motherhood

Confident Mom Interview #3: Lenore Skenazy of Free-Range Kids

Posted on by amberhj

Lenore Skenazy, Free-Range Crusader

Do you remember the media hubbub from a couple years back, when a woman labeled by some as “America’s Worst Mom” let her kid ride the NYC subway all by himself? I thought so.

I chatted with Lenore Skenazy of Free-Range Kids one recent Sunday afternoon as she made chicken soup from scratch—and no. Sadly, I didn’t think to ask if the chicken was free-range.

On April 1, 2008, Lenore wrote a column for The New York Sun: “Why I Let My 9-Year-Old Take The Subway Alone.” She never imagined that it would land her on just about every talk show under the sun. Ever since then, she’s been taking hits and garnering praise as the bold leader of the free-range parenting movement.

She’s painted as a renegade in the media, but the woman I got to know over the phone seemed more like your average, concerned mom, just doing her best to stay sane like the rest of us. The only difference? She thinks the anxiety parents face today is out of control, detrimental, and largely out of place. And she’s doing her best to fight fear with fact, as seen in her book, Free-Range Kids: Giving Our Children the Freedom We Had Without Going Nuts with Worry.

Lenore certainly has some avid detractors. But to me, her message rings true.

The purpose and principles of free-range

I asked Lenore to quickly define the parenting style she’s helped champion, and the well-worn line rolled off her tongue. She called it “an old-fashioned approach to parenting that lets us give our kids the freedom we had.”

More explanation can be found on her website: “…we believe in safe kids. We believe in helmets, car seats and safety belts. We do NOT believe that every time school age children go outside, they need a security detail. Most of us grew up Free Range and lived to tell the tale. Our kids deserve no less.”

Her parenting approach, by the way, isn’t based on a hunch. Or nostalgia or laziness. It happens to be backed by a lot of research, which can be found throughout her book. Lenore points to the crime rate as a prime example. It’s much lower today across the board than in the 1970’s, yet kids have less freedom and parents more fear than ever.

Free-range, but not necessarily organic

Lenore has two boys, now 11 and 13 years old. I asked her if she was free-range from the start, when her first son was born. Her very honest answer surprised me.

“No, not at all!” She explained that while she’s an advocate for free-range parenting, she isn’t always able to put everything into practice. She recalled an incident from when her oldest son was one. He was in his car seat, with Lenore and her mother-in-law sitting by him, and her husband driving. “The boy was crying. My mother-in-law said to give him a bottle. I was like, ‘No! I can’t give him a bottle! What if the nipple lodges in his throat?’” She laughed, recalling how in that moment, she trusted all the baby books she’d read, rather than the common sense of her mother-in-law, who’d raised three kids.

Lenore acknowledged, “It’s hard to take a step back from the culture.” But there was something that came much more easily to her than it does to most people: “Trusting strangers more.” Lenore credits this trust to 20 years as a reporter in New York City. “I’m always talking to people in different neighborhoods from all different backgrounds. And everyone’s been great. I really do trust people… and I always felt like if you go into a Starbucks and you have to go to the bathroom, you can ask someone to watch your child.”

She realizes that this is radical stuff to many parents today. Because to so many of us, a stranger is “a predator until proven otherwise.” Luckily, according to Lenore, actual statistics don’t support this bummer of a belief.

What worries the anti-worry guru?

Based on what I’d read about Lenore, I knew there were a lot of things she didn’t worry about: her young son riding the subway alone, for starters. So I wondered, what does the free-range generalissimo worry about?

Lenore sighed, and the list began. “I’m worried right now that my sons aren’t reading enough.” She also worries about their level of communication or lack thereof—especially in regards to one of her sons in particular. “I asked him, ‘what’d you do on your camping trip?’ and he said, ‘Stuff.’”

She admitted, “I worry about their dependence on electronic amusement. Should they not be on the computer? Are they eating too much junk food? Are they nice to their friends? Do they have friends?”

Lenore paused and remarked, “The idea that I’m not a worrier cracks up me and my sister. We are such worriers.”

“I don’t come from pioneer woman, cavalier background,” Lenore continued. “I grew up with a stay-at-home mom.” Yet, she pointed out that her “child-focused” home environment never neared the “level of paranoia about the world that has been foisted on parents today.”

Keeping free-range kids safe

Lenore may be a legend among free-range parents, but she’s very concerned about safety. When her youngest son turned ten, he had a football-themed party. The sole item in the goody bag? A mouth guard.

Free-range parenting isn’t a free-for-all for kids. She explained that, of course, “You’re responsible for them. You teach them how to cross the street. You teach them to be where they say they’re going to be.”

Lenore stated her belief that, no matter how many people are placed on the sex offender registry, “It’s safest to teach your kids to say no to whatever creeps them out,” and to make sure they know that they can always tell you. Lenore emphasized that it’s absolutely crucial to say to them, “I won’t be mad at you.”

“It’s incredibly important to keep the line of communication open. That’s going to help them a lot more than telling them don’t talk to strangers and keeping them inside… Besides, most sexual predators are people they know.”

According to Lenore, the most important message to kids isn’t “Don’t talk to strangers,” but, “You’re allowed to say no and you should tell.”

The goal, she says, is to build confidence in kids. “The confidence to say no—to predators or bullies—comes from doing things in the real world and feeling pretty good about yourself.”

Nothing to fear but fear-mongering?

I’ve often wondered, in regards to myself and other parents I know, “Why we are so scared?” So I asked Lenore to explain the forces undermining parental confidence today, and why the free-range mentality doesn’t come naturally for most.

This is Lenore’s hot button issue, and I could tell by the way her voice changed—slightly higher and faster—when she responded. This is clearly an area she’s studied in-depth, and in her educated opinion, it boils down to “media saturation” and the “safety industrial complex.” Profit-driven messages are messing with our vulnerable parental minds.

The Law and Order phenomenon, she explained, sears graphic images and story-lines of victimization into our brains on a near-daily basis. Coincidentally, Law and Order went on the air in 1990, in the period when parental and general fear was soaring to new, paranoid heights. Our parents simply weren’t bombarded with terrifying and disturbing stories and imagery of sexual and physical violence in the way that we are today, which helps explain our more fearful, mistrusting mindsets.

Lenore said that when you follow the trail of fear, it leads directly to a giant dollar sign. “It all comes from the money to be made via advertising on TV or money made in selling products.” Parental fear is profit-driven, from TV ads to “class-action lawsuits about a drop of lead in Barbie’s eye.” Take a closer look at all the protective measures that at first seem instinctual, “and there is money behind it.”

Lenore highlighted a few products that may seem innocuous at first glance: knee pads, infrared baby monitors, and bath water thermometers. She noted that their very existence and widespread availability have heavy implications for parents. The message: You aren’t capable of keeping your kids safe without the help of products from more knowledgeable companies and experts. For that reason, it can be very hard to walk away from Babies ‘R Us feeling remotely confident as a parent, unless you spend a lot of money.

She explained that the knee pads imply that your baby isn’t safe even when doing a fundamental activity like crawling. The bath water thermometer suggests that “you’re about to scald your child.” The infrared monitor tells us, “At no time is your child is safe and sound.” Lenore pointed out that until recently, when your baby was asleep, you could take a break and “breathe a sigh of relief.” Parents today are afraid to let down their guard for even a minute, and it’s exhausting.

Lenore sees these products and their relentless proliferation and promotion as posing a fundamental question: “Don’t you care enough to save your child?” Of course, our instinct as parents is to say yes. And we spend a lot of money in order to do so. But no purchase is ever enough to take away the fear that has been planted.

My jaw dropped when Lenore told me about perhaps the worst fear-based money-maker she’s ever seen–an ad for a GPS device that’s also a 911 phone. In this short commercial, a kid is lured away from his bus stop by a remote control car. The next thing you see is the kid in the trunk of a strange man’s car, followed by a highly suggestive scene in a dark alley. If you watch closely enough at the end, when a SWAT team arrives to rescue the boy, you’ll notice that the stranger is pulling up his pants. I wish I were kidding. Honestly, I’d hoped Lenore was exaggerating. She wasn’t. See for yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, and don’t take their misleading stat at face value:

Yikes. No wonder fear is so rampant, Lenore commented, despite the fact that crime is down, child abduction is rare, and that when abuse and kidnapping does happen, it’s usually at the hands of an acquaintance or estranged parent.

Lenore pointed out that whenever something does happen to a child, from a bump on the head to something more serious, parents are attacked or blamed to the fullest extent possible. She lamented, “We’re so afraid these days. Fate used to be part of the bargain. Now, anything that happens to the kid isn’t blamed on fate, it’s blamed on the parent. ‘Why did they let her eat that grape? How did they break their arm?’ It’s all traced back to negligence on parents. We’re blaming them because we’re scared and if we can distance ourselves from that parent’s disaster, it gives us a sense of control.”

Lenore added, “Our litigious society makes it seem like everything that happens has cause or blame.” In other words, there are no accidents anymore. It’s always somebody’s fault.

“Everything is now seen in terms of cause and effect. If we turn our backs for a second, then we will be blamed.” As a result, we’re always looking for possible ways our kids could be hurt, and willing to spend money on products—previously non-existent or considered unnecessary—claiming to protect them.

It’s hard to be a confident, free-range parent today because our commercial culture is constantly feeding our fears.

Sheltered kids lack coping skills

Lenore explained that today, some college administrators refer to incoming freshman as tea cups, “because they’re so delicate.” Sure, they’re “beautiful and perfectly made” but take them out of their protected display case and they break. They don’t stand up to everyday wear and tear, because they’ve always been shielded.

Lenore noted that college students are using mental health services in record numbers. “More college kids are depressed now than during the Depression,” she said.

“The point is,” she continued, “self reliance doesn’t just spring up out of nowhere. Sometimes you have to figure out your own route home because you missed the bus and can’t get a hold of your mom.” Unfortunately, most kids are bailed out and don’t get the chance to build confidence by overcoming obstacles.

How to worry less? See adversity as opportunity

I asked Lenore what she’d say to a parent who wants to stop worrying, but can’t let go. She said that parents need to take the pressure off of themselves. When her best friend read her book, she told Lenore how much she appreciated “whole chapters telling you to relax.” The fact is, Lenore explained, “Not everything you do has a big impact on your child’s development.”

“It’s a big relief when you realize it’s not all up to you. Not every synapse is up to you to connect in the brain. Not every day has to be perfect. They’re going to fail and that’s probably good in the long run.”

Lenore believes that when adversity strikes, we as parents have the opportunity to say, “Okay this is the punch, and now we learn how to roll with it… Life isn’t going to be perfect. The sooner they realize it, the better they can handle it.”

As for a specific strategy to get nervous parents started, Lenore suggests leaving your cell phone home for a day, giving your child the opportunity to problem-solve on his or her own. (More concrete free-range parenting ideas can be found in the FAQ section at Free-Range Kids.)

It’s a wide, enriching world for free-range kids

I asked Lenore to think of an incident—something her kids said or did—that affirmed her free-range parenting style. I wondered if she’d seen behavior that let her know that the freedoms she’d given them were fruitful investments in their character.

She thought for a minute, and then perked up. She explained that her youngest son takes the subway to school and transfers in Manhattan. Along the way, her son has befriended, as Lenore put it, “the guy who gives out free newspapers.”

The man’s a fixture at her son’s stop. “The guy has been through some hard times,” Lenore said, adding that he’s likely been “homeless or incarcerated… and doesn’t want to see my son go the same route.” This man has not only become a friendly acquaintance of her son, he’s become interested in and invested in her son’s future.

In fact, this man wrote her son a letter, amounting to a pep talk on paper, urging him to stay the course in life. He also gave her son a book about John F. Kennedy, meant to inspire.

Lenore shared her feelings on the unusual relationship. “It made me proud that he [Lenore’s son] connected with another person, that the person is looking after him… and that the man feels good about it.” Lenore, the seasoned reporter, couldn’t help but add, “And it makes me happy that my son reads the newspaper.”

Lenore is delighted to see that her son is “not writing people off because they’re a different color or poor or hard up.” It’s just one of many lessons he’s free to learn.

Lest ye be judged

Posted on by amberhj

Hi all, I’m super tired and have been working (freelance writing) like crazy, during naps and until midnight most nights, and I need sleep and definitely shouldn’t be blogging right now. Just wanted to check in, I suppose. By the way, I am almost done editing my interview with Lenore Skenazy, and will post early next week! The free-range parenting guru is still popping up in big-time media a lot these days, and I felt honored that she spent close to an hour on a Sunday to chat with me. It was a delight. Also on deck for my Confident Mom Interview Series are a roller derby mama I once had the pleasure of working with and Cody’s 90-ish year-old grandmother Torie, who is sharp as a tack and one of the most open-minded, least judgmental people ever. Which brings me to my thought of the night.

I read a blog post today, in which bedtimes like Stella’s (8:30pm these days) were deemed inappropriate. You know, it was just another mom, blowing off some steam, admitting that she judges moms who are out with their babies past 6pm or so. My first response was to laugh so hard tea came out my nose. Then I got annoyed and even a little bit mad and defensive. I wasn’t afraid to post my response. And my response to her response. And then I realized it was karma.

Not too long ago, I left a slightly jokey, gentle, but still essentially critical comment on a certain blog by a certain “crazy mom” (those are her words–the very ones I use to describe myself). She’s pretty well known (not in Dooce’s league, but way above mine) and wacky and brutally honest and I’d be amazed if she didn’t wind up with a reality TV show. About five minutes later, I felt mildly sick to my stomach. I knew it was wrong to judge her. I knew it wasn’t my place. Yet I’d given in to the urge to judge, something I usually try hard to suppress. I thought about the lactivists who have posted hurtful judgments on the Fearless Formula Feeder‘s site, as if just to shame moms who have already made their feeding choices, and realized I was no better.

The much-more-popular-than-I blogger that I’d criticized responded to my judgey remark, and in the very succinct, reasonable message she sent me, it was confirmed: I was an ass. I didn’t really know that I was talking about. Be ye not so stupid. Do not judge another mom’s choices (or any person, for that matter)–you know, the kind that don’t affect you at all and you have no business contradicting? Especially not based on a small snapshot of their life. That’s arrogant. You are most likely 100% incorrect. You haven’t walked in their shoes. You may, in fact, be doing it to feel superior or secure yourself. It probably has little to do with the judged, and a hell of a lot more to do with the judge.

To the certain someone that I judged: I am so very sorry. You were right. I was wrong. Won’t happen again. To the person who inadvertently judged me: Get ready–the cosmos are currently concocting a serving of of judgment for you. Wait for it… wait… for… it…

I feel better now. Good night all!

Unladylike ladies

Posted on by amberhj

Neither Stella nor I are particularly dainty. Except when Stella runs on her toes, which is quite graceful and precious. (I do it, too, even when playing basketball, but it doesn’t have the same effect.) She looks like a tiny fairy ballerina prancing about, excitedly granting wishes, instead of a toddler, running around wreaking havoc. It’s a good cover.

“Ladylike” is not a word usually associated with me, for sure. I’m pretty sure I often eat with my mouth open. I sometimes sit with my legs sprawled. During important work meetings. I don’t do the kind of heavy-lifting, when it comes to socializing, that people expect from true ladies. You know, those women who instinctively smooth out every social situation with such grace, especially in regards to men who lack their skills, making everyone feel wonderful and engaged and the center of attention, all while re-filling their glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and maintaining constant eye contact. Not me. I halfheartedly try, sometimes, but my energy is so quickly drained by extended attempts at extroversion that soon I’m the one alone, in the corner, at my own party. And I’m fine with it.

It’s too early to tell what her true inclination is, but at the current moment at least, Stella is a bit of a tomboy, like me. The last time I put a dress on her, she almost tore her arm muscles in a futile attempt to rip it off. Her eyes were popping out of her head from the strain of the effort to remove the flowly, intrusive garment by simply pulling it directly away from her chest. (After just a moment’s entertainment, I took it off, of course.) She won’t let me put clips in her hair. She immediately ruins all her pretty, expensive shoes with massive dirty scuffs. I always find it puzzling that so many toddler boy shoes have protected or reinforced toes while little girls’ footwear is left with butter-soft leather on the toe. Might as well throw a heel on it as apparently, shoe manufacturers don’t expect little “ladies” to be as active as boys. And don’t get me started on sippy cups. So boys get to gaze at dinosaurs and imagine about and perhaps imitate what these prehistoric creatures  may’ve been like while girls get to look at bright pink flower and dot patterns? Humph. I purchased the dinosaur cup but haven’t been so bold as to opt for boy shoes. Soon, she’ll make that call. But I digress.

You could not describe Monday’s incident as ladylike. We were at a friend’s house, attending a get-together of about seven of Stella’s peers and their parents. Music, both kid- and parent-friendly, filled the air. People noshed on lentil stew, veggies and an assortment of cookies. Kids played happily all over the joint. The vibe was jovial. When all of a sudden, the loudest, most blood-curling scream in the history of anger pierced the air like a butcher knife. Everyone’s eyes bugged out, jaws dropped, wide-eyed children froze in fear, and soon all parents within a ten-mile radius had rushed to the scene to administer CPR or otherwise address whatever life-threatening injury had been sustained, to hopefully keep the toddler alive until paramedics arrived. Okay, EMTs weren’t summoned, but I’m pretty sure I saw someone grab their phone. I, on the other hand, didn’t move. I waited until the sustained, eardrum-shattering, horror-movie-style scream at last ended, because I needed to collect myself. It was Stella. She was not dying. Her pathway had been partially obstructed by a chair.

Deep. Breaths. I’m pretty sure that any time Stella feels boxed in, her frustration skyrockets immediately. She expresses it with a primal scream. This has happened in response to the fit and snag potential of dresses. Those with an empire waist can fit snugly around the middle, which she loathes. My mother recalls very clearly that I too raged against remotely tight-fitting clothes, so really, Stella’s behavior may be simple karma. Anywho, this “boxed in” theory of Stella’s frustration has als0 been proven at Gymboree. Once, she stopped mid-slide to just hang out there observing Gymbo’s antics, and some sweet kid has the audacity to try and pop a bubble at the bottom of the slide. She screamed and kicked at him, and I swooped in to prevent her from making contact.

Yes, she got it from me. I have unladylike responses to frustration. (Cody is almost impossible to frustrate, which is infuriatingly frustrating.) But exactly how was this inclination transmitted from me to her? My outbursts during her feeding aversion probably didn’t help. Her frustrating 32-hour birth, wherein she basically got stuck because her head was sideways, wasn’t a great way to start life as a content little lady. Going back further, all the very unbecoming road rage I experienced while pregnant could be the problem. Maybe all that beeping led to all this screaming. Pretty sure I could find a study to confirm this in five seconds of googling. But the other likely cause is toddlerhood. Toddlers, both girls and boys, do scream. Not surprising for her age, Stella’s very active and feels way more comfortable when she has a lot of space. I have to say that she’s not always doing flips and wind sprints–she is also social and sweet, darn close to ladylike. She gives a good hugs, and often puts her arms around her playdate buddy, Cooper (they hugged each other this week, actually–a first). Those two dance together (okay, sometimes Stella tries to drag him to the dance floor, but still). They get excited about seeing each other! But God forbid he ever get in her way. I bet Cody (my husband) knows how he feels.

So, it was with trepidation that I purchased a truly beautiful, only-one-of-its-kind dress, designed and sewn by a local woman from cheerful, mostly floral vintage handkerchiefs, for Stella to wear to this coming weekend’s wedding in NYC. Cody’s cousin is marrying her charming British beau. The bride just so happens to help create the beauty that appears in the pages of Martha Stewart Weddings. That’s right. She works for Martha. She helps envision beautiful weddings for a living. So. I was not going to let Stella wear fleece pants and a dirty onesie to this particular event. I was also not going to let myself wear stained jeans to this fabulous occasion,and purchased a comfortable but stylish vintage-inspired shift dress (say that ten times fast) for myself.

My hope was that for one night, at least, we could fake it. I’d chat up strangers, cross my legs, and chew with my mouth closed. Stella would wear a compliment-magnet of a dress and gracefully and quietly navigate her way around chairs and people, and we would look back at the pictures one day and marvel at what pretty ladies we were. If only for a moment.

So imagine my surprise when I put on my own dress, and Stella took notice immediately. She perked up and grabbed at the hem, as if to admire the fabric. “Dress” instantly became part of her exploding vocabulary. I seized the moment and asked her if she’d like to try on her very own dress. She put her arms up, ready for it. I pulled it over her head, zipped it up and tied the bow in the back. She smiled, and pranced away while tilting her head to the side, the very pleased way she does when she looks in the mirror, a move that translates to, “Aren’t I adorable?” I figured it was a fluke and took it off a couple minutes later, wanting to preempt a frock fit. She demanded it be put back on. WHAT? Perhaps I sold the dress thing a bit too hard. Remind me to applaud when she asks to wear jeans. You know, for the sake of balance.

But. Our flight to JFK was canceled on Thursday. Then it was canceled again today. I was not surprised at all, because our flights are canceled about 75% of the time. This is not exaggeration. Our terrible travel luck is the stuff of legend. Further, the more prepared and excited we are, the more likely it is that we’ll be staying put. Here’s a typical pre-trip email conversation: I write, “Hey, family! We’re on a direct flight on Alaska Air. Can’t wait to arrive on Sunday!” Family: “Great! See you Tuesday, if at all!”

So, we will not make it to NYC for the wedding. I’m so sad to miss the chance to both celebrate the very happy nuptials of a wonderful couple and to spend time with our extended family. But it’s out of our control. I should probably just return Stella’s pricey frock, as she’ll surely outgrow it before she has an occasion to wear it. Part of me wants to keep it and let her wear it to Gymboree and the playground. Something about a dress of flowy vintage handkerchiefs on a tomboy rolling in a mix of dirt, sand and wood chips is incredibly appealing to me. I could wear my shift dress and gold heels while chasing Stella around the park.

Due as much to my demeanor as my apparel, there have been many mortifying incidents wherein I was mistaken for a boy–even into my teens! And unless Stella’s wearing head-to-toe pink, people tell me how cute “he” is. (That’s a whole other post.) So maybe we’ll make a statement next time we’re out. Ladies? You want us to be ladies, world? We got dresses and we’re not afraid to use them. We’ll show you how REAL ladies roll–and skewer your rigid gender stereotypes. Believe.

Three cheers for Zander! Oh yeah, AND HIS MOM.

Posted on by amberhj

Today isn’t just another Tuesday. It’s a very important day. Today, February 9, 2010, is the day Alexander (Zander or Zandy to those who love him) left his G tube behind. For good! I can’t tell you how huge this is.

Due to one of the most severe cases of frank aspiration ever seen at Seattle Children’s Hospital, Zander required a feeding tube for a year and a half (very close to his entire life). Early on, it was discovered that most of the milk he swallowed ended up in his lungs. He started off with an ND tube (like an NG tube that goes further down, indicated only for short-term tube feeding), but it soon became clear that a longer-term J-G tube was needed. At that point, he couldn’t handle a G tube, inserted into the stomach, because food that high up in his system could be regurgitated and cause aspiration. The food had to go directly into his intestines, via G-J tube, to avoid the threat to his lungs. (Much later, though, he transitioned to a G tube.)

Any type of swallowing put sweet Zander in danger. When he got a mere cold, respiratory distress was pretty much inevitable. It was a terrifying journey for the whole family, with a most uncertain destination. They didn’t know where it would lead. They were stuck, in so many ways. Tube feeding has a way of cramping one’s mobility and social life and sanity.

Then it happened. Late last summer, Zander passed a swallow test. Finally. It was his fifth one. He’d failed the four prior, because he was still aspirating. Amazingly, he at last demonstrated the ability to swallow. But could he really EAT? Did he have the willingness? Not at first. He needed to build oral motor skills. He needed to learn to not be afraid of food. He needed to feel hunger, which tube feeding obscures or annihilates. He still had a road ahead of him. So they forged ahead. Unbelievably, there were just two occupational therapy sessions. The work was done at home. They made food “sexy,” conscious of being happy when they ate and letting Zander see them happily eating. They allowed him to touch, and — until he got teeth — gum at flavorful food. They dipped his pacifier into gravy, sauces and juice. Still uncertain, they were hopeful and proactive, even after all they’d been through.

Slowly but surely, Zander began to eat. At first, just a sip from a straw or a bite of a cracker. Breakthroughs seemed to happen when they were behind schedule, when hours had passed since his last tube-fed meal and he was overdue for his next one. On such an occasion, he grabbed his mother’s Jamba Juice and guzzled three ounces in what seemed like mere seconds. Confidence and ability grew in tandem. The percentage of his diet enjoyed orally grew ever so slightly over time, until it hovered at 50%. (That’s as far as Stella ever got, by the way.) That’s when Alexander’s mother, based on research and gut feelings and a few supportive voices, took an incredibly brave but wise leap of faith. She just stopped. She stopped using the tube, and let Zander take flight.

Thirty days later, that would be today, Zander had a check-up with his wonderfully thoughtful, appropriately cautious, yet totally reasonable pediatrician. She saw that since commencement of weaning, he’d gained a bit of weight, and grown taller. She looked at him and saw a happy, healthy, NORMAL boy. And she said that the tube could go. Zander’s mom removed it this afternoon. She still feels a bit dizzy. Makes sense, though. Her world is  spinning, in the best possible way.

Yes, I’ve met Zander’s mom and I liked her instantly. She’s got wisdom and laughter in her eyes. Yep. A killer sense of humor, and a shrewdness that could put any seasoned lawyer to shame. So, as big a day as this is for Zander, I find myself just as happy, if not more so, for her. She got him here. Her strength. Her determination. Her unwillingness to settle. Her ability to take a hit and get back up, in the face of anxiety. Oh, the anxiety. She didn’t let it stop her, and that’s something a lot of parents could learn from these days.

She’s been to hell and back, probably saved her kid’s life more times than she can count, yet she’s got enough energy left to fight for other little ones like Zander. She’s become their much-needed advocate. She’s already inspiring others, and pushing for change. Better care is needed for kids on tubes, a technology that is outpacing our understanding of its impact on children and their development. And, as she and I both learned, there is no end in sight. Kids and babies whose core issues are resolved remain tube-fed for years, because no one knows how to wean them. So few in the medical community are brave enough to at least give them a chance to eat on their own. Well, she’s stepping up to the plate.  But that’s just business as usual for her. I’m going to support her however I can.

Zander now has two “belly buttons”, the last evidence of his medical journey. It’s a new, tube-free world for this family. A time of joy and nervous transition to an alien concept called “normality.”

The next time your child savors mac and cheese, or any favorite food, take a minute to appreciate it. And raise your glass–hold it extra high–for Zander and his mom!

(Much respect.)

Confident mom interview #2: Jennifer of Sweet Futility

Posted on by amberhj

I’d like to introduce you to my cousin Jennifer. There are a few things you should know about her. First off, she’s really, really smart. Or as they say in Massachusetts, where she lives and where I’m from, “wicked smaht.” Like, she could’ve gone to Harvard. But didn’t choose to. Which brings me to my next point: She doesn’t care about fancy, superficial bullshit that doesn’t matter in the end. She wanted to stay home with her daughters, four-year-old Marley and 14-month-old Rudy, and made sacrifices to do it.

Jennifer, sharing a moment with Marley and Rudy

Jennifer, sharing a moment with Marley and Rudy

In addition, Jennifer faces challenges that many moms don’t. Her daughters have a health condition that, while not life-threatening, requires extra care and calm on her part every single day. Oh, Jennifer’s mom also has severe health issues requiring not only lots of extra care and calm, but (as you’ll learn below) life-saving measures from as far back as when Jennifer and her sisters were in elementary school. Maybe that help explains Jen’s toughness. In any case, Jen handles motherhood and life in general with grace and a sense of balance and realness that I truly admire.

She very rarely, if ever, complains about anything–okay, unless hard cider is involved. She can laugh just about anything off. To quote Tim Gunn (someone her daughter Marley can do a pretty darn good imitation of without even trying), she makes it work.

Life and Times of Stella: Your blog is a very honest and uplifting take on motherhood. How did you come up with the name “Sweet Futility“?

Sweet Futility:  First of all, it’s weird that anyone who wants to check out my blog won’t be able to since I made it private about a month ago.  Someone I didn’t know left a comment that may have been innocent, but I felt like protecting my kids just in case it wasn’t.  Maybe eventually I’ll open it up again.  In the meantime, anyone who’s curious can leave their email in your comments section and I’ll send along an invite?  I guess? (Life and Times of Stella notes: Or readers can just email me, and I’ll relay the info to Jen at Sweet Futility.)

A friend actually uttered the phrase “sweet, sweet futility,” during one of Marley’s tantrums.  He was witnessing her wrath for the first time, and foolishly trying to dismantle her craziness.  I told him it was futile, and then he called it sweet, and right away I thought that it was a fairly accurate description of parenting.  Because really, as parents we’re in charge of some things, but ultimately, our kids are going to be who they’re going to be.  And it would be wrong to take that individuality away from them.  Which is what I tell myself when my daughter Marley asks for things like POM-POMS and swoons over anything pink and sparkly.

Life and Times of Stella: On your newly exclusive blog, you revealed that Rudy and Marley have a condition called x-linked hypophosphatemic rickets. How does it impact everyday life for you and them?

Sweet Futility: This form of rickets affects their bone development, and my understanding is that without treatment, their little bones will bow as they grow and cause them a lot of stress and pain.  The condition can affect their stature, which may be why my girls are in the first or second percentile for height.  Daily, I have to make sure that they’re taking phosphorus and vitamin D supplements; frequently, I take them for blood work and check-ups with their pediatric endrocrinologist; annually, they have x-rays and ultrasounds to monitor their growth.

Because my husband has this condition, and because it’s x-linked, we knew that any girls we had would have rickets.  I think that helped me to take it in stride.  It wasn’t a surprise or anything. And while all the medical appointments are time-consuming and therefore, often irritating, I know that this isn’t anything life-threatening.  I mean, I worry that like their father, they’ll have terrible knees and have to deal with pain and maybe not even have the option of going for a run if they want, but I know that in the grand scheme of things, my kids are healthy, and I’m lucky.

Life and Times of Stella: Rudy and Marley share a room. What was behind that decision and how is it going?

Sweet Futility:  After Rudy was born and I asked the doctor and nurses to confirm that she was a girl, I was crying and murmuring, “I’m so happy that Marley has a sister.”  I have two sisters, so of course that’s all I know, but I just think they’ll have each other’s backs, growing up and as adults, in a way that a brother and a sister can’t.  (I know that’s a valuable relationship, too, of course.  I’m just saying.)

I want for Marley and Rudy to be silly little buddies, and I think that a shared room can nurture that, at least while they’re young.  I also think a shared room is a way to teach things like sharing and cooperation and appreciation in both subtle and dramatic ways.  Already, Todd and I hear them in the morning talking to each other, and it’s hilarious.  I mean, Rudy’s pretty much saying, “Be-beh” [baby], and “Nuh-Nuh” [pacifier], but Marley’s got this full-on monologue going, and they’re laughing, and it’s great.

I shared a room with my younger sister my whole life.  The first time I had a bedroom to myself, I was a junior in college.  (That was a little too long to wait, for the record.)  But it helped me to fully appreciate my own space, and I certainly wasn’t spoiled in that way, and I don’t want my kids to be either.  Plus, now we use Rudy’s old nursery as a family office, where most of the kids’ books and art supplies are.  At least a couple of times a week, Todd’s up there working at an adult-sized desk, and Marley’s at her little table, doing her preschool homework or concocting imaginary dinner parties and making elaborate invitations for them.

Life and Times of Stella:  In addition to taking care of your daughters full time, you help take care of your mom. Ever get overwhelmed? How do you cope?

Sweet Futility: Hoo boy.  My mom has early on-set Alzheimer’s, and she’s a type one diabetic, which is a pretty terrible combination.  Because she and my father are separated and he’s in Florida literally doing things like basking by the pool or ocean and enjoying week-long cruises with his lady friend, my sisters and I have taken on the responsibility of caring for her.  My older sister especially, because my mom lives with her.

Because I’m a stay-at-home mom, I’m responsible for bringing my mom to daycare when my sister’s at work, and I handle all of the doctors’ appointments.  It’s tedious, and depressing, but it’s also nothing new to my sisters or me.  My mom didn’t do a great job of taking care of herself and managing her diabetes when we were growing up.  We’ve brought her out of hypoglycemic shock more times than we can count, since we were really young.  It’s the kind of thing that you think is normal when you’re young, and then, when you’re in therapy you learn that it’s not right to be constantly saving your mother’s life when you’re in elementary school.

My sisters and I are a great team, and sometimes we’re bitter and angry, but we support each other and we can laugh about the ridiculousness of our situation, too.  Mostly, we just get the job done and keep the focus on our kids.  And we take care of ourselves and each other because we know what can happen when moms don’t.  Ugh.  Next question.

Life and Times of Stella: How and when did you decide to be a “stay-at-home mom” and leave your teaching job?

Sweet Futility: My last full-year teaching, I was given three classes of eighth graders.  It was not hard to walk away.  Seriously.  The people who teach middle school kids because they “just love that age” are saints.

When I started teaching high school English, I had sweet classes like creative writing and AP English Language and Composition.  I loved teaching those kids.  They were mostly nerds and overachievers like me, and they loved reading and writing.  I got into the profession because of my love of grammar, not because I watched Dangerous Minds and wanted to teach inner city kids poetry.  This makes me sound like an elitist jerk, so I should mention that a part of me did absorb Dangerous Minds when I was becoming certified to teach, and I will always love Stand and Deliver.  Defy the odds!  Like in Rudy!

When I was pregnant with Marley, my husband and I were both full-time teachers.  And teaching is a full-time job.  Especially for English teachers.  The day is over at 2 p.m., sure.  But then you’re not really out of the building until almost four, and you’ve got this gigantic pile of mostly mediocre essays to read and grade, and that’s at least three hours of work, and so we knew that if we both worked, we wouldn’t get to hang out with our kids at all.  And I really, really wanted to be at home with them while they’re little and funny.  So we have been stretching our dollars ever since, and I still coach, teach a night course twice a year, and fit in private tutoring whenever I can to keep us afloat.

Life and Times of Stella: What is a typical dinnertime in your home like? What’s on the menu in terms of food, conversation, and antics?

Sweet Futility: Dinnertime is not where I want it to be right now.  Unless I’m really on my game, it’s suddenly five o’clock and I’m just getting something going for Todd and me (and Marley) while I’m microwaving small plates for Rudy (and Marley).  We try to overlap our eating so that we’re all sitting together for at least five or ten minutes, but that doesn’t happen as often as I’d like.

And I know there are all these people who say, “I’m not making six different meals,” and “If my kids are hungry, they’ll eat it, and if not, they can eat again at breakfast,” and I certainly agree with that in theory.  But Marley and Rudy are both wee kids, and every time we see their pediatrician, she’s on me to be sure that they’re eating healthy and gaining weight.  So right now I’m balancing filling their stomachs the best I can with what I know they like, and making sure they at least try whatever Todd and I are having, too.  I’m hoping that in about a year, we’ll really and truly be sitting together and eating the same things.

That doesn’t really answer your questions.  So I’ll tell you that the other night we had chicken thighs braised in white wine, stock, and some dijon mustard, toasted basmati rice with shallots, cumin, and coriander, and some green beans.  And tonight, we’re going to drown ourselves in french fries and bacon cheeseburgers at Five Guys, and I’ve been thinking about it ALL DAY!  We eat healthy food, especially fruits and vegetables, as often as possible, and I don’t really buy junk food for snacks. But I use lots of butter and salt when I cook.

One of my absolute favorite cooks is Nigella Lawson.  And I was once watching this documentary about her, and she said how it really affected her when her mother got cancer and said something like, “Well, now I guess I’ll finally eat what I want without worrying about my weight.”  And clearly it’s affected me, too.  Why deny yourself?  I still don’t think I’m answering your questions the right way.  I have a lot to say about food, I guess.

Life and Times of Stella: What do you find most challenging about motherhood?

Sweet Futility: I think it’s hard to be the kind of role model I want to be.  I want to show Marley how to maintain a sense of calm when she’s mid-tantrum, but sometimes I still blow my top.  I want to exhibit things like kindness and compassion, but that can be difficult depending on who I’m dealing with. (Ahem.)  And I want to be assertive and stand up for myself, but I also really hate confrontation.  So it’s probably the same stuff a lot of moms feel: I’m setting some impossible standards for myself and just doing the best I can to meet them as often as possible.

Life and Times of Stella: Tell us one thing about each of your daughters that you admire.

Sweet Futility: I love Marley’s spunk.  Even though it can drive me bananas, her feistiness is something that I really admire.  I don’t see her ever having trouble standing up for herself.  And at the same time, she’s such a little lady.  She will know more about how to properly apply eyeliner at age fifteen than I know now.  I don’t even wear it, for crying out loud.  She will be truly embarrassed by my ensembles in the next year or so unless I stay on top of things.

Rudy is a model of living in the moment.  She is slow and deliberate and sweet.  Sometimes I call my sisters with her, and they’ll answer, “Hello?”  And then Rudy will say, “Hiiiii.”  And then Heather or Danielle will realize who it is and take in this sort of pleased and contented breath and then say, “Hi!” and then Rudy replies, “Hi.  Hiiiii.  Hi!”  And these greetings can go on for about three or four minutes.  I feel like when I’m holding Rudy and she’s smiling and taking things in, my blood pressure goes down.

Life and Times of Stella: What is your biggest wish for Marley and Rudy?

Sweet Futility: I want most of all for Marley and Rudy to be truly, deep down, happy with who they are and what they’re achieving, throughout their lives.  I want them to laugh as often as possible.

Life and Times of Stella: In closing, can you recall a proud mothering moment, when it was clear that something you’d done as a mom was definitely not futile?

Sweet Futility:  That’s a tough one.  I think it’s still too early for me to answer this as far as Rudy goes, but I’ve got a few examples of Marley making my heart swell.  Or melt. Depending.

The first is something I didn’t get to witness.  When my sister Danielle was watching Marley last year while the Boston Marathon was on TV, Danielle pointed out how fast the female runners were going.  And Marley said, “Yeah.  Girls do sports.  My mommy does lots of sports.”

Last week, when Marley and Rudy and I were wheeling our red carriage toward the registers at Target, I was trying to get Rudy to say, “Buh-bye.”  So I was all, “Bye!  Bye, Target!”  And Marley, skipping alongside the carriage, said, “Bye, Target!  I love you!”

And every time I drop Marley off at preschool, she has to give me a hug and a kiss and squeeze my nose, and then she does the same thing to her little sister.  It’s adorable, I promise.

Heidi Montag can kiss my un-enhanced ass. Actually, I feel sorry for her enhanced one.

Posted on by amberhj

My first baby shower was absolutely amazing, if not a bit embarrassing. When I was seven months pregnant with Stella, we traveled to visit family in Austin, Texas, where friends and kin not only gathered together, but went to impressive lengths to create an incredibly moving video of the day. It’s the kind of keepsake that demands a level of thanks that you can’t quite reach.

Each guest was covertly escorted away from the hubbub of the party. A camera rolled as they each answered questions about me and Cody and their wishes and wisdom for us as parents. Later, it was all edited together into the amazing, aforementioned treasure trove of loving advice, recollections and encouragement. I cry every time I watch it, especially during my parents’ segments. My dad said empowering things about how to raise girls, noting that no way did he decide what to do with us based on our gender. We did everything, from “helping” him work on cars to sharing motorcycle rides. My mom recalled something I said when I was two. She’d asked me what bees were made of. In typical over-thinking Amber fashion, I sat there, with my fingers on my chin for a long while, and finally said, “Bees and paper.” Then, as the video closed, my mother expressed her wish that my baby bring the same happiness into my life that I’d brought to hers.

And no, I did not escape questioning. There I am… happy and lovely, because I loved being pregnant and was proud of my shape. But also bloated, uncomfortable, sweating, and wearing an unflattering, frilly and floofy white tank top designed, apparently, for a five-year-old girl. I don’t do frilly or floofy. It’s not me. Why I suddenly decided that such a look would work, precisely as my torso went from ruler to beach ball, is beyond me. My feet were too swollen for my sandals, raw pinky toes escaping through the side exits, but I refused to take them off because damn it, I bought them just for this very special occasion and I was sticking to them! (Literally, my feet were stuck in the shoes.) Emotional, exhausted, and coasting on an unbelievably horrid night’s sleep thanks to a granite futon and third-trimester discomfort, I did my best to answer some poignant questions.

What stands out most from my interview is my reply when asked about my biggest worries and fears for Stella, our then-unnamed, unborn daughter. Perhaps foolishly, I didn’t answer with concerns about her health. (Though, of course, her health is an immeasurable gift and not something I took for granted!) I said, without a doubt, that I was most concerned about how to raise a confident daughter. I know firsthand how devastating a lack of confidence can be. I was able to fight my way out, but it could have easily gone the other way. I’m lucky, and fully aware of it. I am deeply  knowledgeable about the huge importance of self-esteem in girls, and determined to help minimize the struggle for Stella.

So, earlier this month, when I saw before and after pictures of Heidi Montag’s ten plastic surgeries, all performed simultaneously like a symphony of mutilation, I was upset. Floored and upset. Anger came quickly. Because she gave up. She didn’t choose to fight the good fight. To learn to love herself, to realize how truly beautiful she was. By not only undergoing extensive plastic surgery, but celebrating it in any media outlet that will shove a camera at her now-triple-D boobs, she’s happily promoting the at-all-costs pursuit of an unrealistic, inhuman beauty ideal . She’s endorsing the idea that to be truly beautiful, women require fixing.

Then, the anger subsided and I felt sad for her. She was naturally beautiful, but clearly didn’t think so. Somehow. Despite the fact that she’d wound up on TV in large part because of her looks. The level of insecurity required to choose such extensive and painful surgeries–10 procedures at once–is mind-boggling. Apparently, no one ever planted that idea within her–the belief that she is perfect and lovable just the way she is. Even if you lose your way and your worth due to all the bullcrap images and messages that surround us, with that kernel nestled somewhere below the surface, you can find your way back to sanity. Thankfully, I possessed it all along, and was eventually able to nourish it. If someone did plant such a seed in Heidi, it didn’t take root. Or perhaps Hollywood, or the attack-dog blogs that nip at its heels, crushed it.

After further processing of Heidi’s surgical madness, I had another, slightly more hopeful thought. Maybe, in a way, Heidi’s doing us a favor. We know that plastic surgery is rampant among celebrities, but it’s hidden and denied if at all possible. By speaking out openly about it, she’s exposing the insanity (and it really is insanity). Without realizing it, she’s illuminating the fact that it’s all gone too far. Sure, she says she’s not addicted, but she’s not fooling anyone. Because where does it end? The aging process will be terrifying for her, rather than empowering, as it should be. More procedures, in the name of “maintenance” if not “enhancement,” are surely to come. And we’ll likely hear about it–even though we don’t want to.

To get to the heart of the matter, all I have to do is think of what Heidi must have been like at Stella’s age. Seventeen months old. Back then, the world was Heidi’s oyster. I bet she loved ice cream to the point of squealing. She liked to play in the dirt, and maybe even taste it once in a while. Reality TV didn’t exist–only Sesame Street. The sight of her own reflection made her whole face light up–she’d tilt her head and smile ear to ear at the friend looking back at her. My heart breaks for that little girl, whose features and spirit no longer resemble themselves. I can only imagine how Heidi’s mother feels.

Heidi, you say you’re just doing what makes you happy. But this is just superficial stuff, and that’s not how happiness works. You haven’t done the real work. For your own sake and that of daughters everywhere, I hope you will.

Confident Mom Interview #1: Meet Suzanne, the Fearless Formula Feeder

Posted on by amberhj

When I was forced to give up breastfeeding for the health of my baby, I was heartbroken and plunged into an even deeper and darker postpartum depression. It seemed like a no-win situation: I was failing, and my baby was not getting “the best.” Based on all that I’d been told about breastfeeding, a switch to formula did not bode well for Stella’s mental or emotional health, not to mention her IQ. But then it occurred to me that I had absolutely no in-depth scientific knowledge or statistics about the actual benefits of breastfeeding or actual outcomes for formula-fed infants. All I had were soundbites. In an attempt to inform myself about precisely what formula-feeding meant for Stella, and to maybe try to feel just a little less despair, I started digging around online.

Suzanne, the Fearless Formula Feeder

That’s how I found Suzanne. Her increasingly popular blog, “Fearless Formula Feeder,” is catching the attention of formula-feeders and breastfeeders alike, sparking controversy in lactivist circles and heated debate in the blog’s comment section.  It’s no secret that after all Stella and I went through with her feeding aversion and NG tube, while I still wish I could’ve breastfed, I have found immense comfort in Suzanne’s blog. You can agree or disagree with her message, but you can’t deny that she’s a courageous woman.

I have a feeling you’ll be hearing Suzanne’s name again soon. She’s currently working on a book about formula feeding and the concept and impact of breastfeeding pressure. And with that, I present my first ten-question “Confident Mom Interview,” with the Fearless Formula Feeder.

Life and Times of Stella: Why did you start your blog?

Fearless Formula Feeder: I was 100% committed to breastfeeding. I went into the hospital with everything going for me – I was educated about nursing from classes and numerous books; I lived in a community where everyone breastfed; all of my friends had nursed without problems; my husband was just as dedicated to the cause as I was and completely supportive; I didn’t have a maternity leave end-date looming over my head (being a writer who worked from home)… basically, I was a poster child for the best candidate for a successful nursing journey. I had the will, the drive, the attitude, the desire, and the support necessary to breastfeed.

And yet, I still ended up formula feeding…

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Let them eat sugar

Posted on by amberhj

I took newly 17-month-old Stella out for ice cream last week. Just me and her. There was no special occasion other than “mama needs ice cream NOW.”  We headed out on foot at around 7pm to sneak in our treat before her 7:30 bath (which, of course, didn’t happen until 7:45). On the “walk” home, she stopped between wind sprints to request “more more more.” I happily served her bites of my mouthwatering masterpiece: perfectly salted caramel and rich chocolate Molly Moon’s ice cream in a waffle cone made two minutes before we ate it. I didn’t even mind sharing, until I realized she’d finished the salted caramel, leaving only chocolate and destroying the dessert’s mindblowing salty-sweet synergy. Really, the outing itself was a treat that instantly turned into a sweet memory.

So imagine my reaction to an increasingly popular declaration being made on mommy blogs lately: “My toddler eats no sugar or white flour whatsoever.”

First thought? Sheer defensiveness. Then, “WHAT DID YOUR POOR TODDLER DO TO DESERVE THIS???” Lemme tell ya, I gave up dairy for two and half months in a last-ditch effort to make breastfeeding work, and it eroded my soul. I’m 27% more evil now. Had I been forced to give up sugar and white flour too, which to me means insanely sexy chocolate and crusty loaves of French or Italian baked goodness, I would not be here today. With no caloric or emotional reserves to draw from, no boost from my extra special favorite foods, the breast pump would’ve eventually worn me down to a pathetic pulp. The way our dryer would wear down my jeans if I put them through an unrelenting tumble cycle every three hours for two and a half months straight.

Maybe it’s because I just finished reading “In Defense of Food” by Michael Pollan, which I highly recommend as an enlightening antidote to our need to control and monitor everything we eat. Maybe it’s because for a few hellacious months, my baby refused to eat and required a feeding tube. In the process of helping her learn to embrace and enjoy eating, I had to let go of my own lingering fear and anxiety around food. (Fear is likely behind parental sugar bans, by the way.) Whatever the reason may be, I find sugar-free righteousness to be ridiculous, unrealistic, unhelpful and practically inhuman. Mark my words: An all-out sugar ban will backfire.

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Thwarting an emerging toddler dictatorship

Posted on by amberhj

Stella screamed, at the top of her incredibly powerful 16-month-old lungs, several times at Gymboree today. Because she wanted the almighty red-headed puppet Gymbo, but he was a crowd of toddlers away and busy hanging out with someone else. Because a smiley classmate found a stray bubble next to her on the slide, and she seemed to feel boxed in or threatened by his positioning across the bottom of the slide just below her (she kicked her feet at him, but didn’t actually make contact before I swooped in and took her away). Because I tried to pick her up and bring her to the singing circle. And just because. (There seemed to be absolutely no reason for a couple of the angry shrieks.)

For a while now, we’ve had a strong, rock-solid philosophy, though hard-earned, when it comes to eating. Good. And while Stella’s sleep isn’t perfect, it’s pretty darn good, due to a consistent approach to napping and bedtime that really works for all of us. So, with shut-eye and food, we have a “way of doing things.” We know what’s effective, what we believe and makes sense to us, and how to respond when things go haywire. The next frontier, it seems, is figuring out how to help Stella manage her emotions (and volume!).

I’m overwhelmed and often quite nervous, though I strive to prevent that from showing. I’m in charge. I’m in charge. I’m in charge.

One evening not too long ago, Stella and I cut a rug like you read about, to the tunes of our current favorite album: Here Comes Science. We had so much fun, and it was totally organic and breathless and joyful. Well, she now wants to repeat this magic on the hour. Here’s what I mean: She’s playing with her whimsical number flash cards and I’m sitting on the floor nearby, watching, calling out numbers, and relaxing, when a fast-paced danceable number pipes up on the stereo. She perks up and bounces twice because, well, she just can’t resist, then with brow-furrowing purpose marches over to me, and grips the shoulders of my sweater, attempting to forcefully yank me to my feet while shouting something unintelligible. (When Daddy’s around, his attendance is also 100% mandatory–she hunts him down in the kitchen with a forceful pointing gesture.) Mini-dictator wants to dance! What fun! But heaven forbid you slow down or take a break. That is strictly forbidden! I must keep my feet moving and my face cheerful lest I incur Stella’s wrath, which is swift and punishing to eardrums and souls. (Of course, this is all incredibly amusing and, in a way, truly wonderful, to me until I’ve danced a few songs and truly need a break.)

Stella’s been an increasingly take-charge baby from day one. She nearly wailed her head off during her first full night of life here on earth. The sound echoed through the silent hospital ward, and I imagined it drifting over the heads of the more content and sleepy newborns. The nurse was genuinely baffled. At five weeks old, she started to tell me more and more clearly that she’d really rather not eat. “No really, you’re quite kind and thank you very much, but I’m not at all hungry. Tummy’s a bit sour to be honest. Just reeling from all the excitement of my new life, I suppose.” I’d be all, “That’s bull crap! Really, you should eat! It’s been five freakin’ hours and the books say you must be starving, darn-it!” She’d indulge me by having a tiny one-minute snack and say, “Oh thank you that was divine but I really must be going now. Can you please be a dear and fetch my bumbershoot?” And I’d insist, “Oh but you hardly ate anything! Don’t be rude! I can’t let you leave hungry! Let me boil you another hot dog. (pause) What’s a bumbershoot? (angry pause) You know I don’t like fancy talk!” That’s when she’d put her foot down, “NO THANK YOU MOTHER! I’VE HAD QUITE ENOUGH NOW GOOD DAY!” Me: “Are you sure?” Stella: “F OFF!”

She has also consistently let me know that she does not like being in car seats or strollers. Frankly, I think it’s because in those scenarios, she isn’t involved enough. Not able to see all the action. Not in control, where she clearly belongs. After all is said and done, I respect her more than just about anyone I know. She’s weathered a good storm in her day. She knows what she wants and declares it. Most of the time, I do neither. But I’m working on it.

My current project is to continue to build confidence in myself as a mother, and to decide with Cody how to handle Stella’s outbursts. To be consistent in setting proper limits without limiting her rightful expression. I want her to keep speaking up. I just want her to know when it’s necessary, and when a simple “please” or “help” or, oh, two seconds’ patience will do. She’s already taught me about that particular virtue, but I suppose we both need a bit more. And possibly, ear plugs.

Holiday sweetness

Posted on by amberhj

A couple days ago, Stella and I made a gingerbread house. Actually, I put it together following step-by-step instructions, while she ate the chimney, tree, and most of the roof’s structurally necessary frosting. Later, the same frosting would come out of my nose, because I can’t resist it either, and Stella made me laugh while I bent over to pick her up.

Even slightly off-kilter peace is worth striving for.The gingerbread house experience leads me to wonder how babies “know” about candy upon seeing it for the very first time. I opened the gingerbread house kit from Williams-Sonoma, and Stella immediately began gnawing on the package of gumdrops and clawing at sealed cookie components, whining and panting because she could not wait to eat them. Mind you, she’d just eaten a man-sized dinner. I thought she was absolutely full. Besides, this kid had never before seen anything resembling a gumdrop. I asked Cody how she knew instantly what the sweet gems were all about, and he gave a pretty good explanation: “It’s instinctual!  Gum drop detection is part of our evolution.” Of course it is. They’re like berries, but with high fructose corn syrup. Totally necessary for survival–of the holidays.

It’s not just the season’s sweets that get Stella excited. She loves the Christmas tree. She dotes on it with gentle, arms-wide-open hugs. She does laps around it, and inspects all the eye-level ornaments every hour or so, touching them while saying a nasal-y “no.” Because without realizing it, that’s what I taught her to do.

Our new tree bling.For the first several days, the tree was star-less. So I ordered a wonderfully simple star tree topper from Red Envelope, and it arrived during Stella’s nap early this week. I put it up atop the tree right away, admired it proudly for a moment, then promptly forgot about it. Not long after, Stella awoke from her nap. The first thing she did? Gazed up at her new best friend the Christmas tree, smiled, and with her sparkly blue eyes growing ever wider, pointed at the star in dramatic, overly excited fashion. She did the same when I hung my “PEACE” banner on the mantle. She not only smiled and pointed, but actually applauded. The banner isn’t exactly what I’d hoped it would be, but I did put some real work (not to mention money) into it, and the fact that Stella appreciated it so much almost brought tears to my eyes. She’s just so incredibly sweet.

As you can see, Stella understands holiday magic. So do I, and so does my mom. This appreciation, and a general affinity for wonder, has been handed down along with the most unruly cowlicks imaginable. On Tuesday, my mother’s latest act of kindness arrived. It was carefully tucked in tissue paper in the bottom of a large box, in which we also found a package of adorable, unbreakable (genius) ornaments and a classic, wooden, German ornament of a little chef holding a large wooden spoon, which Stella immediately grabbed and pretended to eat with.

This delivery is probably the millionth treasure–holiday or otherwise–that my mom has created for me during my 32 years. For example, on game day throughout high school, I’d consistently find a bit of crafty motivation in my lunch or backpack, like a construction-paper basketball with multi-colored flames shooting off the sides and a markered message along the lines of “Light ’em up!” or “You’re on fire!” Sometimes I really did light ’em up, and I think she’s largely responsible for that. She saved every newspaper article, even the smallest mention of me, and attended just about all of my games. Christmas? Well, that was always magical, even when my parents were young and completely broke. I know, I’m lucky.

I will probably wear the tree skirt to Cody's office Christmas party.So, you’re probably wondering, “What on earth did she give you? A giant diamond she’d made by crushing carbon with her bare hands?” No, it was better. I opened the box to discover that she’d made me the most gorgeous tree skirt ever in the history of Christmas. If Jesus Christ himself had a Christmas tree and accompanying skirt, I’m sure it was nowhere near as holy and beautiful as this. Honestly, I’d searched Etsy for tree skirts last week and found nothing that even compared to my mom’s work of art. In fact, this tree skirt is probably the most wonderful thing I own. It embodies my ideal style, with a design that’s charmingly simple but not at all stark, and plenty of cheerful but balanced color and splashes of bold, joyful pattern. The luxurious fabric and perfect trim are so incredibly stylish yet timeless, and even incorporate the specific colors or our decor. As anyone who has given or received a truly thoughtful, handmade gift knows, it’s more than a tree skirt. It’s even more than an heirloom. It’s a symbol of something much greater. Love, of course! And Martha-Stewart-esque skills that I’ll probably never have.

My holiday banner is too busy and warped by over-gluing. Martha would not eat leftover gingerbread house frosting “glue” straight from the bag, and she probably wouldn’t allow her edible creation to be smudged on all sides with sugary toddler handprints. But who cares? What I lack in skill I make up for with holiday cheer. More importantly, I’ve got an amazing daughter and mother with whom to share it.

Enjoy a quick holiday “hi” from Stella, on one of her rounds…