Welcome to the Scream Fest

Sometimes the most love-drenched parenting moments come in silence: profound gazes, sleeping bodies cuddled impossibly close, hungry mouths sucking noiselessly away on my breast with the strength of survival-stained-instinct.

But if you are really, really lucky, you find yourself transcendent in the midst of the (incredibly deafening) not-so-peaceful moments.

Let me just give you an example. A few weeks ago, we (ridiculously) decided to take our family (all of us snot-nosed and coughing) to a wedding less than two hours away. BK (before kids), such a trip would be no big deal at all. And, indeed, Justin and I congratulated ourselves on our incredible parenting skills after a peaceful ride up to the wedding, both children snoring noisily in the backseat. And then, of course, the ride home ensued.

To describe the 90 minute trip home as loud would be an enormous understatement. It turns out that exhausted three year olds who are also a bit sick and crazed by too much sugar do not make the best traveling companions. Lucy transformed from the sweet cherub that she had been a few hours before into a pacifier demanding, irrational creature with disproportionately large lung capacities. In short, she screamed the entire way home.

It should be said that Lucy's scream fests always are triggered by something or other. But the something or other that triggers them is almost always imperceptible to rational adults. I believe a few weeks ago the issue was she had dropped on pacifier that she wanted to hold onto (although she still had another pacifier in her mouth) and we refused to pull the car over immediately to remedy the drastically urgent emergency. In any case, once the screams begin, the only thing that is certain is that they most likely will not stop until our ears are ringing or Lucy gets her way.

Because we are super-hero-parents, we try not to give in to these fits. Ask POLITELY, we remind her calmly. And so, she adds a new word to her screaming mantra. Instead of "STOP THE CAR NOW!" She starts yelling, at an increased pitch and volume: "PLEASE STOP THE CAR NOW." We, still calm, tell her that this is not acceptable behavior, reminding her that her brother is sleeping beside her. She screams back "HE IS NOT SLEEPING ANYMORE." As if to confirm her words, Zander then began to add his own screams to the symphony.

A newborn's screams are a different matter entirely. Lucy's screams make me mad. His break my heart. His, sound to me like: "Mommy I love you but I am trying to sleep and I am sick and sissy is so loud and my ears hurt."

And so, Justin and I drove, exchanging glances ranging from amusement to torment, all the way back to Bloomington, with our two children screaming at the top of their lungs.

I think this is the story of persistence. I think there are small victories in each day that we miraculously don't lose our insanity.

And I think next time we go on a long trip with the kids, Justin and I will most definitely pack ear plugs.

No Sleep = No Joke

All moms have their "things".

You know what I mean. Some moms really worry that their kids will get fat, so they over-obsess about only giving them healthy foods. Some moms really worry that their kids won't succeed in school, so they sign them up for every possible tutoring-academic-organization imaginable. My mom's main worry had everything to do with sleep.

I still remember my mom's face when I would ask to go to a sleepover. "You know you will come home the next morning totally grouchy and it will ruin the rest of your Saturday," she would point out, not altogether incorrect. And each night, during our back scratching-prayer ritual (this was a huge hit in our house . . a duo that created in me a deep affinity for prayer), she would negotiate with my alarm-setting for the next day: "Do you REALLY need all that time to get ready? How about sleep in just a few more minutes??"

Thanks to mom, I've been a pretty good sleeper throughout life. I'd get made fun of during college, as I dutifully headed off to bed by 11pmish each night, ensuring at least eight hours a night. But then I became a mother. And, even more shocking, I decided to become a mother a second time.

In many ways, once you become a mother you realize the multitude of ways your own mother wasn't such a dummy after all. Well, here's one way. Forced into living a life of sleep deprivation, I have found the first months living with a newborn as delightfully fuzzy. I can't recall my address, my passwords, or, sometimes, my husband's name. I drive slower, but I feel like I'm zooming down the highway. I have to focus, REALLY focus, to hear and comprehend words when there is any other background noise (aka the TV). And, most pointedly, my ambition for any expenditure of energy beyond the necessary things (eating, sleeping, nursing, feeding my kids) is remarkedly low. Yesterday I sat in amazement at all of the young, energetic, motivated grad students surrounding me. (I used to perhaps be one of them just a few months ago.) They literally competed to answer questions better, use larger vocabulary words, get their criticism of the author out there. I sat there literally amused, thinking, "how CUTE. They all really CARE about this stuff." Uh oh.

I'm praying I get back in the swing of the academic world just in time to, oh, I don't know, write a qualifying exam and a dissertation proposal. I'm praying all of this is about sleep deprivation and not a totally brain melting. And I'm praying I can remember my husband's name again.

But most of all, I've got to say: "Mom, you were right. Sleep is pretty much the most important thing ever. I promise I will attend NO sleep overs for the next decade, and I will set my alarm for the latest possible time." It's really too bad baby Zander doesn't come with a snooze button.

Teacher-Mommy

One early spring afternoon, seven months pregnant with Lucy and totally bewildered by my inability to manage my fifth period room full of mischevious ninth graders, I complained to another wiser English teacher down the hall: "HOW is it that other people are able to get that "authority" thing across without being jerks? I'm usually a quick learner. Why can't I figure this out??"

In a moment of vivid clarity, she pointed at my ridiculously protruding belly and said something to the effect of the following: "All I know is that managing my classes became a ton easier once I had my own children. I could suddenly envision these ninth graders as the kids they really are, and I stopped being so shocked my their immature behavior. And I think it could be said that I loved them more, in a mom-who-needs-to-set-you-straight sort of way."

I may never know if this will really be the case with me, since I left the secondary classroom in favor of PhD and university pursuits after that trying year. But in honor of the fact that I just yesterday taught my first class (now undergrads) as a mother of two children, I thought I'd reflect on how being a mom has impacted how I envision my role as "teacher":

*I no longer obsess about what I wear. In fact, comfort is the most important quality I seek to attain (forget about "professional"), and spit-up stains have become my latest can't-do-without accessory. (I almost miraculously made it to class yesterday without spit up, but Zander pelted me with it at the last moment, as I was handing him over to his father.)

*Thanks to my post-pregnancy chubbiness and huge rings of exhaustion under my eyes, I no longer have to worry about being seen as a sexual object by my students. (I did so love those little love notes from my sixth graders . . . )

*I, who was totally unable to find "balance" when I was a workaholic new teacher, am now forced daily to stop working on my teaching stuff by my two very needy top priorities.

*I don't feel nearly as insecure or vulnerable in a teacher role. Pushing a 9lb 4 oz infant out of your body without drugs with ten plus people watching you in the room is potentially stressful. Teaching these students for a few hours no longer seems like such a big deal.

*It's not so hard to differentiate myself from college kid students anymore. They seem to live now on an entirely different universe, one filled with parties, late nights out, tons of laughing friends, and decisions that revolve around just one person's wishes.

The big question is whether or not becoming a parent has made me a better or worse teacher. I know it has made me different. The other big question is whether being a teacher has made me a better or worse parent. Either way, one thing is clear. I really should get back to lesson planning. After all, Zander will wake up any minute . . .

A Letter

When I was eight or nine years old and my life was largely dictated by the lives of the fictional characters I voraciously read about, I got a decent idea from an LM Montgomery protagonist, one who resembled Anne of Green Gables. Her name was Emily (of New Moon), and she decided to write letters to herself in the future. I promptly wrote a letter to my fifteen year old self (which was about as mature as I could imagine ever becoming at that age), in which I passionately proclaimed my love for Jesus and my love for a boy in my fifth grade class named Michael (in that order.) I asked myself scores of questions, including such important ones as "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Are you pretty?" "Do you have your driver's permit?" I ended with a sincere plea to myself to always perservere in my childlike faith.

I couldn't wait to open the letter. Instead of waiting until I was fifteen, I found myself rebreaking the seal every six months or so, each time more and more amazed at how young and innocent I was. This, of course, made it lose the impact it could have had when I actually did turn fifteen, but, nevertheless, the exercise was a worthwhile one in a study of transitioning from childhood to adolescenthood.

All of this has got me thinking. I need to write a letter to my grown up kids right now. Here's what I've got so far:
________________________________

Dear grown-up version of Lucy and Zander:

Hi, kiddoes. It's August 2011, and I am the version of mom that you see in the photo albums when you were a three year old and infant, the pics that make you cry out "Whoa! Mom- you used to look SO young!"

You two are seriously exhausting and seriously delightful. Luce- you are all storms and rainbows. You can be the kindest, most generous three year old I've ever seen, as you share your treats with you dad and love on your baby bro. You can also be hilariously tantrum-y at the drop of the hat, if I say a phrase you didn't want me to say "I didn't WANT you to ask if I ate all of my lunch!" or if I don't spread the blanket on your doll correctly.

Zander- you are completely out of it still, and so young that it doesn't bother you a bit. But your smile lights up the room, our hearts. Who in the world are you? The pediatrician said you are amazingly expressive for your age. Did you talk early? . . .
__________________________

As you can see, the letter is a work in progress. But the fact that words can act as a time capsule is something to make use of a time or two.

Especially when you want to capture a snapshot of a moment you realize you never want to forget.

Myself when I am Mom

Contemporary identity theorists disagree on a lot of semantics, but they generally all point the same direction: we are all composed of many selves. This dependence on context and reciprocal relationships on determining whether we embody the identity of "the fun-loving one" or "the responsible serious one" during a single moment completely debunks the notion that, sometime around adolescence, we mystically find our inherent "selves" and stay static in our commitment to that simple formula. Instead, our entire lives involve a negotiation of who we decide to become in each circumstance, created by a unique dynamic of the roles the others we happen to around decide to adopt. Who I am, then, results from a complex, performative dance, rather than a self I happen to discover when I am sixteen.

Similarly, nueroscientists have been having fun in recent decades discovering how flexibile our plastic brains really are, during our entire lives. It turns out that all of the pathways aren't made and set in stone by a certain age as previously thought. Instead, every year, every experience and habit contributes to shape our amazing brains.

These two fascinating fields beg the question: Who am I when I am a mother? In other words, what surprising things about myself have emerged from my interactions with my son, daughter, and spouse? And how has my brain had to adapt to this emerging self? Here's what I've got so far:

**Shocker #1: I am the GOOD cop. I always assumed (most likely because I grew up in a home where Mom was the tough one and Dad was the push-over) that I would have to be the consistent disciplinarian. It turns out, around my kids, I tend to play the good guy role. This was nothing that Justin and I worked out (and he often gets frustrated that he finds himself in the role of strict enforcer), but it is the dynamic our family has naturally fallen into.

**Shocker #2: I'm totally casual about my kids. I've met enough parents to know that I am WAY LESS concerned about pacifiers that have fallen on the floor, germs on public tables, stains on shirts, or toddler attempts at dangerous park antics than the average bear. In fact, in comparison to most parents I know, I verge or irresponsible. This is strange when I consider how much I love my children, how cautious my own mother was with me, and how type A and responsible I tend to be in daily life.

**Shocker #3: Too much noise or stimulation drives me crazy. Ever since I became a sleep-deprived mother who is generally multi-tasking with 3-4 things (talking on the phone while making lunch and stuffing a pacifier in my infant who I am wearing on a sling), I have become an old lady about noise. Just having the TV on as background noise can push me over the edge.

**Shocker #4: I love LOVE being alone. Whenever I would take those personality tests in TEEN magazines I would always score high as an extrovert, someone who needed to be around people to get energy from. Now I find social occassions with grown-ups draining (my face actually starts to hurt from smiling), and I can't imagine a better hour than one spent taking a run on my own into the sunset or reading a book without interruption.

*Shocker #5: When it comes to my kids, I am the world's worst teacher. You would think, since I'm getting my PhD in education and all, that I would be hyper-attentive in applying all I know about how kids learn on my own children. Instead, I find myself sitting back on the education front (Lucy will learn her letters eventually, right; no hurry!) constantly commenting to my nurse-husband, "WOW- you are totally making this a learning opportunity" as he points out maps, teaches new vocabulary in authentic moments, etc, etc.

Enough of me, myself, and I. In teacher education talk, we speak about the continual process of "becoming a teacher." There is no single moment defined by reaching this destination, by suddenly feeling like you are a professional in the field. Instead, there is a gradual moving journey. In the same way, I plan on always be working towards "becoming" a mother. After all, a three year old and infant need a pretty different mother than two teenagers.

Ode to Function

"The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs . . .

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun."
-"Song of Myself", Walt Whitman

I have a really good pelvis.

Good, in the case of I'm-getting-ready-to-give-birth-to-a-9lb-4oz-infant, by the way, can be summed up in one word: LARGE. I am not just vain or optimistic. I was told this a week before my son decided to finally make his entrance, and my husband can verify the elation that ensued. I literally sang songs about my great pelvis, shouted them to the world in the parking lot as we left the office. For some strange reason this embarrassed my husband. I figured, since we were leaving an ob's office, all the pregnant women entering and exiting would fully understand.

Oh how things change.

If you knew me in college, or the few years that followed, you know that my 90-pound frame drew comments ranging from "I would DIE for that metabolism" to "Does she have an eating disorder?" (For the record, I ate like a hog back then, as I continue to do now. For some reason, the old body doesn't handle millions of calories like it used to.) Back then being thin and looking decent mattered to me. The body was all about decoration. It was a tool to help the other parts of me (my brain, my personality, etc) get me what I wanted, and I don't just mean a fine-looking husband.

Then, I entered career-land, and looking like I was a pre-pubescent twelve year old became somewhat of a liability when I became a teacher of twelve year olds. The pounds began to creep on. But it wasn't until Justin and I started talking "let's try for a kid" that I really became, well. . . not ninety pounds anymore.

Here's the ugly truth. We women care about our weight. Even the most intelligent, wise among us can't curb the desire to be thin. Some of us, of course, care a lot more than others. But I became a whole lot more comfortable in my skin, despite, or because of, my ballooning weight, once I became pregnant with my first. Suddenly, my body was more than a nice little vehicle to get me around life. It was more than a fashion accessory. It became a human-creating-sustaining machine. This is remarkable. This is a miracle.

Take breasts, for instance. Those two once useless lumps morph into these incredible baby-feeding-machines. Just last week as we were leaving the state fair, my husband caught two less-than-reputable-middle-aged-men staring at my cleavage (enhanced, of course, by milk at the moment) as I put Lucy in her car seat. As they passed by, giving me a smile and a wave, Justin remarked dryly, pointing at my sweaty son, snoring softly in the stroller: "Stop looking. Those things are HIS."

And so, though I'd be lying to say I love the way my thighs rub together and the slight double chin that can result from an unfortunate photo-angle, I've got to say .. . seriously, who really cares about a few pounds?! A few early-twenty-somethings and I were talking the other day, and they discussed, with real animation, the fear they have about getting pregnant some day. "I'm just going to blow up," one said,"I will have to work out every day before and after I give birth." (They, by the way, forgot to mention how incredibly great I look after just giving birth eight weeks ago . .. hmmm . . . ) "But look what you get out of it!" I replied, pointing at a fussy Zander. They smiled politely and continued on, exchanging diet advice, as if I had missed the point entirely.

I didn't miss the point. And to every mother, fat and skinny and somewhere in-between, don't forget to sing a song of yourself everytime you begin to consider all of the things you'd like to change about something as trivial as your face, your legs, your jiggly arms. There's one little ditty that you actually want running constantly through your head . . .

On Love . . .

You know those moms who declare that, the moment they laid eyes on their wrinkled, wet, smooshed-up infant, they had an instant connection? The ones that felt their life was suddenly, inexorably changed, that felt an immediate surge of love-protective energy power up their exhausted body? These moms couldn't help but proclaim, upon first glancing the literal fruit of their labor, "this kid HAS to be the cutest thing EVER."

Well, I am not one of those moms.

I'm told, upon seeing my wild black hair and squinty eyes, my own mother, drugged up on c-section drugs declared something to the effect of: "She's so ugly. Put her back." And I, too, was not blessed with the love-drenching-blindness upon seeing Lucy for the first time, and then Zander. As they placed my son on my chest just eight weeks ago, for instance, I couldn't help but think "he feels just like a slimy fish." And although I was glad he was out, thus relieving intense pressure and pain, I just had to point out to the nurses and my (slightly annoyed) husband: "He's not cute at all yet. Look at that bruised face and those exhausted eyes." But, to my credit, I also added "But don't worry. He will be."

And so it is with love and parenting and me. When Lucy was first born, I was embarrassed and quite frightened with the lack of instant love I felt. I felt, in the place where love should be, simply exhausted. I resented her constant neediness, and felt numb from the lack of dialogue you can have with a two day old. I feared I wasn't mom material. I failed in the only department that really mattered, the love department.

But then the slow miracle happened. This same miracle has been unfolding again with Zander. Each day, the kid grows on me a little more. And, if the pattern holds this time, by the time we hit Week 12 or so, I will be absolutely head-over-heels in love, and my infant will appear to me to be the cutest infat that ever walked the face of the earth. And I will no longer be a failure in the land of moms. I will simply join the host of other blind fools who think their kids are the smartest, most adorable, funniest things out there.

One more note on love for your children. It aches. My love for my mom, my dad, even my husband, feels sweet and mushy. But the love I have for my kids is fierce, is intense, and isn't altogether pleasant.

But for now, my job is to go nurse my eight week old, who is suddenly becoming more and more lovable by the second . . .