Taken 5 short minutes after the poop gods took revenge
They must have heard me COMPLAINING about Bean's lack of poopy diapers, and acted swiftly with the most sticky, abundant pile possible. Hence the impromptu bath.
Letters To A Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke
I can't give you any advice but this; to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question of whether you must create.
In college, my girlfriends and I would sit around late at night drinking Merlot or green tea and reading excerpts aloud. It spoke to us then about our situation in the world--attempting to love men who were never quite good enough for us, while striving to remain wholly creative and independent. I just re-read it again recently, cover to cover in an afternoon. Now it speaks to the writer in me. Gives me hope that because I can't live without writing, I will write. That comitting myself to this process is a means to an end, and the end both, at once. Rilke's words in this short collection of letters are profound, searing, and yet simple. This is an advice book, before advice books existed. Nearer to the heart, without any of the pretence and promise of success that newer books in this genre bear, nearly every page has markings--underlined scribbles, dog-eared edges. Too good to write about without letting the writing speak for itself.
I give in
I used to laugh, reading other mama blogger’s posts because at a certain point they all seemed to dwell on the topic of either boobs or poop, both of which were things I was sure I would NEVER HAVE THE NEED OR DESIRE TO WRITE ABOUT. Oooh, how wrong I was. And I can tell this is only the beginning, isn't it? The beginning of all things baby that I am going to say, "I am sure I'll NEVER do that," about, and then do just the opposite when confronted with the actual situation. But seriously people, the stuff of new-mamaness is apparently all about boobs and poop. Ooh ye non-mamas out there beware, lest ye be fooled into believing that parenthood involves things like woodland hikes, profound thoughts, family naps and the joys of tasting watermelon for the first time--because really, in the end of it all, EVERYTHING WILL COME BACK TO BOOBS OR POOP.
Now that I've succumbed to this rather depressing fact, I am thrilled to report my boob is back to it's previous non-painful state. Something has regrettably been re-wired in me however, and now I am compelled to tell you about the fact that Bean has been doing this whole "I'm going to save my poop up--and not poop for two weeks, and then christen you with my miraculous pooping volcano" routine lately, and it's getting really old.
Round about the time he turned 4.5 months he basically quit pooping on a regular basis, without any prior notice and no apparent discomfort. Of course, everything we read everywhere said that IT'S PERFECTLY OKAY NOT TO POOP FOR FOURTEEN DAYS--if you're a breastfeeding baby that is. But seriously, how can that really be okay? But our DR. (who is the greatest lady to ever wear a white coat, and whose thinking falls in line with ours when it comes to the whole wait to immunize bit, and the try natural remedies before going for the drugs routine) seemed less than concerned. And it's not all bad. Going without poopy diapers is never really bad, is it?
But a new side affect of the whole poop boycott seems to be THE STINKIEST GAS IN THE WORLD. Bean's bottom SMELLS LIKE POOP, even when there is no poop, so I'm not sure how much of an improvement the whole no-poop thing is really is. And oooh, when he actually gets around to pooping, it's no longer just a pretty diaper full (did I really just say pretty and diaper in the same sentence??) It is an eruption. It is POOP GATE. It is the scandalous, never ending, "oh my god he just pooped for five minutes straight" kind of poop that seems to occur uncannily when I'm the only one around and DH is off running errands, naive and clean and unmarred by our baby's incredible pooping hiney.
If there is a patron saint for new mamas somewhere out there, please tell her to address the whole poop thing for me, would you? Let her know that I'm groveling in shame for ever assuming I'd be able to avoid writing obsessively about poop--but that I'd really like to get on with things now.
Finding my place
It was Bean's first time in the Sherpani backpack we got for him. And his eyes were wide as DH moved along the trail under low hanging branches, past bright berried bushes, and overgrown thickets of ferns. We want him to grow up with the deep love for the outdoors that we share. We want him to grow up feeling like he belongs to the earth: that he is a part of it, not separate from the wildness of the beaver or the dragonfly.
Like snuggling a whirling dervish
Note the foot in the background :) Clearly adds to the photo, now doesn't it? I must learn more photoshop.
I guess I had it coming: the inevitable boob post
I woke up yesterday morning with a searing headache and the worst pain I've ever felt in my left breast. Like hot coals. Turns out I have mastitis--a milk duct infection, caused I'm sure by my improper bra wearing techniques. I'm one of those moms who took a violent dislike to nursing bras right from the start. Consequently, I wear regular ones, (sizes larger than any of my pre-pregnant pretty bras which now sit forlornly in my bottom drawer) and hoist the bra cup up over my boob when Bean nurses, rather than serenely unsnapping the cup like any good LLL mother wearing an appropriately boat like nursing bra would do. Clearly, this has been my downfall. That and fervent outdoor activity. But, following the blithe advice from the book of all books on this subject I took a hot shower and tried to relax. But seriously, do these ladies live in the same world I do??? "If at all possible," the book states, "you should climb into bed with the baby tucked beside you for the rest of the day. At the very least you should eliminate all extra activities and spend an hour or two relaxing with your baby at your breast and feet off the floor."
CLIMB INTO BED WITH THE BABY TUCKED BESIDE YOU? Do they know what this looks like with an eager and inquisitive almost six month old? Do they know the endless squirming that ensues? The wriggling, the kicking, the hair pulling and boob grabbing? Are they aware that no six month old is willing to cuddle in bed for an entire day when there is so much to learn about and explore and grab hold of. Perhaps I am the only mother in the world who doesn't love the exquisitely painful feeling of little sharp fingernails digging into my cheek while I have a migraine. That and being kicked in my infected breast, repeatedly, feels delightful, let me assure you.
After an hour or two of attempted "wlimination of all extra activities" I called my doctor whimpering, and she phoned in a prescription of antibiotics to the local pharmacy. I'm not a big antibiotic fan. I've read too much about growing immunity from over use of antibiotics for common ailments, including viral infections such as ear aches, where antibiotics are incapable of doing anything at all. But sometimes, on occasion, I am incredibly grateful to live in a country with advanced medicine and easy access to such things as amoxicillin. Within hours, the headache that felt like a little gnome was smashing pottery in my head had dissipated, and by evening, I started to feel like a normal human being again.
I'm all for cuddling with my little guy. But I prefer to do it when I can take his abundant energy and verve for life. This morning it was wonderful to wake up feeling like myself again, and spend time reading him books in bed, using my husband as our head rest. I am all about the "extra activities." The late evening bike rides along the lake, the morning walks to the farmers market, the hikes, the adventures around town. These things make me feel much more whole than lying in bed ever does. It's been enough of a transition to realize I'm virtually NEVER ALONE anymore. I've got Bean with me nearly all day. Getting outdoors is my sanity. Where is the book that's written for mamas like me? Mamas who breastfeed and stay at home, but who still are still active and adventurous and not willing at all to put our feet up all day.
Operating Instructions, Anne Lamott
The book that made me feel sane, during those early weeks of baby when I could do nothing more than stagger about, nurse, and gasp for water. Lamott is funny, poignant and accurate. My copy (paperback) is dog-eared and marked with pen. And, for the record, it's one of maybe a half dozen books I've ever read twice (once while I was pregnant, and again when Bean was born). Edgy, reverent, and slap-stick, reading this memoir of Lamott's first year with her Sam, is like having someone make you tea and rub your feet while riding a roller coaster. Both comforting and unnerving, she tells the universal story of new parenthood, but makes it uniquely her own.
Good things
The kids who run the skateboard shop down by the waterfront, grow radishes, sunflowers, tomatoes and cucumbers in their graffiti covered store window boxes. Our neighbor knocked on our door yesterday in the early afternoon. She'd brought us spanikopita she'd made from scratch. We've barely met, and talked less than a half dozen times. THIS is what neighbors should be like.
Our other neighbor, across the street, works at the bike store we frequent. He gave us a 10% discount from the first time we shopped there, just for living across the street from him. Of course, we now swap power tools, gruesome bike stories, and sidewalk conversation.
Everyone smiles here, and they act like they really mean it. Like they're smiling because they love their lives, not because it's the polite thing to do.
Almost everyone rides a bike here. I've seen every type of person riding a bike into town, along the bike path, or on the highway. I've seen punked out, goth teenagers on bikes, with more metal in their ears than I have in my silverware drawer. I've seen pro BMXers and cyclists going the distance. I've seen retirees, riding cushy up-right bikes with padded seats. I've seen ladies in skirts. A man riding a lady's bike with a bell and a basket. A hard-core chica riding a tricked out mountain bike, and the scars to prove she's worth it.
People have nice dogs here. And other people--store keepers especially--are nice to them. There are bowls of water on the street, and sometimes baskets of dog biscuits too. A town with happy dogs is a happy town, in my opinion.
Kids and adults play in the big fountain at the top of the main pedestrian only street downtown. Invariably, there are little ones squealing and soaking wet---but there are also happy young couples, kissing with their toes in the water. Or, like this morning, an old biddy of a lady with white flyaway hair and a flowered dress, who washed her flip flops off in the fountain, and then lingered there for a moment, barefoot.
People in cars slow down for pedestrians here, instead of speeding up. Even when they have the green light. And people on the sidewalks step to the side for baby strollers, and say nice things like, "Take your time, any time. Enjoy your evening," if they catch you rushing to get out of the way.
Ben & Jerry's has a weekly outdoor movie night---where they project a film onto a screen in the middle of the pedestrian walk and people bring chairs and hang out together and laugh.
The farmer's market is heaven. Taking up almost a block, booths are filled with fresh veggies, soaps, meats, and handcrafts, and everyone offers free samples. We always buy fresh flowers and a weeks worth of greens.
One-liner good things:
There is a wood-fired bagel bakery within walking distance.
There are four bakeries within walking distance from our house.
The girl in the local coffee shop already knows our drinks.
People smile at our baby.
Moms breastfeed here, in public, without making a scene. And nobody makes a scene!
The sunsets. Over the lake. Sheer beauty.
There are more than 20 miles of bike path around the city.
You can walk to a wetland from downtown and see beavers.
Live music outdoors all summer. On the street.
Sidewalk sales!
Street festivals.
The harbor
With chocolate croissants and coffee, we went to the harbor this morning and watched people walk out along the long narrow docks with supplies, getting their boats ready for the day.
View from the side of the bike path after getting a flat, with Bean in the bike trailer.
We made it back alight. DH, my personal fix-it guy, had a new tube. He used a dollar bill to patch the tire--and everything was smooth rolling.
Eating the Honey of Words, By Robert Bly
I remember exactly when I bought this book. DH and I had gone out to Nantucket the summer of my senior year in college. We went on the ferry and spent the day riding rented bikes around the island. I couldn't believe how quaint it was:shingled houses, gray from the weather and covered with rosebushes, beaches sheltered by grassy dunes, and a downtown full of little shops, including a book store where I fingered volumes of poetry, settling for this one. That night on the ferry back I remember sitting with my back up it's metal hull reading poem after poem, a certain hunger in me quenched. The span of Bly's poems in this collection (as in many of his collections) is huge: he speaks with the deeply personal voice of a man in love, caught up in nature, and then with the voice of a philosopher and activist, watching our country lurch forward, and saying words about it that might make all the difference.
Like postcards of memory on my mind:
Last night, nursing Bean I watched the wooden fish mobile from Mexico above his crib turn in slow circles, as though they were swimming in crescents through the air. The five bright sunflowers, each with rough stalks and thick green leaves, from the farmer's market for a dollar a piece, standing in a tall glass vase of water on the table.
The man I see often, his hair in long dreadlocks, with his huge Bull Mastiff who was being attacked by a Boxer off leash, screaming"Who's fucking dog is this, who's FUCKING DOG is this?" And then wiping the blood from his big dog, who was shaking, tail between his legs.
Bean grinning up at me after his morning nap: so happy to be awake in the world again, his pacifier imprinted on his cheeks.
The view from the shore at the beach near our house: college kids and families on picnic blankets, in the water, playing badminton on the grass. The smell of grills, sail boats their anchor's down, dotting the swimming area, the sky bright blue.
Bean and DH cheeks close on the beach, laughing together in the evening sunlight, trees folding shadows down around us, sand between our toes.
Cutting fresh sweet corn off the cob in the kitchen with DH after a day outdoors, making pasta with round ripe tomatoes cut into cubes and basil and sage. Then crashing gratefully into each other on the futon couch, eating dinner with the cats curled up against our knees.
