Who Is Teaching Whom?

(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.

Mother’s Day… a week late!

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.

The Abstinence of Sex Ed in the Homeschooled Household

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!

Rainy Days

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 2nd 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.

of skulls, skalliwags, and babies

I didn’t grow up in a family that glorified death.  We had a realistic view of death, and death was a real part of our lives and my growing up.  I remember seeing my first casket as a very young child.  My Great Aunt Doris’ husband had died, and I was being held by my papa as we walked past the casket.  I saw many open caskets as a kid and a teen.  We went to a lot of funerals.  We went to a lot of wakes.  The reasoning is three-fold I suppose.  Part of this had to do with being a part of a very large family, particularly on my mother’s side.  We had a lot of extended family, and when you know a lot of people, there are going to be a larger amount of people dying in your environment.  Another part of this had to do with being a pastor’s kid.  My dad performed a lot of weddings, services, and indeed, funerals.  The last reason why I have been to so many funerals, was because my parent’s always told my sisters and I,  that if you are available, and you knew the person or the family of the person who died, you should do everything you can to attend their funeral.

My mother, who is perhaps where I get a bit of my morbidity (Sorry for ratting you out mom, but a woman who channels Morticia Addams, is just not the norm for most moms! Haha!), talked about death a lot.  However, she would be the first to tell you that her reasoning for talking about, and even longing for it sometimes, is not based in morbidity, rather in a desire to go home to Heaven.  She talks about brain tumors less and less since having grandkids, and talks more of the perfection of God’s timing in all things, even so she never made death seem scary.  It was always talked about as a homecoming, because of her faith, she has something to look forward to when that last breath escapes her lungs, and she gets to say goodbye to back pain, housework, and the things of this world, to meet her Maker.

Death is not a scary thing to me, really.  Now the PROCESS of dying?  That is another thing altogether.  I am terrified of dying in my sleep, I think that you must be in a horrible state of panic if you are sleeping peacefully and then you can’t wake up as your soul departs and your body fights to stay alive.  I’d rather be shot in the head in my sleep, or something nice like that.  Don’t even know it’s coming, and BAM!  You’re in Gloryland!  But that’s a topic for another day.

Why do I bring all this up, and what does it have to do with anything, particularly relating to kids?  Well, as many of you know, I am expecting a baby boy come March.  As I have been picking out décor, and drooling over baby clothes, as so many first time moms do, I am drawn to all things black, red, skull, and pirate related.  I have had a long love affair with accessories and décor in that vein, and even my wedding had a pirate flair.  I wore a red, black, and white dress for goodness sakes.  Being a So. Cal kid, and spending a lot of time at Disneyland, my favorite ride has always been Pirates.  Peter Ustinov in Disney’s Blackbeard’s Ghost?  One of my first (of many) old man crushes.  My room as a young adult woman was not plastered with Brad Pitt or chic design.  It had (and has!) rich colors, maps, way too big prints of old art in gaudy ornate frames, a ship’s wheel, and candelabras.  I listen to a lot of metal, and like both my parents, I dress primarily in black.  I love scary movies and books, and Dia de los Muertos art is some of my favorite.

Naturally, when preparing to dress and adorn a baby, my eye is drawn to tiny skulls, little pirate boots, stripey baby clothes, big krakens, leather jackets, and Jolly Rodger baby blankets.  I think baby blue is an abomination to my son’s masculinity, and pastels are anything but stimulating for his surroundings.  I have come under some scrutiny for such likes, and my husband, whose tastes are FAR different from mine, and I have had no few talks on the matter of love for such “dark” things.  As baby showers are planned for me (I am so thankful for such loving women in my life!) the big topic seems to be “Are pirate crossbones acceptable for a baby shower!?”

I must ask a question to those who think that other décor for baby is acceptable.  Noah’s Ark?  Oh my gosh.  Man becomes exceedingly sinful, God decides to destroy the entire planet and kill everyone but 8 people and a couple of each animal, then those 8 people and countless smelly animals have to stay in a boat for over a year.  Let’s make a nursery theme for Junior about God’s judgement on the earth! YAY!  Okay, another, how about safari.  You wanna talk about scary??  Lions eat people.  I mean not every day, but they can.  And elephants?  Some of the most dangerous animals to come face to face with if you are in the African wilderness.  Let’s not even talk about monkeys.  Holy cow, those things are scary. Fairy tales?  Have you ever read the real Snow White or Goldilocks?  Terrifying.  Fairies or mermaids?  Those chicks are dangerous!   And how about clowns?  Let’s put it this way, the sight of clowns has been known to send me into tears and dry heaving.

I do know that pirates were bad guys.  I don’t think we should glorify death.  I don’t want my child to be morbid… okay, maybe a little.  I don’t want my child turning into a Satanist.  I don’t want him to be a self-absorbed emo kid.  I know full well that I could expose him to all the things I love, and strap him to a chair at age 12 (because as much as I love Tim Burton, my kids aren’t allowed to watch him til they are older) and make him watch Nightmare Before Christmas, and cry with me when Jack ruins Christmas, take him on Pirates 3 times every time we go to DL, and read him lots of Grimm’s fairy tales while we listen to Rachmaninoff, and he might still turn into a preppy kid who likes to play golf.

Fact of the matter is, when you are a baby, you have to wear whatever your parents put you in, you are at their mercy for style (Which is why my mom and I made him a ridiculous looking bunny hat, which will make him look so incredibly stupid and cute), and he can’t say anything about it.  There is a fine line, and I don’t want to cross it if the other side of that line is glorifying evil and death.  I don’t want the little man to be afraid of his surroundings.  I want him to have bright and cheery surroundings, and to be surrounded by love and happy people.  I want to be half as good of a mother as my own mama was, and give him lots of attention and teach him about everything from our faith to morality, cars to music, character to the dangers of women (hehe!).  I want to teach him about death and life, pain and joy, suffering, and merrymaking.  I want him to know and love the Lord has his father and I do.  I just don’t think that putting him in a black t-shirt, jeans, a little Jolly Rodger bib, and black converse is going to keep that from happening.

So, if you disagree, that’s okay.  I don’t mind.  If you’d rather get him a pair of ducky slippers than a vampire teeth pacifier (thank you, Uncle Ronald!) then I will be more than grateful.  Every person has their own convictions to follow, liberties and limitations, but as long as we are united in the important things, that’s what matters.  I can’t wait for him to experience the diversity in the personalities, culture differences, and surroundings in which he will be raised!

a day in the life

I’ve worked at a few preschools throughout the years.  I had recently been hired at a school called… well, let’s call it Kiddie Korral.  Yes, that’s a good name for  it.  Anyways, I had been working for a financial firm for about 3.5 years after my last preschool stint, thinking that a bigger income would make me happier, but although it made me able to afford nicer things, I definitely wasn’t happier.  I decided to go back to working with kiddos and take a 45% paycut.  It was insane, but I knew I needed to work with little ones.

Anyways, so I get this job at Kiddie Korral.  It had been a long time since I’d worked in a preschool, and when I interviewed with the director at that time I could tell she was a little dodgy, but I figured it was worth it to be back in Preschool.  Now, the last time I had worked in a preschool, I was 19, young, stupid, rebellious, so going into a new school in a new stage of my life, I knew I would approach this job differently.

Working in a preschool was a pretty strange career path for me.  See, I was homeschooled.  My dad worked, didn’t make a lot of money, but he felt that my mom should be home with my sisters and I.  Money was tight for them, I am sure, but we never missed a meal.  (Thanks to my mama’s frugality.  She knows how to stretch a meal!)  My mom is not a college graduate, a teacher, nor did she have any extensive training on how to school her three daughters, but she did it.  I had my mama and my sisters every day, all day.  I never went to public school to sit in a classroom, let alone preschool all day in my early childhood years.   My first time setting foot in a classroom was Mr. Shaack’s math class at a Community College at 16.  This whole concept of rallying a bunch of little ones in the same age group and shoving them in a room with 2 women is an entirely foreign concept to me.  But for now, I digress.

So my first week, was a lot of reconditioning, readjusting, and reprogramming my mind.  While some teachers told kids to stop crying because mommy had to go to work, I would sit and hold those little ones and try and hide my tears along with them.   It was culture shock.  I was out of my element.  I had second thoughts about having taken the job after the first week.  What had I gotten myself into??

And then came my second week.  Something tremendous happened.  I want you to picture this scene.  20 preschoolers.  2 teachers.  Lunch time has just finished and it’s time to get all the kids down for their way too long nap so that teachers can go to lunch.  We call all the kids in to wash their hands, and within 8 minutes one kid had pooped his pants.  It was diarrhea. 3 little boys are peeing all over the floor and each other in the boy’s bathroom.  One little girl is hogging up the girl’s bathroom because she’s constipated.  Meanwhile, another little girl left the water running after stuffing the sink with paper towels.  There are 2 little girls dipping paper towels into the sink water and washing each other’s bodies, clothing, and the walls with the water.  Oh, and little “Sally” wet her pants… for the 3rd time that day.  Once I sprayed poopy boy down with the hose outside and got him dressed, the boy’s bathroom floor had been bleached and mopped (and those 3 boys wiped down with wipes), Little Miss Constipated had been relieved, the girl’s sink had been unstopped and that floor mopped, and the bathing beauties and Sally were in clean dry clothes, I sat down on the floor in a heap next to one of the kid’s napping mats.  I took a 45% pay cut for THIS?  I began whimpering quietly as I sat in there alone with 20 snoring, dirty faced, wood chip sock filled 3 year olds.

I felt exhausted and a failure. Where were those piles of account paperwork I hated so much at the financial firm?  Where was my comfy desk chair and widescreen monitor with access to youtube and my favorite blogs?  Where were those high heels and slacks I hated to wear every day?  This was for the birds.  And ew! Was that poop on my Converse?!

I looked down at the little boy I had sat next to.  He was the hardest kid to deal with in the class, had already had a write up or 2 that day, and was full of energy.  He opened his brown eyes, looked up at me quizzically as I dried my face, and wiped the raccoon eyes away from my dripping mascara.  He picked up my hand lying next to him, and kissed it.  “I love you Miss Rachel.  You’re my favorite teacher.”  He held my hand, and closed his eyes again to sleep.

Ah.  So this is why I was there.  I couldn’t remember a better feeling.  I was the luckiest woman alive.  I knew that I was where I was supposed to be, and that experienced changed my outlook on my job.  I wasn’t just a child wrangler (though that was a large part of the job in an overcrowded school), I was loved, and I had 20 little souls to care for, love, and influence.

That was one of the best days of my life.  Poop and all.

another blog

Oh goodness, no! Not another homemaker starting a blog! There are too many! I can’t take it!

It seems like there is a correlation between the time a woman stops working, and when she starts a blog. I have worked for a long time. I started babysitting at the age of eleven, got my first “real job” at 15 (Sandwich Artists Represent!), and now, just a couple of months shy of 26, I have retired from the working world. Not that housewives don’t work. Goodness, my mom works harder than anyone I know. It’s just different… and quiet. I have only been out of the workforce for 3 weeks, and I am already dying of the quiet that surrounds my life!

I am not a homemaker because my husband makes a lot of money, and we have a chunk of dough sitting in the bank to live off of, because we certainly don’t. Frankly, we aren’t real sure how we will make it on one income just yet, but I have a baby boy on the way, due in March, and my husband and I are committed to giving our son the attention he deserves. We believe that only mama can give that specialized attention, and so here I am.

However, as the baby is not here yet, I am going a little stir crazy. There are plenty of tasks to keep me busy here in our tiny garage apartment, but due to some pregnancy symptoms (read: extreme everything pain! Haha), I can only scrub a toilet so long without having to sit for a rest. So instead of sitting in front of the computer and pinning or facebooking, or watching hours of A Baby Story on TLC, I figured I should write to keep my brain going. (But don’t worry pinterest, I’ll not leave you!) If I am the only one who reads this, that’s okay too, it’ll keep me company to read myself to myself while I sit here on the couch by myself.

I guess the point of this blog is multi-faceted. I have been wanting to do this for a while. I have been working with kids on and off as long as I have worked. Whether in day camps, after school programs, preschool, or as a nanny, I have been overjoyed, frustrated, happy and discouraged with the business of working with children. William Ross Wallace wrote a poem praising women for their maternal role, and although I have yet to be a mother, I have enjoyed being in a nurturing and maternal role as I have worked with a children. I have also been struck with the awesome responsibility it is to influence young minds and souls for the hours each day I have spent with little ones. So this will be about kids, mothers, fathers, teachers, and probably about other things that are in my day to day experiences.

Let’s see if I will keep this up after the baby comes… or if I even keep it up before the baby comes. I never said I was disciplined.