One to grow on

The Dixie Chicks knew what was UP.

And I’m not referring to their bold and brave choice to speak their minds and confront political small-mindedness (although amen and high fives to that). What I’m talking about is the need for, oh yes, sing it with me, 

 “w i d e  o p e n  s p a c e s ! ! !”

This is what a person needs, especially (always) on a Sunday, and particularly on her birthday. A person and her tiny human companion, that is.  Preferably with some good friends. Big and little ones. This special place, shared with me by dear friends, is the first place that G got a chance to RUN DOWN A HILL.

This place, this sacred place, is a farm quite near me, maybe 20 minutes, and it is spectacular and it is empty of crowds, chaos, and busyness.  It lives up to its promise (i.e. there are farm animals), but even better, there is 

S P A C E.  

And freedom and room to run up and down hills safely and without being chased by your mama.  The restorative power of that green space literally made me weep.  It conjured up words in me like “majesty” and “pastoral” and “bucolic” and made me want to use them all in a sentence. I would have never left if duty (i.e. naptime) hadn’t called, and next time I might even try to get G to sleep on a quilt on top of all that green.

Interesting, too, that G is going through a “green” phase, so when I ask her what the color is of something, she inevitably answers “green!” regardless of whether it’s blue, orange, or purple.  Maybe she was trying to tell me something, something like, “Mama, take me where there’s green open space and where I can run!!!”

When I worked at a counselor at the a summer camp in the Sierras (another story for another time, but let’s file that one under “Lair” AKA “The Most Fun Time of My Life”), we had a place that was about a 15 minute drive or an hour-long killer mountain bike up a windy road that overlooked a view of the mountains so intensely beautiful and ever-reaching, that the only name that could be used to describe the overlook was “therapy.”

That’s what this place is, and exactly what I needed to welcome my 34th year. 

I needed that, and I also got a bbq with these beautiful, kind, funny, and dear women, holding me up, refilling my glass, caring about my child, listening to my long-winded stories, and passing time with me. Despite the countless birthday parties they throw and attend for all of the kids in their lives, they busted out decorations, grilled burgers, and got me a delicious birthday cake and presents. They accept and even welcome their role as my deployment-survival-team, hopping to it with company, cheese, wine, and festivity, and rushing to my aid when power outages, broken water heaters and car engines abound. Buddies on my birthday, friends for life.

My takeaway lesson for this year:

~~~

We need both wide open space and close comforting hugs. We need them, almost at the same time, and that's the beauty and the grief. Our toddlers need the snuggles and they also need to try it themselves; they need to fall down but they also need to be caught. Embracing this tension is part of what I think growth is, and it's why I think growth hurts, whether it be our bones stretching taller or our relationships exploring new boundaries. This I ponder as I boldly accept another candle on my cake and ring around my tree.  

~~~

Bracing for impact

is how I approach many of parenthood’s transitions (and they are endless!). I’ve always struggled with most of my own transitions in life, whether they be daily (waking up, going to bed, pulling myself away from a fun time), or milestones (changing jobs, moving away from friends and family). So it’s no surprise that I get nervous for major transitions that my daughter continues to encounter... although I don’t quite think “nervous” cuts it. Palms get sweaty and I often find myself squeezing my eyes shut as though I’m about to land, head first, onto Planet Tantrum.

Maybe it’s protective, to a point... most of the time the anticipation of the transition is worse than the actual event, so it winds up being not that bad. So I should be “bracing” per se, as much as I should be letting the change “wash” over me, accepting the new.  That’s part of the constant challenge in parenthood (er, LIFE), right?  Letting go and making way for new experiences, new times.

I write this as we are going through our own little transition: G is moving up rooms at daycare.  This is really the first daycare move I’ve really wondered and worried about her understanding; we actually swithed daycare centers twice before this, but she’s been at this new place since she was 11 months old. Now she’s 20 months old, so it’s been a long time coming. And by “move” I mean that she graduated to an adjacent room, separated only by a half wall and a saloon door. And the kids all play together, and she already knows all the slightly older kids in her new “class” and of course she knows all of the teachers.  But it still feels so big, when she’s oh so small, and the universe is shifting in a systematic way for her.

Maybe I’m protectively “bracing for impact” because it seems like the noble thing to do, to over-empathize for my little one’s emotional experiences.  As I write this I know how overstated it sounds, and let me assure any readers that I do not dwell on this day in day out, but I do think it’s remarkable how much we live through and for our littles (and not-so-littles). True as the day is long.

I’ll update when we make it through this!

Things you might overhear me saying to my sidekick...

because I have said all of the following, in public, and probably more than once:

1. Sand! It’s so... sandy!

2. Ah ah, we don’t put hair balls in our mouth. That’s yucky (this one is repeated daily)

3. Where’s your belly? Where’s your ear? Where’s your elbow? Where’s your...? [LOOP]

4. Ah ah, we don’t lick or suck on grocery carts. We just don’t.

5. We can go get another free sample, just don’t tell anyone. Look cute.

6. Did you go poop?

7. We need to be gentle with Spot, yes, nice, yes, NICE!! NICE!!

8. Here, let me get those boogs. Let mommy at ‘em.

9. What sound does a sheep make? What sound does a donkey make? What sound does a cow make? What sound does a … make? [LOOP]

So, admittedly, I have always been an out-loud inner monologue type, guilty almost every day of talking to myself at the computer (and I share an office). Talking to a little who can’t quite yet chat back is not hard for me, but I do wonder occasionally what the world hears from me. I often wish I were wittier, more creative, and more profound, but I also wish I were smarter, less exhausted, and better resourced.

So, the net result are axioms describing how “sandy” sand is, how “wet” water is, and abbreviating two-syllable words (see #8) and adding extra syllables when the sing-songy muppet that has taken parasitic residence in my brain think would make the words have better mouthfeel. So we reach for wipeys to get rid of boogs. Let me remind you that I’m the primary person teaching this Little language. As other parents perhaps contemplate their bi or tri-lingual home, Mandarin immersion programs for the not-so-distant future, I am literally leading G down new linguistic path, familiar to those who speak English, but a new dialect entirely. Oh well, at least she’ll be able to converse with her Mama.

What might we hear you all oversaying to your little (human or non-human)?

Affective Storms

Event vs. state?
state vs. trait?

Ah, the animal behaviorist in me! I remember trying to distinguish these events vs. states on ethograms, what we would use to record behaviors of what would see happen in the animals (ahem, okay dolphins) my fellow researchers and I would see in the wild (ahem, the cliffs off of La Jolla). So a dolphin breaching might be an event, but it might signify that it was in a state of feeding, fleeing, mating, or playing, depending on several other factors.

Psychologists often distinguish as well between state vs. trait. So a state of anxiety that a person might feel, say in a testing scenario, might be temporary and situation-specific, but a trait would be more constant over time.

The point is we are careful to classify what is happening in ourselves, and what we see in others, with respect to context and duration.

All of this careful pontification is leading up to my musings on how to tackle the tantrum.

Or as my wonderfully word-gifted friend L calls affective storms.

A tantrum always has a end point, and most children certainly are not forever in the throes of one, but my God, when they come on, for no discernible purpose, and with no way to diffuse... you start to wonder, in those moments (“is this just it?” “is this the way she’s going to be from now on?”).

Ah, I shake my head, and pity the former me who had these thoughts, after my little took her most favorite thing (a sippy filled with milk) and hurled it across the room, and tried to crawl to the furthest point in the room away from me, her mama, when all I did was to come fetch her from her nap. Yes, she was awake, and yes she was waiting for me. What did I do to offend? What’s broke, let me fix it? No, no... no solution available. Equation = unsolvable (unless you count the passage of time).

And yes, I realize, those with more seasons of toddlerhood under the belt, the dangers of overthinking. It may appear that I am doing that now; really, in working through this blog entry, I am un-thinking it. Sometimes tantrums can be prevented, sometimes they can be cured, but many times, they have to just be endured.

And ah yes, they are not traits, they are probably not even states, they are just events, which will later be replaced by harsh words, possibly a door slam. Again, not fixed in time, not distinguishing characteristics of the little (or former little) underneath. Maybe they’re artistic expressions? I do not know.

But I do know that I, on rare occasion, have been known to have my own... well, tantrum. Over... nothing. Just a short in my affective circuitry. And time has healed those as well. In addition to an occasional sippy of wine...

How do you all handle these "affective storms," in yourselves, and in your littles?

Not the Daddy

Ah baby dinosaurs and just really good out-of-the-box (think Kraft-style) TV sitcoms. Remember the show The Dinosaurs? Came out in the mid 90’s? Sort of, but not really? In the show (which was about, as you might guess, a modern day family of dinosaurs) everyone, even the Dad Dinosaur, was referred to as “Not the Mama” by the baby.

So, in our household, we’re having a bit of a reverse situation.

There is a beautiful tear-jerking ballad of a love story happening between two of the members of household: our 15-month-old toothy little toddler and her daddy. And I don’t blame either one of them. I snicker at web-reads that refer today at the “nurturing dad” of this century. I joke that G has not 1 but 2 mamas. I actually find myself at the gym on most weekends, out to dinner occasionally with girlfriends, and pondering the occasional pedicure. Not sacrificing the precious minutes I have with my G and her daddy, either... and although I still marvel at the mystery, it really isn’t a mystery at all. My mystery has a name, M, and he happens to be more like a scrubs-wearing dude driving his grandma’s old volvo than a knight in shining armor. But wow, did I pick the right door.

So another part of the marvel is how smart my little is, because she gets it, too. Like “hey, I’m a pretty lucky little to have this guy as my daddy.” She totally gets how great he is! And yes, she also gets how great her Mama is, but oh that gleam in her eye is for Daddy. I remember reading a babycenter.com bit about what to do if a baby clearly has a preference for one parent over the other, and thinking, oh, poor M, I hope G never does that; I would feel so bad for him (because clearly she will always prefer me). Of course, right? I mean pregnancy, delivery, breast-feeding simply must go a long way! At least till she’s like 11, and then all girls have a bit of a shall-we-say “vacation” from remembering how great their mothers are, right?

Well, as for now, I am pretty great, by G’s standards, I am, but then there’s Daddy. It’s like he’s her team in the superbowl, and she’s always rooting. And I’ve been, shall we say, “snubbed” a few times by our little, and not always in private. She practically ran me over to get to him when we both showed up to at daycare to pick her up a few weeks ago. Sometimes, if I lean in to nuzzle her, when she is already nuzzling Daddy, her fat little arm will come out and wave back and forth, as though she is holding a chalkboard eraser and wants to erase me. Ah, I laugh.

So, a little addendum to that babycenter.com post: if you are that parent, the “other” parent, the forlorn, slightly cast aside parent, know that you very likely chose your partner very well. Your little knows that too, and probably also basks in your unconditional love so much that her excitement for you is just masked by her never-ending feeling of being loved and being protected by you. Your partner may be the the moon and all the excitement and mystery it brings, but you are like the tide, always to be counted on to rush up and over with love.

I hope that analogy brought more sighs than groans; all I know is that every time I feel like I get a “Not the Daddy” treatment from my little, I think, “hey, I can’t blame you. I think he’s pretty great, too!”

Hun, I got my orders.

Ever got the wind knocked out of you? Remember falling off jungle gyms as a kid? That’s what those words just felt like to me. That feeling of having to will yourself to breathe again, to force your heart to start beating again.

And I knew these words were coming. I’ve known for so long; months, even more than a year. M was always going to deploy, some time after fellowship, and hopefully before too long so that he could be home with us again. You know, get it out of the way.

We’ve also known, for a few weeks now, that what we thought would be a summer deployment got moved up, thanks to another doctor who was supposed to leave this February but was medically disqualified for deployment and failed to tell anyone about it... (Yes, many questions about this person, the reason, the situation, and why the “system” didn’t know about it will forever remain unanswered.) But we’ve known that M was going to go, and going sooner means coming home sooner. So, day by day, we’ve waited, inched along and tried to pretend like everything was as it always has been, though now we were beginning lists of what has to happen before he leaves (household fixes, extending our lease, filling out all kinds of legal paperwork, and finding childcare coverage for work trips and evening responsibilities that I thought M would be here for).

But to hear those words. To see the jibberish that is the actual written orders; it’s just not the same as before, when you thought maybe, just maybe, this was all some conversation. Not your life, your loved one.

So, if you're reading this, please do something for me. Let’s all put aside politics and idealogies and for one moment, take a deep breath, and embrace each other (at least virtually) for all those moments when news like this is delivered. We've all been or will be there. It is so powerful, feels so final, and is so solemn.

And let’s fast forward to another day, when I will be writing an eekonward post entitled, “Homecoming.”