Author: R

Hello Friends!

I am happy to share the floor with my next two guest bloggers.  Though this blog is about raising children, both your own and in childcare, I thought something a little different might interest you.

I had a conversation with a friend a while back who claimed that she didn’t think a woman could be truly against having children.  She said that there was something ingrained in every woman that made her want her own family.  Though I had held this viewpoint to be true, thinking some women just suppressed the “urge” to have children and raise a family, I had been set straight by a particularly interesting friend of mine named Rebecca several years ago.  Some women, though not the majority, truly are not interested in having their own families.  Not just because their partner doesn’t want children, or because they are physically incapable, or were called to singleness, and simply say they don’t want children to deal with the pain of not being able to have their dream come true.

Because I love  kids, and because I have my own and hope to have many more, I didn’t feel I would be the best person to write this one, so, without further ado, a bit from my friend Rebecca!

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Hi.  My name is Rebecca, and I don’t want to have children.

“But… but… you’re a girl!”

Sure am.  Still don’t want any.

“You’ll change your mind when you’re older.”

I’m in my mid-thirties.  How old do I have to be before people stop saying that?

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right man.”

Well golly, don’t tell my boyfriend that he’s not the right man for me.  The last eight years will seem like a total waste!

As you might have guessed, most times someone finds out I don’t want to have children, they argue with me.  I used to get really angry about it, enraged that someone would question my convictions about my own body and my own mind.  Now that I’m older, I still don’t want children, but I’m less hostile about the question.

I believe that you (that’s the universal you) really believe that I just don’t know what I want.  In the same spirit of understanding, can’t you believe that I might just know myself better than you do, total stranger?

“Okay, so, let’s say I do believe you.  For heaven’s sake WHY?  Why don’t you want kids?  Kids are awesome!”

You’re right.  Some kids are awesome.  But a lot of them aren’t.  In my years working as a substitute, I worked with multiple hundreds of children grades K – 8 and I learned that the kids I like are vastly outnumbered by kids I genuinely can’t stand to be around.

“But it’s different when it’s your kid.”

Is it?  Tell that to all of my friends, family, and ex-boyfriends who were either given up for adoption or put in foster care.  My boyfriend could tell you a lovely story about his mother putting his two older brothers in placement because she simply didn’t want to deal with them anymore.

“Well, they are just terrible people.”

You don’t know that.  I can tell you, however, they all did what they thought they had to.  I’m just saying that blood does not guarantee bond.

“But you even said you like kids.”

I do.  I’d go so far as to say that there are some kids I really love.  You know what else I love?  Going to bed whenever I feel like it.  Having popcorn for dinner.  Saying to my boyfriend on a friday evening “let’s have breakfast in San Francisco,” and leaving.

You know what I don’t love?  Loud noises.  Sticky hands.  Endless questions.  High-pitched voices.

Strangers laugh when I tell them I have no maternal instinct.  I don’t just lack the skills to  care for someone, I actually just plain don’t like it.  Nothing about parenting appeals to me.  I’m not afraid of kids (as so many people have suggested when having this conversation), nor is it sour grapes.  I just don’t need them to feel complete.

“But being pregnant is awesome!”

To you, maybe.  To me, it sounds like having a small animal kick you from the inside for a few months, and then kick you from the outside for a few years.  No thanks.

“But babies smell delicious!”

Okay, seriously, what is this?  Every time I see someone sniffing a baby’s head I get creeped out, and SO MANY PEOPLE DO IT!  Look, if you think they smell good, fine.  But on their best days I think babies smell like rotten milk, and like white-hot garbage on their worst.

“Nothing feels as good as hearing a child call you ‘mom.’”

When you work in elementary schools, the kids occasionally slip up and call you mom.  And every time it happened, I cringed.

“What about leaving a legacy?”

Sorry.  If you need that for your ego, that’s your issue.  I personally don’t feel that way.  I don’t need to carry on in this world.  I’m given one life to live – my own.  And I’m going to live it.

“Who will take care of you when you are old?”

I will.  I don’t need kids to pay for assisted living.  I can use the money I didn’t spend on kids to pay for my own assisted living.

What I try to get people to understand is that we have different ideas of rewarding experiences.  You might find the child-rearing process rewarding.  I wouldn’t.

When it comes to being a parent, my personal belief is that you should only do it because you really want to.  Not because you can, or because you think you’re supposed to, or because you just have to capture a slice of immortality and live on through someone else.  I feel that you should just really, really want to be a parent.

And me?  I don’t want to.

You don’t have to agree with that.  You might think the only way I can be a real woman is to be a mother.  That’s fine, you can think that.  Just know that if you do, I’ll think you’re clinging to an archaic value system that has no bearing in my life and I will probably not be interested in any of your other opinions about me.  To be fair, though, I’m not generally concerned with or interested in anyone’s opinions about me.  At the end of the day, the only opinion that matters (other than my own) is that of the person with whom I’ve chosen to spend the rest of my life.  And lucky for me, he doesn’t want kids, either.

I love my life.

Do you?

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If you have any comments for this blog or questions for my friend, please feel free to leave them below, but PLEASE, be kind and respectful, these are her views and she isn’t forcing them on you, simply sharing them with you.

Tune in for a couple days for a guest post by Tahlia!

Hello!

Just a little update that I am EVER so excited to share with you.  In the next couple of weeks I will be sharing the work of two guest bloggers. Neither of them have children, nor do they work with children.  So, why would they be my guest writers, when this blog is primarily catered towards those who have or work with little ones?

That’s for us to know, and you to find out.  Time to dispel some assumptions that people have about women in regards to children.

A tidbit about each writer:

Rebecca is a dear friend of mine.  I met her at Disneyland when I was 16 and we hit it off.  Though we look alike, and people who’ve seen pictures of us have mistaken her for my sister, we could not be more dissimilar in our worldviews.  She is extremely intelligent, a blast to talk to, bright, bubbly, and deliciously morbid all at once.  My father once said of her, “I just like to watch her talk.”  I do, too!

Tahlia is entering my husband’s family in the near future via marrying my brother-in-law.  She is a graduate of Westmont and is the author of her personal blog Miss Mystra, and a writer for Diamonds and Toads.  I am so excited that she is taking time out of her busy wedding schedule to write for you all.

I am so looking forward to reading what these ladies have to share!  Stay tuned!

Mother… a name revered by all.  Even the most unsavory criminals love their Mothers.  Bikers tattoo the title on their bodies.  Thoughts of warm apple pie, unconditional love, trust, and devotion fill the mind.  She is the one who changed your diapers, sat up with you all night when you were sick, and listened to you when other’s judged.  She is often the most revered member of the family unit.

Mother-In-Law….  Oh the sound of that title sends many a wife (and husband!) into a terrified frenzy.  Words like meddling, nagging, crazy, or even evil may come to your mind.  If you are a wife, she may be the woman you’ll never match up to.  If you’re a husband, she may be the one reminding you that you’ll never be good enough.

I have a Mother-In-Law.  We’ll call her MILli.  When I first met Milk Man’s mom, it was a Sunday morning.  I didn’t know she was coming to church that day.  I remember I wore a retro black dress with red bows all over it.  My hair was high in a pompadour, and I was wearing my black and red chucks.  I wanted to kill Milk Man for not telling me earlier that his parents were visiting, so I could have worn something a little less “me” to church.  See, Milk Man comes from a family a bit more conservative than mine.  They are quiet, calm, and very normal.  I, however, come from a family of comedians, loud mouths, entertainers, and over-the-toppers.  I wear weird clothes.  I listen to metal, I love swing dancing, and I absolutely love dressing up.  That day, however, I wished I had worn a long jean skirt, a turtle neck, and black flats.  First impressions are so important, and I knew this one could affect me for a long time.  She was gracious and sweet, though I remember her looking at my shoes, and I wished I could hide them!

MILli and I couldn’t be more different.  We are dissimilar in nearly every way.  I have been mortified that I’ll never live up to her standards or be just like her.  Thankfully, she doesn’t require that, Milk Man doesn’t require that, and neither does God, because I am pretty sure she is the closest thing to perfect on this green and blue sphere!  She is creative, chaste, a gourmet cook, quiet, a servant, and intimidating (though not intentionally).  She is a dutiful wife, a loving mother, a doting grandmother, and she is a most giving daughter.  She is many things I am not.  I have seldom seen her sit at a family gathering.  She is always the last to eat.  Serving all, never being served herself.

I remember wondering how I ended up with MILli’s son when she and I were so completely different.  But, as time has gone on, I have figured it out.  Yes, MILli!  I got your number on this one.  Milk Man was your project.  Milk Man has so many of your traits and qualities, I began to realize that he was raised by you to be everything you felt a man should be.  How could I be intimidated or withhold friendship from the woman who made my husband who he is?

MILli is old fashioned in many of the right ways.  She has seen how the world has become a less polite, kind, and respectful place, and she worked over time to nurture a son who would go against the status quo.  I have often told Milk Man that he is a result of his mother’s rebellion against how most men treat women!  Milk Man is something out of a book or a movie most days.  Kind, loving, respectful, romantic, affectionate, giving, a servant, and a gentleman in all ways.

Now, of course, Milk Man was raised by his father as well, and MILli and FIL are in love and have raised a loving family together.  But Milk Man is especially MILli.  (Much like Milk Man’s brother is especially like my FIL!)  I think Milk Man is everything MILli wanted to see a man be in our society.  He treats women as she would like to be treated.  He serves others just as she serves everyone.

Now that I have my own son, I can’t help but think our wedding day must’ve been terribly hard for her.  Giving your son away to another woman has to be incredibly difficult.  She put so much effort into raising him right, and shaping him into the man he is today, only to send him off to marry Miss Loud Mouth McCrazykins (that’d be me!)

Every time he makes one of her expressions, gently encourages me for better, opens my door, treats me like a queen, helps me cook a meal, changes a diaper, or cuddles me after a rough day, I am reminded that he learned those things from his mama.  I can only hope to be half the mother to Captain that MILli was to my Milk Man.  (Thankfully, Captain has his daddy’s example to learn from, even if I sell him short on manners!)

So, thank you, my sweet Mother-In-Law.  We may not see eye to eye on much (though we have the thing that matter MOST in common! Our faith, our morals, and our views on family).  We may be incredibly different.  We may have very little in common.  We may disagree on some (or even many) things.  But you shaped Milk Man into the gentleman he is today.  I owe so much of my happiness to you.  I am forever in your debt!

And to those of you who don’t get along with your Mother (or Father-In-Law…) Look at your spouse, and if you love them (which I hope you do!) I can promise you that there are pieces of your In-Law’s souls, blood, sweat, and tears woven into your spouse’s personality!

Working with other children (and their parents!) before I had kids caused me to swear there were a lot of things I would NEVER do once I had my own.  My baby would be sleep trained at 3 months.  My baby would be nursed for 6 months if I could make it that long.  My baby would not have any baby gadgets.  My baby would not have tacky plastic toys.  My baby would cry it out if he couldn’t sleep.  My baby wouldn’t be like other babies.

I had a typical case of “know-it-all”.  You know, the kind that people without kids have?  Just like people who aren’t married know how everyone else’s marriages should be run?  Yeah.  Things are always so much clearer when you aren’t in the trenches.  I have judged how people cared for their children, how their children have turned out, and often thought how much better I would have done in their situation.

Fast forward to being a parent.  My baby, The Captain, doesn’t sleep, if the Lord allows it, I want to nurse til he self weans, my mother bought him a jumperoo that is plastic and makes noise, and he loves it, when my baby cries too much, he chokes, vomits and becomes inconsolable.  My baby would be labeled “high needs,” “colicky,” and maybe even “difficult.”  I have spent many nights, and continue to, awake, feeling alone, beside myself, and frustrated.  I haven’t gotten more than 90 minutes of straight sleep in Lord knows how long, and I often tell my husband, The Milkman, that the longer this goes on, the more alone I feel.  No one seems to understand.  It’s amazing how many people stop you when you have a baby to smile at them and look at their drooly, toothless little faces, and the questioning goes like this, “Oh!  How precious!  Boy or girl?”

I respond, “Boy!”

“Oh, wonderful.  He your first?”

“Mhm. Sure is!”

“Congratulations!  How old is he?”

“Thank you!  He’s four months old!”

“Oh, well isn’t he a happy little guy!  Does he sleep through the night?”

And then I get anxious.  Here we go again.  Why do they want to know?  I already know what their response is going to be. I answer with a smile, “No, no… He isn’t much for sleep at night.  It’s rough, but he’s worth it.”

And then the response I know is coming, first a furrowing of the brow, a pursed lip, and a lower tone of voice than before responds, “Oh, that’s too bad.  Are you letting him cry it out?  That’s really the best way to get them to sleep at this age.  And if you are nursing, don’t let yourself become a pacifier.  They really don’t need to eat through the night at this age.”

I smile hesitantly, and nod my head slowly.  I didn’t ask for their advice, but they sure gave it.  The don’t know me, but with my response, they began judging me, just as I would have done to another mother before I had my own.  I thank them for their concern and give a general, “Well, we are working our way through it.”  They are no longer smiling, we part ways with them giving a concerned head shake and walk away.
Alone.  No one seems to understand.  And can I blame them, when I did the same to others just months ago?

Everyone is an expert.  Everyone knows how you should rear YOUR child.  Everyone thinks that how they did it was the best and only way.

There is a fable of Aesop about a man, his son, and a donkey.  Here’s what it says:

A Man and his son were once going with their Donkey to market. As they were walking along by its side a countryman passed them and said: “You fools, what is a Donkey for but to ride upon?”

So the Man put the Boy on the Donkey and they went on their way. But soon they passed a group of men, one of whom said: “See that lazy youngster, he lets his father walk while he rides.”

So the Man ordered his Boy to get off, and got on himself. But they hadn’t gone far when they passed two women, one of whom said to the other: “Shame on that lazy lout to let his poor little son trudge along.”

Well, the Man didn’t know what to do, but at last he took his Boy up before him on the Donkey. By this time they had come to the town, and the passers-by began to jeer and point at them. The Man stopped and asked what they were scoffing at. The men said:

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for overloading that poor donkey of yours and your hulking son?”

The Man and Boy got off and tried to think what to do. They thought and they thought, till at last they cut down a pole, tied the donkey’s feet to it, and raised the pole and the donkey to their shoulders. They went along amid the laughter of all who met them till they came to Market Bridge, when the Donkey, getting one of his feet loose, kicked out and caused the Boy to drop his end of the pole. In the struggle the Donkey fell over the bridge, and his fore-feet being tied together he was drowned.

“That will teach you,” said an old man who had followed them:

Moral of Aesop’s Fable: Please all, and you will please none

 

This is a lesson I am having to learn.  I am bombarded from all sides by well meaning people.  Their voices all jumble into one voice in my head. “Put him on a schedule… stop spoiling him… let him cry it out… stop eating this… stop eating that… start him on formula… start him on rice cereal… stop tending to him every time he cries… stop spoiling him… he can’t be hungry AGAIN… toughen him up, he can handle it… he needs to conform to you, not you to him… have a consistent routine… get his daytime naps down… forget the daytime naps, get his nighttime sleep down… put him in another room…”  So, I second guess my maternal instincts that tell me that when my son is crying, he is trying to communicate with me.  I tell myself maybe I should try that.  So, I do.  And I cry, and Milkman holds my hand.  And after testing each thing out, we agree, it isn’t a good idea, and we need to trust our instincts.  We have tried to please everyone, and have pleased no one.  We have tried to do what other’s tell us, rather than doing what seems instinctive for loving parents to do, and Captain ends up exasperated, and we feel defeated.

A dear friend of mine offered me the following bit of advice (hope she doesn’t mind that I am quoting her!): “ I just keep coming back to the conviction that you can’t know ‘all about babies’ any more than you can know all about Koreans or all about autism. Babies are individual people and no one who doesn’t know my baby and love him can advise me on how to ‘handle’ him. He isn’t a Buick.” So, each time someone offers me their “expert” advice, I have to remind myself of this.  No one is better suited to read and care for Captain’s needs than Milkman and I.  But the thing that I keep coming back to is that once again, I am the student in this life lesson.  I am having to eat my words, thoughts, advice and expertise that I have used to silently judge other’s kids and parenting styles.

You wanna nurse your kid til they are 3 years old?  Go for it.  You wanna co-sleep?  Go for it.  You think your kid needs to cry it out?  Go for it.  You wanna give your kid solids before 6 months?  Why, not?  See, unless you are doing something that will harm your child, cause them emotional trauma, asking my advice, or putting them in danger’s way, it’s really none of my business.

I feel like God has had to teach me so many hard lessons since becoming a mother.  Most days, I realize that there is no better gauge for raising your own child, than following common sense and doing what you feel most comfortable with.  I told a longtime friend of mine today as we were out for a walk that I want to scream, “Okay, God, I get it. Can we stop learning this lesson now?  I won’t judge people anymore!”  But I suppose there is more to learn.

In the meantime, I still feel alone.  I still feel a bit depressed.  I still cry a lot.  I still break down after the 6^th wake up every night saying that I don’t know what to do anymore.  I still second guess myself.  And Milkman and I still have many conversations about what we should do.  In the end, the answer is always the same.  We are doing what we can.  We are doing what we are most comfortable with.  Milkman reminds me all the time that the 3 of us are all that is allowed in our family’s inner circle, and that since we are the one’s getting up all hours, tending to our child’s needs, and are responsible for Captain, we oughtn’t to let other’s advice upset us or penetrate our family choices.

All that being said, I can’t change other people.  And though I know I will be tempted to be judgmental again, I hope that I can look back on this chapter of my life and remember to be charitable.  To be gracious.  To be loving.  And to remember how I have had to learn this lesson the hard way.

So if I have judged you or offered unsolicited advice, I am so sorry.  And if you have ever felt judged because of something you cannot control (like your baby not wanting to sleep, or take a bottle, or weaning early, or have become super forgetful), you aren’t alone.  I’ll listen and unless you ask for advice, I promise to do my best not to offer it and just listen.

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Okay, Lord, NOW can he sleep through the night, I get it!

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On second thought, maybe I don’t quite have the patience lesson down, just yet!

(I wrote this a while ago, but we have lousy internet access at home, so am only now getting aorund to posting it!)

My original intent of this blog was to talk about the power that women, teachers, day care workers, and nannies have over changes in each subsequent generation.  That’s because I started this blog before I became a mother!  I do plan on discussing those things as well, but that is not my focus today.

I knew in part that motherhood would be challenging, tiring, and there would be a learning curve.  Boy, was I underestimating moms!  It is all of those things and more, but on steroids.  I knew that I would learn things from my child, but I did not realize how profound, hard, and tiring these truths would be.

Following my surgery and hospitalization on Mother’s Day (you can read about that HERE), I had a lot of obstacles working against me.  I was tired, on meds, in pain, and without my own mama!  (She was out of state with my Papa for a conference).  Captain ceased to sleep well.  He had been getting up 2 or 3 times, but began waking anywhere from 5 to 11 times a night.  He had always been a non-stop nurser.  And all of the sudden, he stopped.  Stopped what?  Nursing. Eating. Being nourished.

There are a lot of things you can control in this world.  A baby refusing to eat is not one of them.  When I was in the hospital, I pumped around the clock.  My mama fed Captain my milk via bottle.  When I came back to him, there was a little hesitation, but he went back to nursing fairly well.  One day, I was nursing him in my parent’s livingroom where I was convalescing, and Captain began to thrash around and grab at my nursing cover.  I tried to latch him back on, but it was to no avail.  He went insane with anger.  Screaming, coughing, choking, spitting up, the whole nine!  The next feeding, he latched well, and the tiniest little sound sent him into a similar frenzy.  I thought perhaps he wasn’t feeling well.  The next day, this continued. And the next, and the day after that…  The only times I could get him to nurse for longer than 45 seconds was in his sleep or walking around.  Even that was not foolproof.  He would still get angry and push away.  His nursing sessions continued to decline, as did his wet diaper count.  At this point, it was time to call in the big guns!  I called Great Starts, which is Kaiser’s lactation consulting help.  I went in for an appointment, and sure enough, she confirmed what I had suspected.  Captain was on a nursing strike.

Because I didn’t want him to prefer the bottle, I refused to give him one.  I am stubborn too, and I knew that one of us would win, and it had to be me!  This went on for 17 days, and then began to get better, slowly but surely.  This was so very frustrating.  A mother has no greater desire than to see her young baby thrive and grow.  She wants to see him nourished and healthy.  She knows what’s best for him.  So when Captain pushed against me, screaming and flailing violently, every time it was feeding time, I was discouraged.  I spent a lot of time crying, upset, and passing him off to my husband, The Milkman, and my dear sister, who was helping me with the baby while I healed.

I don’t know why babies go on nursing strikes, least of all, MY baby.  The one who would nurse for an hour, take a 20 minute break and eat again for another 45 minutes every day beforehand.  There is no real definitive answer as to why babies of this age go on a nursing strike, but, as it went on, I realized exactly why Captain decided to test me.

I began to look deeper, and I saw a picture, a truly heartbreaking one, of myself.  God offers Himself to nourish me spiritually.  He is the best thing for me.  He nurses and cares for me, as I feed on His Words.  He tirelessly tends to me when I am hungry, and patiently loves me while I grow.  And then, just like little Captain, I get a little more independence, and one day, I think I know it all.  I push against His loving arms, thinking I don’t need to eat.  Thinking I am self-sufficient, all-knowing, and in need of no one but myself.  I scream when I don’t get my way and I don’t even realize what I am doing.  By the time I am starving, I have been so wrapped up in myself that I have forgotten how to listen, be nourished, and feed on God’s love.  Thank God he does not put me down, let me scream, and leave me to myself!  He picks me up, and actively teaches me how to come back to him.

I have been so struck by this reminder of my own infantile ways, and wanted to share, that I, with all my lofty experience and knowledge that I couldn’t wait to pass onto my son, have been schooled by a 3 month old on the Love of God.

Thank you for teaching me, little one, and Lord, hold me close.

It’s been such a long time since I have blogged.  Since becoming a mother I feel that my time is spread paper thin, and although I wouldn’t trade my new vocation for the world, I do miss writing… and sleep.

Before I had the little Captain, I was all prepared for raising a child.  My mother raised my sisters and I to know our way through homemaking, I had taught preschool, babysat, and most recently nannied a baby boy.  I knew all the best baby products, could change a diaper in seconds flat, and had read every article on breastfeeding and baby wearing I could.  Oh, yeah, breastfeeding?  I knew I was going to do it because it was better for my baby, and because we couldn’t afford formula, but I was not looking forward to it.  I have never seen it as a beautiful thing or a way to bond with your baby, rather a chore!  We had everything we needed, though we purposely didn’t register for a lot of baby equipment or junk to fill up our house.

Then after 34 agonizing hours of labor, out came Captain, and lo and behold, I forgot EVERYTHING.  I cried the first time he had a BM in his diaper because I was afraid it hurt him.  I cried when he first spit up.  I cried because I thought he was too cold.  I cried because he sweat when he’d get upset.  Too many new things happening along with a huge hormone rush was more than I could handle.  I wondered why Milkman and I had had a baby before our first anniversary.  I wanted to be alone with my husband.  My body was tired.  Chills, cold sweats, random crying episodes, worrying constantly I was doing something wrong, and getting the basics of breast feeding down were all killing me.  I didn’t know what to do, how to cope, I felt alone and lost.  So incredibly lonely and confused.  Then week 4 hit, and suddenly, things started falling into place.

My sore aching body began to feel that breastfeeding was a familiar and satisfying job for me.  I enjoyed bonding with the little Captain, and I began to think I would do this longer than I originally planned.  I stopped worrying I was doing everything wrong, and slowly but surely, all those things I had known before Captain was born began to come back to me, as we fell into a routine.  I stopped worrying about him sleeping through the night, and began to enjoy those late night/early morning cuddles after nursing.  I fell more in love with my husband, watching him tend to our wee one, changing diapers, soothing him, calming my fears.  I was realizing the beauty that comes along with the trials of early motherhood.

Fast forward to my first mother’s day.  Milkman had surprised me and taken me and Captain to Solvang the day before Mother’s Day to enjoy a day together.  Half way through the day I began feeling sick to my stomach.  By the time we’d headed home, I began throwing up.  We stopped halfway home so I could get some water at a gas station, and I continued throwing up.  Then, the baby needed to eat.  As I sat in the front seat of the car alternately nursing and vomiting, I realized that this was motherhood.  I had no more sick days.  I could not call in sick to work.  I could not be selfish and sleep it off.  My baby needed to be nourished, and I was his only means of being nourished.  We got home, I ran inside to vomit again.  Noah got the baby out of the car seat, while I showered and continued to be sick.  The moment I was out of the shower, Captain’s little mouth was searching for food again.  Though I felt completely empty, I knew that he needed to be fed.  So I sat there, with a bucket next to me, feeding my baby.  He did not know I was feeling the worst pain since labor.  He did not know that I wanted to sleep.  All he knew is that his Mama needed to feed him and hold him.  At least this is what I thought.  I fed him, crying from the pain, and he got a very serious and wise look in his eye.  He went to sleep, and slept for his longest stretch ever. 7 hours.  It was almost as if he KNEW that I needed time to be sick.  I was up the whole night writhing in pain, in and out of the shower trying to find relief from illness.  Unable to keep anything down, I sipped Gatorade and water, hoping that this was nothing more than food poisoning.

I got about an hour of sleep the whole night, and as the sun rose on Mother’s Day, I was sad to be spending it sick in bed.  I wanted to be at church, glowing whilst holding my new baby, and seeing my own mother.  Milkman gave me a beautiful card while I nursed for yet again another morning feeding.  I felt I was improving and would soon be better.

Things didn’t get better, and after an extreme case of the chills and shivering, I was in an out of consciousness, and I spent my first Mother’s Day in an ambulance with an IV stuck in my arm. After several rude medical staff members, and demanding a pump so I wouldn’t lose my milk, I had emergency surgery.  My appendix was swollen and perforated and I had been poisoning myself.  This is when I really realized what motherhood was about.  I was no longer concerned for how I felt.  I was not nearly concerned for my health as I was for the health of my baby.  I pumped around the clock, and Milkman was there by my side, washing pump parts, labeling and dating my milk, and making sure I had plenty of liquids going in so my milk wouldn’t stop producing.  He looked up every drug and antibiotic they gave me, checking on its safety levels for a nursing mother (THANK YOU KELLYMOM.COM!).  I woke up in the middle of the night crying for my baby.  Milkman was my rock.  My parents had a newborn sleeping in the house for the first time since I was born, and thank God they enjoyed it and Captain was (supposedly!) good for them.

I’m back home now, and unable to lift Captain just yet (He’s already 12.5 lbs and 10 weeks, where is the time going?!)  He had a little difficulty getting back in the practice of nursing, since the bottle was much easier.  And though he had to have 2 ozs of organic formula, I can proudly say that’s all he had to have when I was in the hospital, thanks to Noah being so wonderful and helping me keep up with pumping so we could send milk home to my parents.

I learned a very important lesson on Mother’s Day.  Mother’s Day is not about flowers, and special treatment.  It’s not about having a day to yourself to get pampered and doted over.  Those things are nice, but for a nursing mama, Mother’s Day is no different from any other day.  My job remains the same: to love, care for, and feed my baby.  And if that is accompanied by cards and celebrations, or by illness and emergency surgery, I am no more loving or less devoted to caring for my child.

Captain is teaching me a lot about being a mama.  Sometimes with frustration and crying, and sometimes with cooing and smiles, but I would not trade any of it.  I am proud to be his mama, and Milkman’s wife.  I am learning that being the hand that rocks the cradle is a far more important calling than any other I have had in the past.

He’s crying now, time to feed him again.

There are a good many things to report about the state of homeschooling in this generation.  The resources, curriculum, acceptance, and success that homeschoolers have attained have finally given the rest of the world a reason to see that maybe it’s not as bad as they once thought it was.  I cannot wait to homeschool my kids, as the resources that are now available to homeschooling families are vastly better from what they were when my parents were in the pioneering generation of homeschooling parents.  (God bless them, they did the absolute best they could have, but I am glad my kids won’t be doing Alpha Omega curriculum!)

Parents now have the ability to be more hands on (handpicking their own curriculum, researching techniques online), more hands off (the public school systems K-12 online program makes it easy for parents who want their kids at home, but feel inadequate to grade and oversee all they are learning), and in between (there are a lot of co-ops that provide classes for kids that parents may feel intimidated to teach, although the parent still does most of the schooling).  Homeschooling has gone from being stereotyped solely as for people who are introverted, live on farms, dress their daughters in prairie dresses, and give their sons the unforgivable “HOME HAIR” haircut.  (Though, many people still think this is what we are, a topic for another day.  It gets me pretty heated that people are still so ignorant.)  Homeschoolers are now hip.  Mom’s share their experiences and tips on popular “Momblogs,” homeschoolers are not just Christians anymore, there are a lot of parents from different religious, agnostic, and atheistic backgrounds, that are taking charge of their children’s education.  Homeschoolers have friends.  Homeschoolers have support groups.  Homeschoolers don’t have to hide like they once did.  We have come so far in the world of homeschooling.  But, there is one thing that I feel seems to be severely lacking in home education, and it’s a topic that many feel uncomfortable teaching.  Sex.

Oh no, the “S” word.  The big S-E-X.  This is not a word conservative families like to discuss, homeschoolers or not.  And it is evident!  You have conservative parents (homeschooled and public schooled alike) who are in an uproar and outrage over how the public schools are teaching sex ed.  They are angry, they picket, they lobby, they complain.  These are their rights, and it is true, the way the public school system is teaching it is wrong.  Schools are introducing these topics at too young an age, in too graphic a manner, with too cavalier a spirit.  Our bodies are sacred.  They are beautiful, and amazingly designed.  We are not animals who simply have sex as an act of procreation.  We were made to enjoy the sexual experience (yes, I believe this, WITHIN the confines of marriage).  We are sexual beings.  We form connections with people.  Our bodies produce these fantastic pheromones and we are attracted to people who are sexually compatible with us.  We create relationships.  We have been created to not just see sex as a function or an animal desire, but as a way to connect with another person on a level of intimacy that goes beyond what animals without souls experience.  Our anatomy is beautiful and designed perfectly.  Our bodies were designed and created by the Master Mind.

So, yes, I can see why conservative parents get upset about how sex education is taught in public education.  I can see why they may be concerned about how human anatomy and biology is taught in schools, because it is taught from a perspective we believe to be skewed.  So, yes, get up in arms.  Have your protest, write letters to your superintendents and principals, congress reps and PTA leaders.  Do your part to make your voice be heard, this is America.  We can do that kind of stuff here.

I hear a lot of parents saying that it is the parents’ job to educate their child on sexual education.  That it is not the job of the public institution to be teaching their children these things.  I couldn’t agree more!  But if you’re gonna play that card, you had better be prepared to do your half of that deal.  Oh wait.  We can’t just tell the schools to not teach sex ed, and then forget to talk to our kids about it, because its awkward or uncomfortable?  Okay, time to wake up moms and dads.  Yeah, you have a job, and you aren’t doing it.

I was fortunate to have a mother who felt important to keep open communication with her daughters about this important topic.  And no, saying “We are close, they’ll ask questions if they are curious” is not keeping open communication.  You have a duty to take an active role in this matter.  My mother gave us “the talk”, yeah like BEFORE puberty, so we weren’t in shock when our bodies changed.  There is no magical age, and she was smart enough to realize that.  I think we all got “the talk” at different ages.  I probably got it the latest in age, because I never asked questions.  Frankly, I was that kid who was oblivious, didn’t give a second thought to the differences between a child’s body and an adult’s body.  I was not exposed to pornography as a young child, as so many kids are.  I had no desire or interest to learn.  But my mom didn’t say, “Well, she hasn’t asked questions, we’ll wait til she is going through it, or shows an interest.”  She knew she had a duty to do for us what wasn’t done for her, and that is to properly instruct on the human body and how it changes.  I didn’t get “the talk” all in one fell swoop.  It was a process.  She knew I wouldn’t have been able to handle hearing that soon I’d have to wear deodorant and also the nitty gritty details of sexual intercourse.  When I was ready for the next step, she knew.  I don’t really know HOW she knew, considering I never asked questions, but I never felt like anything was sprung on me too early or too late.  She didn’t want to miss anything, so she found this book called “You Are Fearfully and Wonderfully Made” I think, or something like that.  She would have me read a chapter and ask questions.  Of course, I didn’t.  But, she still made the information available at the right time, in the right way, and would start the dialogue since I wouldn’t.  The book was kind of hokey, but it talked about everything from deodorant and the beginnings of puberty to homosexuality to pornography and babies.  This was a part of my education.  Did everything turn out perfectly on my journey to womanhood?  No.  Did I treat sex with the respect I ought to have as a college aged girl?  No.  Were there still surprises to find out about my own body in my journey to adulthood?  Yes, of course.  But I was overall given the tools I needed to be comfortable in my own body and to know how it functioned.

Unfortunately, what I have observed and heard from homeschool, private school, and kids of more conservative parents is devastating when it comes to how they found out about sex/their bodies, or worse yet, how they still don’t know.  If you don’t take an active role in teaching your child on an important topic, chances are, they will still find out, but it may be in a wrong manner.  The information they find may not be the best information, or comprehensive, or helpful.  What do I mean?  Okay, here are some specific ways people have shared with me how they found out about the birds and the bees or the anatomy of the human body and that it is different from the opposite sex’s.  Pornography, scrambled channels, babysitting and stumbling across playboys, Cosmopolitan at the dentist’s office, Men’s Magazines, their friends, googling (often looking for the right answers, and finding the wrong ones), movies, being sexually abused, or the sad case of the girl who starts her period at a friend’s house and thinks she is hemorrhaging to death, because no one warned her what was coming.  I don’t see how these are seen as effective measures for your child’s well-rounded education in the matter of their bodies.  These are terrifying, detrimental, and ultimately start your kid on a slippery slope of a wrong view of their bodies and of sex.  This is how kids feel dirty about sex or about their bodies.  This is how sex becomes something to talk about in hushed tones at slumber parties and giggle about with red faces.  This is how young boys keep their pornography addictions a secret, for fear of getting in trouble about their curiosity.  This is how girls begin to think it’s okay to let her body be treated as nothing more than an object for sex, and how guys take advantage of those stupid assumptions.  Oh and then when they get married, and have kids?  Yeah, they don’t tell their kids either, because they remember what an embarrassing experience the first introduction to the reproductive system, their bodies, or sex was for them, and that trauma ends up getting passed to the next generation.

On the flip side, I know of young couples who get married, and did not find out from Cosmo or Stephanie, the oversexed babysitter about sex, and you hear horror stories of how wrong everything went.  Men who are completely shocked and disgusted to find the female body as it is.  Confused because they don’t know how the female body works.  Freaked out at how her body functions.  Women who weren’t aware of how the male body works.  Being so afraid of sex, that the marriage isn’t consummated for months sometimes (I am not making this up… It’s sad, but it most certainly happens.)  Quite commonly, another really sad outcome from not properly educating your child on sex, is that they develop an idol of sex and when they get married they are really disappointed that it wasn’t everything it was hyped up to be, namely because they weren’t given an accurate picture of what it is.

Dear, wonderful, Parents who are concerned for their kids to get a well-rounded education:  Yes!  Teach them Greek.  Teach them how to diagram sentences, teach them algebra and calculus, and about the American Revolution.  Teach them to dissect a frog, and get straight A’s and accepted to Harvard at age 16.  Those are great things.  But there are things that will help them become well-rounded and healthy minded and bodied individuals that will assist them just as much if not more than a 4.0 GPA.  Give them the tools they will use most in life.   Teach them about being good citizens, how to be responsible for their actions, how to love their families, how to respect other people, and for goodness sake’s teach them about their bodies.  I do not have the answer for how you should do this for your child.  Like I said, every kid is different, but don’t wait until your son is struggling with porn addiction, or your daughter informs you she is pregnant.  Take an active role in protecting them from what they don’t need to know at too young an age, and informing them on what they need to know before it’s too late.  Chances are, if you show them that their bodies are not gross, that sex is not sinful (once again, within the confines of marriage), that their interests and desires are normal, that everything that happens to their bodies during puberty has an amazing purpose, and that you are not afraid to discuss these things with them, they will be less likely to go about their self-instruction of sex ed in the wrong ways.  You may just save them a lot of heartache and confusion by getting over your fear of an awkward conversation.

If you want to educate your child, then DO IT.  No, really.

Note: As this is a delicate topic, I wanted to make it clear that I had my husband read this before I posted it.  We are in agreement on the importance of this subject!

It’s raining in fabulous Southern California, and I couldn’t be happier.  I have heard of something called SAD (seasonal affective disorder) that makes people really depressed in the rain, but I simply do not understand.  When it rains and it is gloomy outside, my soul comes alive.  Perhaps it’s because we get so little rain here in So. Cal, and that is what produces my love for the gloom.  I feel like we get a giant bath over the dry brown hillsides, the streets smell divine and are cleared of (some) of the litter, the sound of the drops dancing on every surface they touch, and also, not having to wash my car is another really rad perk.

But! Perhaps the reason I love the rain so well, is because it brings memories.  Glorious memories.  As I stated somewhere else before, I was home schooled, and didn’t set foot in a classroom until I was 16 at the local community college.  Many of my neighbors and friends (yes! Home schooled kids have friends!) hated rainy rays.  It meant dressing in a bunch of layers, putting on a tacky vinyl raincoat, rainboots, walking in the rain to school, trying to keep the backpack dry, missing out on recess outside, lugging an umbrella with them, and being cold and damp after you got to school.  When they’d come home, their parents told them to stay inside and do homework and watch TV, elsewise catch their death of cold from being in the rain.

My experience with rain on school days were divine.  Unlike some homeschoolers, we had to be up and dressed, including shoes and socks, when we came to the dining table to start our normal school day.  There was none of this stay in your pajamas, do your school whenever you want to, slouch on the couch while you complete your lessons.  We had scheduled times that we did our schoolwork in, broke for lunch, resumed, and had time allotted for homework after household chores.  We didn’t get to sleep in and do school whenever and however we wanted.  School was a real deal!  But rainy days… those were different altogether.  If I woke up to the sound of rain in the side yard outside my childhood room, I knew it would be a special day.

On school mornings, my mom usually made hot cereal.  Friday’s were eggs, but the other days of the week were Zoom, Cream of Wheat, Maltomeal, or Oatmeal.  Cold cereal was a treat for when we went camping, so I didn’t get cheerios or Froot Loops or Cocoa Puffs.  Rainy days, were usually the same hot cereal and wheat toast, but sometimes, mama would make apple crisp, or something extra cozy.  We would get to stay in our jammies many times on rainy days.  Pink sweats and “scuffie socks” were the school uniform for the day.  After cleaning up from breakfast, we didn’t have to sit at the kitchen table to do our work as we normally did.  Mama would set up TV trays in the living room, or we’d sit on the floor and use the coffee table as our desk.  She’d put on Vivaldi, Chopin, or George Winston to listen to.  As we’d work on Math, Language, Science, Bible, and History, mama would be making a big pot of sopa (That is Spanish for soup).  She’d chop carrots, celery, chicken, and whatever else was about to go bad in the fridge if we didn’t eat it and throw it in the big pot.  She’d light the fire in the fireplace, and open the shades of the big window in the living room so we could watch the rain while we did our work.  (Usually, these shades stayed drawn during school hours, because homeschooling was still quite new, even frowned upon, and my mom didn’t want to cause trouble if someone was walking by and saw all of us girls at home during school hours.)

Mama would bring over big mugs of hot cocoa, or cocoa coffee (no wonder I love mochas, she was mixing hot cocoa and coffee for me in 2^nd grade), and we’d sip the burning liquid giddily as we learned about the digestive system, pilgrims and long division.  It never really gets terribly cold here, because, hey, its Southern Cali, but my sisters and I would put blankets on our laps, and cuddle as we read from our school books.  The normal annoyances and sisterly squabbles seemed to be at rest on rainy days, as the excitement of breaking from the typical routine was exciting enough to keep our pestering at bay.

At 12:15, it would be lunch time and we’d shuffle into the kitchen on that ghastly 70’s tile (and later that fake green marble laminate that scratched when you’d sweep it), and sit at the kitchen table, which didn’t have to be cleared of tons of books on these days, since they were strewn across the living room floor.  Mama would have just turned off the noodles for the sopa (mushy, huge swollen elbow macaroni noodles cooked in tomato sauce and water), and we’d serve of bowls of the noodles, and pour Mom’s Soup Surprise over the top.  We’d squeeze some lemon juice (I always used a whole half a lemon in mine, and the girls would ask if I wanted soup with my lemonade), and top it with shredded cabbage, crumbled stale tortilla chips, shredded cheese, and my mom’s amazing chile.  She’d heat up corn tortillas, and we’d roll them up into tight little straws, and tear off pieces to dip in the sopa.  That washed down with a glass of cold milk, “One cup each, milk is expensive!”  After finishing lunch, we’d complete our remaining subjects for the day, and then came the really fun part.

My mama never kept us from playing in the dirt or making mud pies, so of course, she was also that rad mom that let her kids play in the rain.  Now, we couldn’t go into the front yard to play until after the local schools were out of session, once again, to keep people from calling Child Protective Services on our family for us not being in school on a school day.  But once the bell rang at the local elementary school, I was free to play if I had completed my schoolwork and chores for the day.  If I happened to have hand-me-down rainboots or a rain coat, I’d don that over my clothes, and run outside into the col-de-sac I grew up on.  If I didn’t have rainboots or a proper raincoat, I went out in my shoes and clothes.  My mom never complained about us getting soaked to the bone, or ruining our clothes, and often even if I went out into the rain with a coat, umbrella, and boots, I’d discard them and lay on the driveway getting soaked, making my hair stringy, and wiggling my bare toes as the drops kissed them (which she did not like, by the way, shoes were always worn for outside play, and indeed even in the house).

After sufficient puddle stomping, rain dancing, and Gene Kelley impersonations, my toes and fingers would be icy cold, and I’d come in, strip my clothes, hang them over the laundry bins (“Don’t put them in!  It’ll get everything else all mildewy!  Hang your wet things over the side of the bins!”) and jump into a nice hot shower.  The water would scorch my cold little body and I’d breathe in the steam as I thawed.  Sweats would go back on, and we’d wait for papa to get home to have leftover soup, since my mom usually made enough to last a month.  A successful rainy day had been completed.

So, even though I am not going traipsing out barefoot in the rain today (though I actually do that on occasion still), and I am not listening to Vivaldi while I learn how to diagram a sentence, and I have no fireplace in our little home, I love this rainy day.  And I can’t wait for rainy days when I have my own little brood to homeschool.  I hope I can make it as awesome as my mama made it for my sisters and I.