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Guest Blogger Simone Snyder: A little destiny in the Mothering library

November 6th, 2009

I tell pretty much every pregnant woman I know to come check out the Mothering lending library. It has an extensive collection of books and other materials ranging in topics, from natural parenting to childbirth preparation to medical texts. Knowing that at any given moment there could be someone rummaging through the books, I should have been more prepared when I was confronted by that book.

I was astounded to find What to Expect When You are Expecting lying on the floor. Thinking my co-worker, who is a midwifery student, had selected the book, I shouted my objections loud and clear, only to turn around and discover that there was a bewildered pregnant woman staring back at me.

I apologized profusely, but instead of being offended she was quite interested to learn why I objected so. My life revolves around pregnant women. Not only do I work at Mothering, but I am a doula, childbirth educator, and prenatal massage therapist, so any opportunity to sit down with someone to talk shop is a welcome one. I told her about my experience 8 years ago; I remembered it so well; I was about 3 months pregnant sitting in the bathtub with highlighter in hand. I was so ready and so eager to learn all I could and well, let’s just say What to Expect When You are Expecting was not what I was expecting at all!

Don’t get me wrong. The book was informative, if all you want to read about is every possible complication you could experience while pregnant. The book terrified me. The diet portion of the book was militant, and everything about labor and the birth of your baby was quite medical. I believe that pregnant couples should take an active role in their education, and should inform themselves about all aspects of this miraculous journey. But at the same time, there is power in the positive and for one source to focus so much on all the bad things that could (though rarely) happen is unfortunate.

I felt relieved and could only wish that someone had been there to warn me all those years ago in my bathtub. This library visitor and I had chosen that book for all of the same reasons (because it’s popular, because we wanted to learn all we could) but now she had placed it back on the shelf. However, now she looked to me to provide her with some alternatives. There is nothing I enjoy more than sharing a good book, especially books about pregnancy and birth, and I have pretty much read them all. Lucky me, right at my fingertips I had my favorite books to bless her with.

The first one I recommended was Having a Baby Naturally by Peggy O’Mara. Sure, she is one of my heroines, but in addition to that, it is just such a wonderfully positive and empowering read. It is pretty much the antithesis of What to Expect. It is full of ideas for achieving memorable, healthy pregnancies and empowering births.

I also strongly suggested she check out Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth. In our culture we are inundated with images of women in agonizing labor—screaming at their doctors and partners, rushing off to the hospital the second their water breaks, and because drama sells, eventually something goes wrong and the woman and/or baby must be saved. In both of Ina May Gaskin’s books (Spiritual Midwifery and Guide to Childbirth) the reader is exposed to beautiful birth stories as well as practical information about pregnancy and childbirth. The stories are not overly idealistic. Occasionally there is a complication, but the reader learns that even these obstacles can be handled calmly.

An additional favorite is Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Newborn by Penny Simkin, Janet Whalley, and Ann Kepler. I always recommend this book because I read it first as a pregnant woman and the second time as a student doula. This book is no-nonsense, and covers everything from the anatomy of the pregnant woman to the history of infant feeding. I think it is very well organized and not at all overwhelming. I continue to use it as a reference and have worn the binding down.

Another Penny Simkin treasure is The Birth Partner. This book comes with me to every single birth I attend, even my own. Everyone should read this one—moms, doulas, and partners—because it really is “everything you need to know to help a woman through childbirth.” All the tricks of the trade right there in your hands. It is simply invaluable.

In coming to look for informative reading materials this woman stumbled upon me who was only too willing to spend the day talking about natural childbirth and all of the options available to her. We discussed the difference between doulas and midwives as well as the difference in care under a midwife, family practitioner, and OB.

As a doula and educator, by the time I meet the pregnant couple they are usually already in their third trimester. When I was pregnant the first time around, I chose my doula before I had a doctor, or even before I told my family. There is great value in establishing this relationship early on. It allows for a level of comfort and trust that grows with the pregnancy.

Some of us are fortunate enough to have been given the message early on that birth is a natural, normal, process. Others discover the beauty of childbirth along the way. I am eternally grateful to the student doula in my woman’s studies class whose presentation sparked the interest that put me on this path. It’s fascinating to consider that had I just skipped that one class, I may never have been exposed to the concept of a doula, natural birth or Goddess forbid, Mothering Magazine. I have a funny feeling something similar occurred that day in the library.

Simone Snyder is the Product Fulfillment Manager/Street Teams Coordinator at Mothering Magazine. She is a certified doula, childbirth educator, and licensed massage therapist, specializing in prenatal and postpartum massage.


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Getting Through a Terrible Preschool Year

November 4th, 2009

IMG_5576
Nathaniel’s last year in preschool was horrible. There’s no other way to say it. He’s in kindergarten now, and I had anxiety over the summer–would this be a horrible year, too? At the same time, I knew worrying wouldn’t help, and that “worry is using your imagination to create things you don’t want,” one of my favorite wise things Ashisha (Mothering’s editor-at-large and resident sage) told me.

He loves kindergarten, and seems to have a new peace about not only school, but his place in the world. It wasn’t good for him to be one of the oldest kids in preschool. He was bored silly, and boredom generates a very naughty Nathaniel. He was consistently freaked out by random physical lashings-out by younger children who bit, hit and kicked. “He doesn’t hurt the kids back, but he breaks things in the classroom later,” I was told. I had a really hard time having a dialogue with the teacher, who didn’t have a phone at home and also did not use email.

He missed his aftercare teacher from the previous year, an angelic young woman who spent the whole aftercare period on a comfy couch with him, reading him stories, stroking his back, and giving him lavender foot rubs. I bet you twenty bucks that when he falls in love with a woman (if he falls in love with a woman) some day, she will resemble the lovely Kelsey.

One day in preschool, Nathaniel ran away from school with a pal and was found a few blocks away, throwing empty glass bottles into the street. I mean, nightmare! That scene could be made into a cartoon about what future juvenile delinquents look like.

Nathaniel stopped breaking things, but he started fighting back. At home, he talked a lot about being kicked, punched, and pushed. There didn’t seem to be a sense of cutting down on that. As if they were puppies, or bear cubs wrestling. Except that I could tell that he felt traumatized by it, and couldn’t relax and enjoy his day. I cried a lot. I cried because I felt for him, and I wished for him that he could avoid conflicts when possible.

Perhaps selfishly, but very humanly, I also cried because it seemed like my child was being seen as “the bad kid” and that made me feel like I had failed him. I cried because I felt like I couldn’t get through to the teacher, and that my concerns were being dismissed and that I was being punished by bringing things to her attention, because that was the only time she would give me a litany of what he had done. And she didn’t tell me beforehand, even though I had asked to know what was going on.

I went to the principal/the head of the school. I felt heard by her, and we even discussed moving him up into kindergarten for the last three months. But…it would rob him of a sense of closure, and not give him the chance to feel like part of an entering class. It might be too stressful and set him up for another uncomfortable school experience.

His dad and I started picking him up every day at 1pm. It seemed to help a lot, because he got more one-on-one time with us AND he missed out on the afternoon vibe, which seemed to get progressively wilder as the day went on. We gave him extra cuddles, and made his bedtime a stricter 7:30pm, so that he was well-rested. I also bought an amazing story book, Healing Stories for Challenging Behavior, by Susan Perrow. I read him stories each night that were captivating and delightful, and also addressed his challenges (bullying, grieving, feeling victimized, being uncooperative and destructive).

I also talked to his big sister about going easier on him right now, because he was having a tough time. Unchecked, she will do all of the classic one-upmanship older sibling stuff, but that was just adding to his load. We needed to support him, build up his confidence, and reinforce positive traits. I was very pleased that she “got it” and changed the way she spoke to him.

To help them both understand, I made up a thing called “friendship bricks” and “friendship smacks.” If you say, “I made this picture,” and someone responds, “I can make a better one,” or “I don’t really like it,” that’s a friendship smack. It undermines a relationship. If you say, “Good job!” or “It’s beautiful!” or even, “Tell me what’s happening in this picture,” that’s a friendship brick. It’s a brick in the wall of a friendship. I reminded them both of this whenever I heard friendship smacks going on in the back seat of the car or at home.

I thought about changing schools, but I also had a strong, deep intuition that he would be okay once he got to kindergarten. It’s a different environment, with different expectations, lots more to be engaged with, and older kids. I feel very committed to our kids’ school overall, and wanted him, in the coming years, to experience what his sister had. We just had to make it through three months. And things did improve, a lot.

We met with his kindergarten teacher yesterday for a routine conference. I had a tight feeling in my stomach. Would it be another upsetting meeting? It was not. His kindergarten teacher told us wonderful things. He’s busy, loves to build elaborate forts, with other kids and on his own; he can be set down next to any child in the class and he has a great time talking/playing with him or her; he is beginning to “sparkle” and his eyes are gleaming with a sense of mastery and enjoyment. He enjoys playing with kids a little younger than him and a little older than him. He’s having fun and he is thriving.

Last week, he told me, “Daddy gave me the striped lunch bag because he couldn’t find my cars lunch bag, and that made me upset, because I had that lunch bag in preschool and that’s when the younger kids were hurting me. I don’t want to see that lunch bag ever again. It makes me upset.”

I became suffused with a flash of bittersweet emotion. I felt proud that he was so lucid about his feelings and associations. I felt sad about the terrible year. “Sweetheart, if you want, I will throw that lunch bag in the garbage as soon as we get home.”

“No, Mommy, don’t do that. Just put it in the garage. I don’t want to use it, but I don’t want you to throw it out, either.”

And so I did. It sits on a shelf next to the extra coffee maker and the leftover paint. For some reason he wants to keep it around, but out of sight. Maybe he gets on some level that this experience was like a ring of a tree, showing growth and also, closure.


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Sticks and Stones and Eyebrows, Noses

October 30th, 2009

eyebrows clafouti

My daughter came home looking worried the other day after school.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Some kids ran past me on the playground and yelled that I had evil eyebrows,” she said. “They said, ‘Evil eyebrows girl, you have evil eyebrows!’”

My first instinct: justice.

“Who were they?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They were older.”

“You have beautiful eyebrows,” I said. “They’re not evil at all. Besides, eyebrows can’t be evil.”

“I…know…” she said. But I could sense that thing knocking around inside her, that little thing that happens when someone says something shocking or mean or silly or random and we wonder how much weight to give it. Adults are generally more cordial with each other and don’t yell out stupid remarks just because they have a slight urge to do so. Kids have less of a filter.

“If that happens again,” I said, “Say, ‘Why are you running away, chickens? If you care so much about my eyebrows, let’s all go talk about them with the teacher.’” In a perfect world where comebacks come out in time, that would be a decent one, I think, to lob at the Pony Express Eyebrow Dissers.

“Kids used to make fun of my eyebrows when I was little,” I recalled,

Her eyes widened. “They did?”

“Yup. “But then grownups would say that I was lucky to have them, because they were like Brooke Shields’ eyebrows. Brooke Shields was a famous actress with very thick eyebrows.”

I also remember a red-haired boy on the school bus who turned around apropos of nothing and scornfully told me my lips were too big. As if he were the arbiter of middle school facial feature size. He had his own issues, but maybe he thought if he told me first, I wouldn’t wise off about his big white Chicklet teeth.

I related this eyebrow story to female friends my age and they all recalled some feature of theirs that had been ridiculed, although it tended to be their favorite feature as adults. We were sitting around a table in our thirties and forties, couldn’t remember piles of things from childhood, but the Thing We Got Picked On For, that popped right up to the surface in half a second. Susie remembered being called “Miss Piggy” because of her upturned nose. “And I love my nose now. It’s so youthful.”

I can’t control what fool thing comes out of someone’s mouth on the playground–I can’t even control what things come out of my kids’ mouths, although I can respond to what they say in a way that I hope guides them and teaches them about what effect it might have on others.

And, I can say, “I love your eyebrows. You are beautiful. I love you,” channel Tina Fey, and feed her some good response zingers for the next time the Pony Express Fill-in-the-Blank Dissers gallop through town.


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awesome craft from www.ourbigearth.com

April 26th, 2009

We made this, and it was fun. Notes: I used solid card stock instead of patterned scrapbooking paper. Now I want to make more. It’s a rather wholesome addiction, this crafting.

Family Craft – Waldorf-inspired Winter Birds

Posted using ShareThis


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Random Top Three

April 13th, 2009

1. the book Healing Stories for Challenging Behavior by Susan Perrow (Hawthorn Press). As a writer, a reader, and a mom, the idea of telling stories that engage my children’s imagination, vs. giving direction that engages their rational minds (which can just feel like it initiates a series of slamming doors) is quite inspiring. There are A LOT of stories in the book, but the book also talks you through creating stories for particular situations. It’s like formulating an Rx for a particular ailment, on the spot, or over a few days. She talks about “story medicine.” How stories can be actual medicine. I love the way that my kids relax against me when I read them bedtime stories. Their weight becomes like sleep weight–peaceful, planted where they are. Sometimes, I’ve ad-libbed a story in a situation that is rapidly spinning out of control–on a long car trip, or in the store. It catches their attention and gives me some leverage. They want it, too. They need me to provide a yummy place for them to go. That’s why they’re fussing and acting out. (Not because they’re horrid beasties…although it sometimes feels that way.) I can not wait to try out some of the stories…and to repeat them…some of them are retellings of tales I remember from childhood, like the Elves and the Shoemaker. Some are ones Perrow composed, some are collected from others. I look forward to having a well-exercised and wise story generator inside myself. You can get the book at steinerbooks.com, or hunt around for a second-hand source if you want to save a few bucks.

2. Hilary Meyerson’s essay “Endgame” in this spring’s Brain, Child magazine, and on their website, www.brainchildmag.com. It talks about what the real point is–of exposing your kids to things like violin, ice skating, gymnastics–and that real point has nothing to do with Carnegie Hall, or cutthroat competitiveness. It has to do with having fun for fun’s sake–something we all need to experience on a regular basis.

3. (Fair trade, sustainable) Shea Terra Organics…I love their Miombo Mango Shea Butter Dead Sea Salt Scrub, their Bourbon Vanilla Indigenous Shea Body Butter…both things that ready my winter skin for spring. Ay, crocodile. You know what I’m sayin’. So as I cavort around the tennis court, I can do so with glowing, revitalized limbs…all part of my goal to have fun for fun’s sake. (www.sheaterraorganics.com)


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Puppet Show

March 4th, 2009

My son is a funny combination of a morning person and a morning grouch. He hops out of bed before any of us, but is most prone to be in a skutchy* mood. He is not an early bird who is cheerful. Oh no. He is an early bird who is truculent and absolutely sure that he gets less cereal in his bowl than his sister does, no matter how much I strive for visual parity.

 It doesn’t exactly make our mornings flow more harmoniously. However, when I woke him up yesterday, I absentmindedly picked up his plush wolf puppet (I think it’s a Folkmanis), and let the wolf wake him up. Soon the wolf was attempting to dance with his penguin, and being an absolute goofball…Nathaniel woke up with a GRIN on his face. His good mood lasted all the way till school dropoff. I have no idea how long it endured, but yeah. Morning laughter. Good. I think Wolfie will wake him up, or greet him first, from now on.

 

*skutch (n.), skutchy (adj): pronounced with oo as in book. Walsh family term for irascible/touchy. May also be a word others use. If so, let me know : )


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chicken, little

February 12th, 2009

So, I’ve really been trying to stretch my grocery dollar. I can be guilty of spending more on recipe ingredients than I would on going out to a restaurant. Lately I’ve been trying to see how little I can spend, and I’ve even come back to clipping an old college love, coupons. 

Lately, I buy one package of boneless chicken thighs and make two dinners out of them. You can also use chicken breasts, or tofu. I know chicken breasts are more popular, but I prefer the moistness and tenderness of dark meat.

Saturday, we braised the chicken in a mixture of chicken broth and a can of diced tomatoes, with liberal use of dried basil, oregano, and black pepper. We ate it over brown basmati rice with wilted baby spinach, yum!

Sunday, we marinated the chicken in a mixture of peanut butter, soy sauce, green onions, chicken broth, and lemon juice. Then, we braised the chicken in the sauce and had it over jasmine rice with…the rest of the spinach. 

The week before, we had chicken breasts provencale-style, with roasted onions, olives, and roasted fresh tomatoes, with lots of garlic and broth…over barley, with baby green salad on the side.

I imagine I will get sick of chicken breasts at some point, but I’m not looking forward to that day.


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fever in, fever out

January 30th, 2009

Honorée had a fever last night, poor budgie. At one point she said, “Mom, the bed feels like it keeps on getting higher and higher, and it’s scary.” I rubbed her feet with lavender and peppermint oil…at around midnight, I gave her a bath infused with peppermint, lavender, and Young Living Thieves oil blend. She noticed that she was now as long as the tub. That’s a big moment, isn’t it? Her eyes seemed huge in her small white face, but she had a certain placidity. I never enjoy being sick but there’s something about fevers that feels very enlightening and related to altered states of consciousness. Purifying, raising the temperature to drive out what is not the essence. In Sanskrit, tapasya means “heat,” and is used to describe spiritual ecstasy, spiritual suffering, and “essential energy.”

This morning, she woke up chatty, famished and thirsty, and ate dry Mighty Bites cereal faster than I wanted her to. She had a brief, low flare-up of fever and then mellowed out again. 

It was hard for me to fall asleep because I was worried about her. I came in at one point and put my hand on her chest to feel the rise and fall of her breathing. I used to do it when she was a baby, but haven’t done it much lately. Sometimes, to me, being a mother feels like being at an amusement park five minutes before it closes. So much there, so much to do, so much I want to be present to but as I am present, I become aware of what I have not been present to in the past, what I’ve missed, what I’m missing right now, what I will not have the omnipresent superpower to soak up in the next five minutes and for all time. Breathe…

I love.


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rockin’ around

December 10th, 2008

We have Tree.

I have gone back and forth with the Yule tree dilemma. Buy a sustainably harvested tree? Buy a tree that you can plant? A (apologies to Martha Stewart for my cheeky usage of the following term) faux bois, aka fake tree? 

I don’t know about you, but trees are loaded for me. I have memories. My late Grandma Marie’s very cute, 2-foot fakey, that sat perched atop her heavily consoled color television (you know, decorative carving, lots of wood polish residue, tweed-covered speaker screens), Christmas cards strung around it via string stapled to the ceiling molding (and I could do a whole ‘nother post about holiday greeting cards). All those awful stories about peoples’ houses burning down because they chopped up the tree and put it in the fireplace. The tree at Rockefeller Center. The time my mom and stepdad decided to buy the cheapest tree in the lot, and got one that looked as sparse as Charlie Brown’s–worse, in my teen perspective, than no tree at all. The tree I bought next to Tompkins Square Park when I was 27, and walked home with it lashed to my vintage yellow Schwinn bike that had a name (Heloise). Peter and I carried it up 3 flights of stairs and decorated it with my costume jewelry, as I, so recently a solitary urban chick, had no ornaments. The first tree I got as a mother…Honorée was four months old and my brother and I drove to a big box store and got two–one for my mom and him, and one for my house. Everyone stared at us–I think they seriously thought that WE were the family unit–a teen boy, a pushing-thirty woman, an infant, in a beater car, buying two trees…the judgment vibes were thick, or so I imagined, postpartum and identity-wobbly. 

A few years ago, my dad visited Santa Fe, when I was still married, and Peter and I were having some seriously snipey moments. “I think it’s hard to decorate a tree sometimes because we remember those who used to be with us, and now aren’t,” my dad said. Including love, I think, looking back. It was excruciatingly hard to decorate the tree after the love was gone. Not that I put my finger on it at the time, or could bear to.

But wait! There were good tree memories, too. They’re in my head somewhere. The time when I was four and there was a bicycle under the tree–my first two-wheeler, a Radio Flyer, which I told people actually did fly when I rode it. The tree that had a Cabbage Patch Doll under it, when I thought my folks would think I was too old for one, but I still wanted one anyway. Good memories are a bit harder to hold on to than bad ones, criticism burns deeper than praise, you know how it goes. I read that it’s an evolutionary brain thing: it’s more important to our survival to remember threats than neutral to good things. 

Two years in a row, I’ve bought a plantable tree, and both trees have died on me before I got around to planting them. Hello, guilt! Call it too long frozen ground, not being in a place where I could commit to literally putting down roots, an intermittently green thumb. 

This year, I bought a 7.5 foot fake tree, pre-lit, with pine cones on it. I will have it until it fails (and I can’t really imagine that happening). That’s the kind of tree I can commit to. Portable, re-usable, in perpetuity. We got it on the spur of the moment, and the kids and I decorated it on the fly. I didn’t have to fuss with balancing the lights perfectly (I can be a bit psycho about that), because someone else did it for me. Nathaniel donned the Santa hat, and we danced to Burl Ives Christmas songs while placing sentimentally precious ornaments on the branches. I lifted Honorée up, my arms around her coltish calves, and she, wobbly, proud and intrepid, placed the angel on the topmost branch. It was not solemn, nor was it entirely irreverent. It was doing the thing without it having quotes around it. A relief. Afterwards, they went to bed and I sat in the darkness, staring at the totem.

It is a “good” holiday memory Christmas tree year, but this is one thing I realized: every year, no matter the circumstances or the emotional tenor, I have been unable to do anything but succumb to that moment, that spell, when the tree is up, glowing, festooned, and I feel soothed, satisfied and enchanted.


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Yes, the turkey does fit in the roasting pan, honey.

November 25th, 2008

I’ve redeemed myself, I think, by making pancakes for dinner. I am very popular right now. The kids got to festoon them with whipped cream and maple syrup. I also made them Arthur mac n cheese. I was crankymom before that, demanding that they keep their bedroom from turning into a disaster zone before the holiday. We actually made some progress with thinning out their dense toy stashes–they agreed to let me put many of them in a big sack in the garage. Not to donate them, mind you. But meanwhile, lately Goodwill doesn’t even want kids’ toys, nor did the other thrift shop that I tried. What do you do? I imagine a shelter, maybe? I think things have gotten a lot more complicated since unsafe toys were outed.

So here’s my Thanksgiving menu:

Spinach, red pepper, goat cheese, pinon nut salad
Pancetta-Sage Turkey with Pancetta-Sage Gravy
Artichoke, Sausage, And Parmesan Cheese Stuffing
Chestnut, Bacon, Dried Apple, And Corn Bread Dressing
Sesame-Onion Crescent Rolls
Green Bean Casserole (you know the one–fried onions on top)
Mashed Potatoes
Baked Sweet Potato Wedges
Apple Streusel Pie

People are also bringing crudité, a pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, a parsnip casserole, and bevvies.

We’re hosting 14 peeps, including four kids. Two people are only coming for “tea and pudding,” and those would be the British ones. I love British-isms.

I am seriously feeling cowed by it all, but I know it will come together. Finding fresh sage in a store would be helpful. I need 4 packages.


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