hollywood royalty but relentlessly unsatisfied with their
social and real estate positions. They’re untrusting of and hostile to their partners and fellow
parents. They’re sexually and professionally unsatisfied. Their children are afterthoughts, yet
their lives are now defined by them. In the second book, some find a measure of happiness, but
at substantial costs, and a long way from the idealistic view of family life they started out with.

Sound familiar? I hope not, but I’m sure there are some things that aren’t far off.

Reading these, I started to think about my own life as a mother. Sure, I’m frequently bored by
the daily grind of parenting and worried about my relationship with my husband and preoccupied
with my identity and scared of other mothers, but am I miserable and unsatisfied? Are the
mothers I know this secretly unhappy, the fathers this desperate for escape? Do we have to
change everything we know and worked for, everything that society expects of us, just to be
happy? Of course not, and that’s the luxury of fiction, to take these assumptions as far as
possible, but one of the purposes of fiction is to turn a critical eye to society — in this case the
ridiculousness of being wholly absorbed by $800 strollers and playground etiquette and organic
snacks — and open our eyes to other possibilities. I didn’t learn a lot about myself or my fellow
parents from these books — they are for entertainment, after all — but I was reminded that most
parents out there are just as insecure and uncomfortable as I am. It’s ridiculous to be scared of
the scowly moms at the playground, since they’re only scowling because they’re just as afraid of
the judgment and negativity we heap on each other.

I also learned that blurbs and reviews can be misleading when the topic hits too close to home.
The books were described as “the perfect beach book,” “hilarious and juicy,” and a “look at
the private lives of hip, urban parents.” Part of the point is that the parents of this particular
neighbourhood in Brooklyn are for the most part unhip — they may have once been, but in
becoming parents they’ve turned into rundown, child-obsessed granola moms. Although fun, I
didn’t find the books hilarious or fluffy enough for beach reads. They were too believable (for the
most part) to be laugh-out-loud funny, and I became too involved in the characters’ lives to revel
in their situations — which is remarkable, considering most of the characters were reasonably
unlikeable. And too familiar, enough that you recognize bits of yourself in all of them and cringe.

But I did enjoy them and would recommend them for anyone who has the time. They reminded
me of the comically bleak picture of parenthood Updike created in the seventies, with their
small-town malaise and competitive parenting and random adultery. These books are a
thoughtful and clever send-up of our own parenting era. And they’re smart and sexy and fun, so
that’s okay too.


-East End Mama

Discipline and Sexuality

I have been reading up on sexuality for children as of late as my young little Lo
is challenging me in a number of ways. I have been reading The Discipline Book
by William Sears and Martha Sears. I have been reviewing Chapter
18, “Building Healthy Sexuality,” so that I can understand my little Lo’s sexual
urges and masturbation on a daily basis.

So I came across this section of the chapter:

“How a child is disciplined affects, for better or worse, his or her future attitudes
toward sex.”

This sentence stopped me in my tracks!

What does this mean? So the way that we discipline our children informs our
children’s sexuality. I am at a loss. I am now thinking about everything I have
done so far around discipline with Lo. I am also thinking about my own childhood
and my own current sexual life…and to be honest I am freaking out!

The chapter continues to explain:

“Children who receive attachment parenting learn to love and trust because they
have been loved and trusted. A infant who spends many hours a day in arms and
at breast learns to be comfortable touching and being touched.”

So with regards to Lo, this makes me feel really good. Lo was breastfed until he
was 18 months. Even though my mother has shared with me that my “late-term
breastfeeding” has made him “too sexual.” Because he knows what a penis and
a “bagina” are, and he likes to touch his penis and explore others body parts too!

But…when I think of my own childhood, I quiver. I read the rest of the blurb and
die:

“The child who grows up with harsh, abusive correction may take on the abusive
characteristics of the parents or unconsciously look for those qualities in a mate.
The child whose expressivity is squelched by overcontrolling parents may have
difficulty expressing adult sexuality or may use sex as a tool to control or be
controlled by others.”

Okay…so what does this mean for me — what in the hell does this mean for me?
My parents’ generation did not breastfeed, was afraid of physical contact, did
not have intimacy, did not share intimacy with their children — everything was
“private,” and basically my sexual education was left to our gym teachers. I am
basically f*#$ed up sexually.

Thank goodness Lo is fine.


-Gray Mama

[image: from stage show Eonnagata, via thestar.com]

Pooping in the Potty

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you may have gleaned that my
“household” (I use the term lightly) has some challenges with pooping. Things
have definitely improved, but now that we are at the stage of peeing on the potty
fairly regularly, I’m working with the Guppins to poop on the toilet. For one, I think
it’s easier for her. Sitting rather than standing. And it sure makes cleaning her
bum less of a production number, not to mention the improved smell, etc.

However, she doesn’t like sitting on the toilet. She’d rather hide in a corner and
poop in her pull-up. (Which is an improvement from holding it in.)

For both issues, this book helps: It Hurts When I Poop. A Story for Children Who
Are Scared to Use the Potty, by Howard J Bennet MD, illustrated by M.S. Weber.

The first time I read it to her, she was a little young (two years). The book uses
a metaphorical narrative of a coyote named Bill who hoards trash, and there’s
also an imaginary dinosaur world that the little boy operates through. The timing
is better now that she is closing in on three. She loves the book, and relates to it,
and its images.

I recommend this book for parents facing down the painful problem of “holding
it in” and fear of the toilet. I would caution parents against this book if your child
has never withheld poop, because, as with the Caillou series, you may give your
child some unwanted ideas (they may engender a problem in your child that is
not already there: fear of daycare, fear of the dentist, fear of pooping).

The book also offers up helpful dietary choices in a way that your child can see
and enjoy (I recommend putting flax meal in cereal or porridge every morning,
and pear juice over apple juice). The book also offers some fun things to do, like
putting Play-Doh in a plastic bag and pushing it out a pre-cut hole in the corner.
Doing this is supposed to help your child with imaging. You can see the Guppins
and I having a great deal of fun with this in the video.

-Drama Mama

In the Name of the Father

I served W Cheerios (he’s back on to them) yesterday and he folded his hands,
mumbled something about “Thank you for the food,” and said, clear as day, “Amen.” I
shit you not.

This happened.

I must have looked shocked because the look on his face looked like one of guilt (see,
religion = guilt). But seriously, I just smiled and said, “Do you say that at school?”
He nodded and then moved on to talking about Happy Feet 2 (his latest cinematic
obsession).

Cut to: me dropping him off at daycare and asking the teachers. They said they
definitely do not say “Amen,” but they do say a little “something” that to my mind is
technically saying grace.

Here I am, 8 a.m., no bra, baby in car seat with goopy eye, W running off to the sensory
table, not sure what to do. I quickly blurted out, “It's okay, I’m not mad…maybe one of
the other kids says ‘Amen’?”

The teachers, who I genuinely like, talk to me for a few more minutes about what they
DO say and DON’T say and then they ask trepidatious, “Can he say the thank you for
the food bit?”

“Sure,” I say. “But no Amen, no.”

They nod their heads. Then they ask, “What religion are you?”

Oh fuck, here we go. I say, after a pause. “We are nothing.” Well, that didn’t come out
right.

I need to interject here that I was raised Roman Catholic. No bones about it, I was a
reader at church, I went to mass, I was in youth group, the whole nine yards. And you
know what? It was fun. The worst part about it was getting out of bed on Sundays. (I
used to beg my mom to let us stay home and watch TV!)

My husband was baptised but that is the end of it for him, and we were not married in
the church. Although my Catholic upbringing (by my mom only — my dad was “nothing”)
was enjoyable and did shape who I am today, I am just not interested in introducing that
lifestyle to my kids. I don’t want to half-ass it either and only go at Easter and Christmas.
I think you are in or you are out. So we are out, and as a result, “nothing.”

I thought I had a few years (at least until kindergarten) to tackle these big questions. Will
my kids be okay without the compass of the beatitudes? Will they be charitable? Will
they enjoy stale bread and sour wine? So many questions…

Without really delving in to it all, I disagree with a lot of the Catholic churches ideas
— on homosexuality, no women clergy, and abortion, to name only a few. But even
with those reservations, I sometimes battle with teaching them “nothing.” I was defined
by religion and beliefs for a long time. What will define them? Ballet? Music? Is this
possible?

Who knew that one little word could open up years of questions?


-Tightrope Mama

Mommy, I Don’t Want to Wear a Diaper to Bed

“Mommy, I don’t want to wear a diaper to bed. It hurts. See?”

“Please leave it on. I’ll loosen it a bit for you.”

“I don’t want to wear a diaper. I want to sleep nakies.”

“Do we really have to talk about this now?”

“I have an idea. You take the white thing off the doorknob, turn on Tinkerbell, I
will use the toilet.”

“I have an idea. If you can get through the night without peeing, I will consider.”

“I need to use the toilet!”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes!”

“Okay. But then it’s lights out, okay?”

“Okay.”

Trudge trudge, grumble grumble, hoist hoist, pssssssssssss…

“Wow, you really had to pee.”

Flush trudge hoist, grasp grope fasten.

“Let’s put your jammy pants on.”

“I don’t want to wear a diaper.”

“I’ll tell you what. You get through the night without peeing in your diaper, we’ll
talk about it.”

“Mommy. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Okay, but then it’s lights out, okay?”

“I have an idea. You take the white thing off the doorknob, turn on Tinkerbell, and
open the door.”

“Honey, once you are asleep I will turn on the Tinkerbell night light, and when I
go to bed I will open the door, close the baby gate, and open my door so you can
come sleep with me. But first Mommy has stuff to do.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Click. Sing sing sing. Snore snore snore. Tip toe…

“Mommy, turn on Tinkerbell.”

“Go to sleep!”

“Rub my back.”

Sing sing, snore snore, iPhone iPhone, tip toe tip toe, plug plug bing, creak,
creep, shoooop.

Twist twist pop, glug glug, sip sip aaah…..

Click… “Welcome to The Bachelor…” glug glug, droop droop, drag ass, open
doors, click baby gate, snore snore.

Time passes…

“Mommy! The sun came back!”

“Morning, baby. Hey, let’s feel your diaper.”

Grope pull swipe swipe.

“Dry! Guppins! You’re toilet training Mommy, aren’t you?”

“Yah!”

Drive drive, ka-ching ka-ching: Training pants!


-Drama Mama

[image: Sunrise, 1965 by Roy Lichtenstein]

Dread Time

Anyone who’s read this blog knows that J-man has been a poor sleeper since day one (literally).
And bedtime in our house is anything but fun. We went through every sleep book known to
mom, every sleep technique, and what seemed like hundreds of hours of screaming and crying.

At almost three years old things, are not much better. Okay, they are, but they are still not good.
Potty training has added a new incarnation of sleep problem. In the last week or so, almost
every night, right after we’ve done the potty routine, the bath routine, put on the diaper and PJs,
and got into snuggle mode, he starts.

“Mama, I have to go pee.”

Usually I say, “You already did,” but if he hasn’t I turn on the lights, undo the diaper, and start
again. Over the last two nights, when I’ve said, “You peed already,” he’s moved into “I have to
poop.” It’s total nonsense! But we’re potty training, so what do I do?

As with all things, I try to make my call day by day. What I don’t do is give him his LeapPad —
which his dad gives him on the potty if he is going to poop. Last night I refused to let him go.
And this morning there was no poop.

My little devil, as usual, is totally manipulating me and stalling going to bed. It’s the thing I like
best about being a mom. I think I understand why my mom was so sharp. Kids keep you on
your toes. And when you think you’ve got it figured out, they change course. Before it was
blanket on, blanket off, “My blanket fell out of the crib,” “I need water,” and when that didn’t
work, now it’s potty time. Tricky little buggers.

-Sleepwalking Mama

[image: Bedtime by Britt Appleton]