dearest daughters

150 Words: Sometimes, when I'm bored, I narrate my life.

The smell of excrement hangs in the air. Particles, rushing to escape the confines of the blue room, fill my nostrils as they whir past.

There she lay. Unconscious. In a puddle of her own creation. The sheets soaked.

Standing at the threshold, I hesitate. Just a moment.

A moment of decision. Of indecision. Whether to back out slowly, pretend this never happened, close the door on the damp despair. To let sleeping dogs lie. Lead someone else to believe they happened upon this discovery first.

Or.

To find the strength. The fortitude. The stomach. The compassion or pity, even. To make this right. Dispose of the evidence. Erase this indiscretion. And the smell. From the blue room. From her body. From my memory.

And I step forward, to take on the task. I peel back the sheets, the clothes. And dress her in dignity, relentless love and clean princess panties.

Because.

I love you no matter what,

Back to Basics: Re-Sleep Training

Dearest Daughters,

This "morning" began at 1:00am, when roused from my sleep, a baby began screaming somewhere. Daddy was playing video games, so I could hardly pretend not to hear it. I got out of bed to comfort you, to keep you from waking your sister, with every intention to pat your back and lay you back down.

But, you sure got the best of me. And your daddy too once I returned to bed and he tried to hold your screaming, flailing body until you fell asleep again. In my sleepy and annoyed haze, hearing your dad's frustration in his battle to quiet you, feeling your relentless screaming reverberate in my bones, knowing that merely reaching my arms out to you would end it all, I got back out of bed.

And I did all I could think to do at the moment: I "rescued" you.

While you were instantly soothed and fell asleep against my chest, your daddy and I were both as grumpy as hell. He was frustrated that I didn't let him handle it and, consequently, enabled you, made things worse, deprived him of the opportunity to teach you the lesson that Daddy is Just As Good As Mommy. I was frustrated that you were both frustrated.

And I thought-screamed into the night, as I sat on the couch with you in the dark living room, tears welling in my eyes, tired and frustrated, your dad having stormed off, you looking all smug and asleep: WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING TO MYSELF? WHO AM I? AND WHAT HAPPENED TO MY CARDINAL PARENTING RULE?

Teach your baby to sleep.

It became so crystal clear. I snuffled your sweet, sweaty baby head and decided: this ends HERE and NOW. IT'S ON, DANJO. (Or BACK ON, rather.)

Babybel, we didn't have to sleep train you per se. You did what came naturally. To you, at least.

Danjo, on the other hand, has been a good, but light sleeper. We did have to sleep train you at around four months. For all of our sakes. And it was easy enough. With consistent parental messaging. After a couple of nights, you figured out we weren't going to come rescue you and learned to put yourself back to sleep in your crib. The only challenge was that you two share a room. And sometimes Danjo's crying (even before sleep training) would result in two inconsolable babies piled on top of me on a toy-strewn floor in the middle of the night.

(the shared accommodations work well for fort-building)

But, we quickly figured out that Bel, being the determined sleeper that you are, could easily be transported to the living room couch for the duration of the night.

The past few months have been a slippery slope of sleep training regression--laziness, ear infections, teething, your maternal preferences, the fact that you're so cuddly (and non-destructive) when you're nestled in my arms, etc.--things that made it seem easier to just pull Danjo into bed with me or sleep with you on the couch when you occasionally awoke in the middle of the night.

I have to apologize, because it's really not your fault. Sleep-training is a joint effort and you were doing great until I stopped holding up my end of the deal. So, last night, ahem, this morning, I got back to basics.

It sounds insane, but I made sure you were somewhat awake when I put you in your crib. I couldn't put you down sleeping, you'd just wake up again, freaking out that you weren't in my arms anymore.

The screaming ensued.

I picked up Bel and tucked you in on the couch. You muttered something about the Little Mermaid. And I just told you that I was putting you on the couch to sleep so that your sister wouldn't bother you with her crying.

"Okay," you said. And that was that.

Danjo, you screamed in your room with the door shut for about a half hour. And you probably killed a lot of brain cells.

Your dad was worried you'd hurt yourself, as we heard the crib rails rattling.

"The worst that happens is she'll hysterically throw up all over herself. And we'll clean it up in the morning." And I admitted the Sleep Re-Training of 2012 might have been a bit easier if I hadn't started in the middle of the night after two rescues by two different parents.

Oh well.

But, once you were asleep, you slept for the rest of the night. Or morning, I should say. And when we woke up for our second dose of morning, you didn't seem like you had less brain cells, you weren't abnormally cranky, you didn't love me any less.

In fact, you spoke your first sentence this morning: "No, Dan-nell! Go! Time-ow!"

So you can put yourself in time out? But you can't put yourself back to sleep?

We'll see about that. Tonight. Same time. Same place.

(I hope they have insurance to cover the damage. Of their fort. Or their brain cells.)

Love you no matter what,

Ramblings: employment news, my stay at home parenting worries, attempting to keep ourselves occupied.

Dearest Daughters,

It's about time I told you that pretty soon I'm going to become a full time stay at home parent--if only for a couple of months before I'm driven insane and/or penniless and into the arms of some form of employment. I'm crossing my fingers that won't happen.

The truth is: I'm lazy. Or that's how our capitalist, dual earner household society might view me. And if I never had to conventionally work for money another day in my life, I'd be content. On the other hand I have this urge to be "productive"--it's both innate and a societal pressure.

I want dearly to be able to spend my days playing and making art with you girls. Rolling around in the grass or dirt. So, I look forward to being able to spend ALL my time at home with you. Particularly those precious mid-morning hours, when we're all at our best.

I'm nervous about this transition. And the internal struggles I have with myself over "getting things done" versus "enjoying my kids" versus "having time for myself" versus "teaching my kids to entertain themselves."

This also means that we'll have to take Babybel out of school, which is a mere two mornings a week. And while you certainly benefit from the activities and play and structure and social opportunities provided by preschool, you are the type of child who will do fine in any environment you're in.

I can't really get a grasp on what "worries" me about being at home full time. I guess that I fear that I won't like it. That we'll all get bored or have tantrums or end up watching television all day. And the house will still be a mess. And I'll forget to feed you or give you water. And we'll all just be starving and dehydrated and cranky. And wet our pants.

Or something like that.

Sometimes when I post things on this blog or on Facebook describing our day, the People praise my parenting--the activities and opportunities that I provide for my children.

But the truth is: as much as I do it for you, multiply that times a thousand and that's how much I do it for myself. Really, People.

Lolopop, hearing about your recent watercolor bath, declared, "What a good Mommy you have! We just threw our kids in the tub and hosed them down."

To which I replied, "It doesn't take that much. I just give them the paints and make sure the water's warm and sit there for an hour." And we're all happy. In my measure, the supposed "effort" is worth not yelling at my children all day.

It's not so much what you girls need so much as what I need to get through my day. I have no discipline. And I like to call Lola and ask her, "So? What are you doing today?" And as long as we're all occupied, we make it to the end of the day unscathed. But, when there's no discernible objective to our day, I feel sort of lost and bored and like we desperately muddle through our day, me perpetually throwing toys and food in your general direction, feeling like I can't make anyone happy, attempting to avoid meltdown.

I need a routine.

I need go-tos. Outings, activities, snacks.

Auntie Katherine gave us a couple of books awhile back when I communicated this exact sentiment to her; the need for Sanity Preserving Time Occupying Not Television Related But Easy As Pie Go To Activities.

I highly recommend these books; your library might have a copy.

First Art: Art Experiences for Toddlers and Twos

Preschool Art: It's the Process, Not the Product

This morning's activity, as simple, as messy, as duh as it seems, came from the first book. Just so the People don't start to thinking I'm as amazing of a parent as my Facebook page lets on.

Working with the materials while you wait for Mommy to hurry up and make the paste already.

Danjo explores her materials.

Signing: "more" paste? (To eat, of course!)

Art is a process. Inclusive of clean up.

Love you,

I write this from a toilet.

Dearest Daughters,

An original haiku for you this afternoon, as I sit on a (lidded) toilet, supervising contained, harmonious play:

Painting in the bath
Two birds, one stone, endless fun.
Water's cold. Oh well.

Love,
Mommy

Killing Baby Brain Cells: Show Me the Bar Graph

Dearest Daughters,

There's new research published in Psychology Today by Darcia Narvaez that shows that letting a baby "cry it out" like we did with you two is, basically, THE WORST THING EVER IN THE WORLD. Exclamation point!

So. One thing. She's talking about crying, in general. Not, specifically "crying it out" or even, at bedtime, which most of the Internet discussion seems to be focusing on. Because people want to feel justified that the way they did something was the RIGHT way. There's no right way.

And, Dear Internet: I don't just let my children sit in dirty diapers and cry all day. But, I do let them cry at night. Gasp!

Firstly, stop worrying about the research: your children will be awesome

We, American parents, read and worry about EVERYTHING. Well, except for the ones who don't. And it's a great American irony that the privileged, well-informed (and usually well-educated) parents like me are the ones reading the research about putting babies to sleep on their backs or how abusive it is to let babies cry it out. Meanwhile, the parents who have the most to benefit from The Latest Greatest Research, don't have the time or the opportunities to learn why breastfeeding is good or why you shouldn't feed a baby soda from a bottle or why just talking to your child is the least and most you can do for them.

There is a lot of early childhood information that overflows our bookstores and computer monitors. And if you are from a demographic that reads that information, that has books in the house, that talks to your kid and worries about feeding it healthy food, then I say calm the fuck down. Your children will be awesome. No matter what.

Well, that's my approach at least. If I skip a day of reading to Bel, if I haven't taught her the ABC's and she can only count to ten at the age of three, it's not the end of the world. Granted, she has no discernible learning disability. That would be another story. But, she's going to turn out alright and read at grade level and go to college, simply because of the demographic circumstances she was born into. Recognizing this, is recognizing your privilege.

But, back to sleep.

Ancestral Parenting

Narvaez notes that there is an "ancestral parenting" approach that our society has lost. I have two self-contradicting points about this. Because I like to contradict and debate with myself. I'm crazy like that.

Personal Entertainment Devices

Dearest Daughters,

There is a large round terra cotta planter that sits on our front porch. It once held a tomato plant. That never thrived. Then, when we moved it to our new home, we planted flowers in it. Except they never bloomed.

So, it has mostly served as a dirt box. Like a sand box, except filled with dirt.

Over the past year, you girls have poked and dug, watered and emptied, covered yourselves in potting soil.

Today, you discovered a couple of whole peanuts beneath the soil.

I really have no idea, but I BS'ed that, "maybe a squirrel dug a hole to hide them there until winter." Because isn't that the dominant squirrel narrative perpetuated by children's literature and those squirrel LOLs that are forwarded to you by your Great Aunt Mildred?

And that would have been all well and good, until you started talking about the nuts.

The "pea-nits" you called them.

"Look, Mommy, I found peanits. I have A LOT of peanits. That's a BIG pea-nits. Oh no! The pea-nits are broken!"

And like good parents, your father and I giggled every time you pronounced the word "peanut" like a part of the male anatomy.

Because if children these days are good for nothing else, you can at least count on them for the occasional chuckle. Or. If you're lucky, a hearty guffaw.

 

 Love,

Have I Told You Tuesday: Play With Your Balls

Dearest Daughters,

While your dad is somewhat of a perpetual child, I've always been old.

Great Grandma Gibbs has said that, like your Great Grandpa Gibbs, I was "born old."

Thank you very much for making me feel better about myself, Lady Gaga, I was born this way.

I spent most of my childhood in the laps of adults, sitting around the dining room table, ear-hustling and absorbing. While other kids were building towers and making messes, I was indexing, observing, chronicling the adult world.

I got rid of my toys when I was ten. The big One-Zero. Double digits and all. Cause that's how I roll, yo.

I diverge.

When I did play with your Unkinan, it was usually a pretend play scenario where we had been orphaned and had to survive on our own as emancipated adults. In a stylishly appointed loft apartment.

In Serious Town, USA, of course.

Once in awhile I'd have a lapse. And I'd pull out a toy. Or try on an old Halloween costume. Or play with balls.

Looking back, I can't say I regret it. I am who I am. And any amount of adults telling me to "enjoy my childhood" wouldn't have stopped me from boxing up my stuffed animals and sending them to Goodwill.

Some people are deprived a childhood. They make bad choices or are dealt a hand that forces them into adulthood.

That, was certainly not my case.

So, in that light, I can say that I took my childhood for granted. I was unnecessarily eager to rush out of fluffy floral dresses and spinning in circles all day.

I watch you girls. Spinning in circles in the front yard. Jumping, laughing, poking things with sticks, full of joy. And I wish and hope in vain that you'll never stop. That you'll get so dizzy, you'll barf and stay a kid forever.

Time will tell how you'll approach your childhood, but I sure hope it's at a snail's pace. And that you'll keep playing with your balls.

My new mantra:

Slow down, enjoy life, play with balls.

I might have to cross stich that wisdom on a throw pillow (ala Subversive Cross Stitch).

Love you no matter what. But, I'll love you more if you stay babies forever.

Love,

Death By Raccoon and Other Sources of Guilt

Dearest Daughters,

This morning, I went outside to check on the chickens. I really can't say that I was doing this "as usual." Our chicken maintenance schedule is a little lax.

I go out to get eggs every day, but never at a consistent time. When I do, the chickens might get fresh food, or water, sometimes both. Depends on how many children were left inside playing with matches.

When I went out this morning to throw them some kitchen scraps, la di da di da, I reached to open up the human-sized door to their run. And at my ankles OUTSIDE OF THE RUN was my poor little Chicken Katsu. She rushed that door like a Tweener at the Walmarts Justin Bieber perfume display on Black Friday.

But, Gold Rush? My dear sweet Gold Rush?

Important Announcement

Dearest Daughters,

This announcement is long overdue.

But, guys, I can not emphasize this enough. There are not enough bold, underlines, italics, capital letters or exclamation points in the world to express the following fact:

DANJO WALKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Was that sort of anti-climactic? Since many of our beloved voyeurs, I mean, readers, have already spotted Danjo Destructo strutting her stuff on the streets of San Leandro.

The reason I have been remiss to announce this Very Important Developmental Milestone which began about a week ago is quite simple really. If you've ever had a child who has started walking or if you ever were one, you know that there is no ON/OFF switch. Oh, there are different modes: walking, running, falling, turning in circles, etc.

So, as you can imagine, I've been spending my days hiding in my room.

What!? You think I should be chasing Danjo around? Making sure she doesn't trip or bump her head or run into the street?

Nonsense!

This child is an expert walker.

Evidence:

Did you catch the running? The dancing? The running AND dancing? Her turning radius? She corners on a dime! And the complete lack of stumbles, trips or falls?

I've said it before: Danjo knew how to walk, she just didn't want to for her own reasons. Which I won't press her on. I have to give her some space, you know. Out of respect. For her process. And stuff.

She just woke up one day and was all: "Hey, I'm gonna start walking, okay?"

It was nice of her to ask for permission, or my blessing at least, but you and I both know, I couldn't stop her. A girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do.

I just hope she's making good choices out there.

If you see her, let me know. Because I'm still in my room, hiding under a pile of unfolded laundry.

Love,

Tips for Baby Feeding Magic: Negligence

Thanks to Plum Organics for sponsoring my post about tips for baby feeding magic. What if you let baby choose what's for dinner? Check out their cute "Quest for Yum!" video and see what happens!

Dearest Daughters,

I've written before about the angst a parent like me (read: educated, wealthy American) can experience when it comes to the food we put in our babies' mouths.

In concept and theory, I worry. But, when it comes to the day-to-day, general care and maintenance of my brood, I'm a no fuss Mommy.

Recently, on Facebook, a friend expressed her concern about being oblivious to her daughter's erupting tooth. Oh, the negligence!

I responded: "Negligent parents are a good thing. They spend less time worrying and more time enjoying life."

This is my general philosophy towards parenting.

Here are a few more of my specific philosophies when it comes to feeding my children: