How baby socks hurt my heart today

Day one of my Lenten project, 40 bags in 40 days, a decluttering project, began with my odd sock basket.  I don’t let my children use the word hate, so I’ll begin by saying I LOATHE socks.  If I could find a way around them at all, I would.  I had, until just now, an entire laundry basket full of odd socks sitting on top of my dryer.  I had to reach around it every time I wanted to dry clothes.  It was ridiculous.  Once in a while, I go through it and match up what I can, but as piles do, it grows again with time and the sock-eating laundry process.

Tonight my resolve was bright and shiny and new so I set about dumping out all the socks and sorting them by person.  I was doing quite well when I came upon the first of the teeny baby socks, a blue, ever-so-soft sock with bear faces.  My youngest will be two this summer, and in the past few weeks, he has grown from baby to boy, chattering non-stop and getting a more angular big-boy face.  While I spend many moments throughout the day wishing my littles were just a little bigger (!!!), I still wish I could freeze some moments - the nice ones, not the crying and gnashing of teeth ones.  The teeny baby socks put me in mind of the teeny baby feet I used to admire and snarfle and kiss.  Those little feet that fit into those tiny socks were a slice of Heaven!  So soft and sweet and nearly edible.  I know, I’m a weirdo.

Through the 2 a.m. nursing to the 4 a.m. teething awakenings, even when mouths were crying and demanding attention, those tiny feet inspired tenderness in me.  In my worst postpartum depression moments, the feet of my eldest stirred maternal feeling when nothing else seemed to make a difference.

So when I was choosing which socks wouldn’t possibly stretch over Bryce’s ever-elongating feet, it hit me that I wouldn’t be saving any for the next baby.  This was it.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dream of another baby, I just mourn the passing of my babies’ beloved teeny feet.

I held up various pairs to Jason for inspection, presenting them, and then holding them to my heart. He wasn't quite so moved as I, especially about four socks into this process. It was the pink trimmed, lettuce-edged “I Love Mommy” ones of Sophie’s that made my heart ache the most.  I can’t explain why, but those gave me more pause.  Maybe because she’s my lone daughter, or maybe because of the time frame and my state of mind, I enjoyed her babyhood with the most leisure.  Rafe was nearly four when she was born, so he was getting to be independent, plus I experienced no depression after she was born. 

Whatever the reason, I couldn’t part with those cherished socks.  They’ll go in her keepsake box.  I also chose a pair for each of the boys, to put away as mementos of a time when teeny feet inhabited my home and my heart.

Hold You Me

Last night, the night before Sophie started her first day of two-year-old preschool, I was reading a book about a woman whose only child, a daughter, was moving 3000 miles away from her to begin college. 

The writer, a very good one, evoked those letting go emotions. Maybe because I only have one daughter, or maybe because she's always been more of a mama's girl than either of the boys, I felt a connection. Though I would only be leaving my baby girl at school for two hours on two mornings each week, it was still our first real time apart. Her first baby steps toward independence. 

Through the harried days of summer with all three kids home, to the tiny bit less harried days of fall with the almost three-year-old and the just turned one-year-old, I find myself putting the kids off when they ask me for most anything. "Just a minute," is my stock response. While it feels as though (and most often appears as though) I get nothing accomplished during the day, I'm still in a perpetual state of being right in the middle of something. 

The request issued most is from Sophie who says in the sweetest voice, "Mommy, I need to hold you,” which has evolved from the precious baby phrase, “Hold you me.” And it often is when I'm cooking, or I'm changing Bryce's diaper, or in the bathroom, or something equally consuming that prevents me from picking her up and holding her at that moment. But other times, it's just because I'm tired, or it's easier to let her walk (always) or I don't want to take the time to stop and pick her up.

This morning as I walked her into the building and I reached for her hand (I was carrying my littlest) and she said, "No, mommy, I’ll do it by myself," I felt a twinge of sadness that I don't always hold her when she asks.

It's so hard to balance the have to’s with the want to’s when it comes to taking care of our homes and our children. But this morning, as I envisioned my only daughter in the not-so-distant future, not needing me so desperately, not clinging to me and then not really wanting me at all (age 12? maybe sooner?), it made those precious, "Hold you me’s," a lot more like have to's than things I can put off till later.

Green Like Grandma

Green Like Grandma

Lori Boatfield

As seen on www.reviveyourlife.com

Learning Green Living From Past Generations

Key Words:  green living, recycling, reusing, conservation, lower emissions, clean air, gardening, carpool, conserving water, conserving electricity

As energy costs continue to rise, and the sources for that energy dwindle, we search for ways to conserve.  When thinking of the future, we can use the past as a guide. 

I’m 34 years old and I think my grandparents’ generation knew a thing or two about conservation.  They raised seven children, most of them born during the Great Depression.  Though my mother, the youngest, was born in 1947, when the depression had technically ended, her family never had much in terms of material possessions.  They lived “out in the country” as I still think of it.  My grandfather worked second shift at a steel manufacturing plant.  With no car, he either walked or caught a ride (carpooled) the twenty-some miles there.  During the day, he farmed: growing cotton and vegetables, and raising livestock on a small scale.  My grandmother never held a job outside the home, despite earning a teaching degree, but with a houseful of children and farm chores, she had plenty of work to do.  I like to call her the queen of conservation.  My mother fondly remembers her as a pack rat.   

Food for (Green Living) thought

Whether we call them pack rats or conservationists, we can learn green living lessons from their lifestyle.  My grandparent’s farm sustained them in most every way.  The animals provided meat, milk and lard (ugh!).  The produce was home grown and canned to last.

While it isn’t feasible for most of us to raise livestock at home, we can still apply some of the farming principles.  A small vegetable garden can be surprisingly prolific.  You may find you have a bounty for your family with some to spare and share.  With simple canning or freezing, you can enjoy the “fruits” of your labor all year long.  Even if your space is limited to exclude a vegetable garden, herbs can be grown and easily maintained in a sunny windowsill.  My friend makes pesto from her abundant basil.  You may also find these home-grown practices benefit your budget, because 1) growing your own is less expensive, and 2) home canned vegetables and fruits make wonderful gifts. 

Consider the impact of growing a garden on the environment:

            -No disposable packaging is used

            -Less fuel is used overall since there’s no need for transporting

            -Less emission/pollution from transport

            -Cleaner air due to more trees and green plants

Baby steps to get you started: 

·  Buying produce at a local farmers market cuts down on disposable packaging as well as fuel and emissions (not to mention stimulating your local economy).

·  Try planting herbs in small containers in a windowsill or sunroom.  Most herbs are fairly hardy and need little care.

Recycling Disposable goods

My brother-in-law recently visited his grandparents and inspired this piece.  He reached for the aluminum foil to wrap leftovers, and found several loose pieces rolled neatly back onto the unused roll.  The scraps had been carefully washed and dried and were ready for reuse.  While I don’t sanction this particular type of recycling because I question the bacteria factor, I find it inspires me to think of other recycling projects.

Along with foil and disposable plastic cups (which she cycled through the dishwasher), my grandmother was a wrapping paper recycler.  She could make a roll of paper and a bag of bows last for years.  We all knew not to crumple our Christmas paper at Grandma’s because she saved it.  For her, wrapping paper was a luxury to be carefully guarded and conserved.

The lesson we can learn is to be mindful of the things we toss into the trash.  Many in my generation have a throw-away mentality because there’s always more at the store.  I may be oversimplifying, but I’ve always taken for granted the disposable lifestyle:  use paper plates, don’t wash dishes!  My very favorite disposable is paper towels.

While I find it difficult to curb my paper towel use (select-a-size helps), it’s easier than ever to be wise about what we throw away.  When it comes to disposable, recycle EVERYTHING you can.  If your town doesn’t have recycling pick up, chances are a nearby city does.  So investigate their policies and receptacle locations, and drop off on your way to somewhere.

I must confess, I sometimes find myself saving wrapping paper.  If it’s a particularly pretty print, I unwrap carefully and put it aside.  I cut the still-flat part out and use it for smaller packages.  I also save gift bags and tissue paper.  Intact tissue paper can be ironed on a low setting and voila, good as new.  Maybe it’s genetic.  Grandma would be proud.

Baby steps to get you started: 

·  Cut down on the disposable items you use by using “real” plates and cups and investing in reusable grocery bags (buy one bag per shopping trip and soon you’ll have plenty).

Some reusable grocery bags can be folded into small pouches for easy carrying in your handbag or glove compartment.

·  Consider washable, reusable water/drink containers.  Your water is still convenient for on-the-go, but fewer plastic bottles wind up in landfills.

·  Reuse individual hand-soap containers and buy the large bottles of soap for refilling.

·  Use both sides of paper for notes, everyday printing projects, keeping score for Jeopardy, etc.

Conserving Water

Until the 1960’s my grandparents got their water from a spring about 100 feet away from the house.  They went down to the springhouse, which my mother tells me was fraught with spiders, and brought the water up the hill by the bucket.  Water for baths was heated on the stove (a wood-powered, pot-belly model until they bought a gas range in the 70’s).  We can’t imagine carrying water to the house from afar.  You can bet not a drop was wasted.  And flushing the toilet, forget it.  No need for flushing in the outhouse!  Even after they got indoor plumbing, the conservative mind-set was still in place.  We can learn to be mindful of our water use by imagining carrying 5 gallon buckets of water up a hill (what a work-out!) and going to the outhouse on cold winter nights. 

Baby steps to get you started: 

·  When it’s time to replace toilets, consider water conservation models. 

·  Turn off the water while brushing your teeth. 

·  Collect rain water for outdoor plant watering.  If you use a sprinkler system for grass or shrubs, make sure it’s watering what you want to water, and not the driveway or the street. Consider installing a timer for your sprinklers so that watering is done at the most beneficial time of day (or night).

·  Be vigilant about fixing household water leaks.  Long-term, they can waste a considerable amount of water.

Conserving Electricity 

For my grandparents electricity was a resource to be used carefully.  My grandfather toiled all day on the farm while my grandmother had busy days of caring for house and family.  With the exception of my grandfather, who went to his second job in the evening, the family went to bed quite early.  Some contemporaries of theirs, according to my mother, turned in as soon as darkness fell.  This was a wonderful way to conserve electricity and heat.  The lights and television were off, and the fire was stoked to burn low until morning.  We can learn to conserve from these practices in many ways.

Baby steps to get you started: 

·  Turn off the power to and unplug any household item not in use, since an electrical charge continues to be drawn even when the power is off.  To simplify unplugging, use power strips.

·  Install a programmable thermostat so energy is conserved when the house is empty or while everyone’s asleep.

·  Use ceiling fans to supplement the heating and cooling process.  They should turn counterclockwise in the summer to circulate cooler air and clockwise in the winter to drive heated air back down into the room.

I believe if my maternal grandparents were alive today, they would still be responsible citizens of the earth.  With a little ingenuity, and a lot of practice, we can all be more responsible. Now, where are those gift bags?  I have tissue paper to iron!

Momus Interruptus

The title speaks for itself, wouldn’t you say? I can’t speak for mothers who work outside the home (I imagine it‘s much worse for you), but in my stay-at-home mom house, I’m in a constant state of Momus Interruptus. I don’t get three steps away before I’m asked for something: juice, to replay Clifford “one more time” (by my two year old who thinks one more time means over and over), or to come here and sit with us (by my husband who just wants the three of us to be together at the end of the day). Momus interruptus is the reason I rarely finish a task once I’ve begun it. I have 10 projects started waiting for the odd block of uninterrupted time.

I find myself resenting the interruptions, especially when I’m trying to write. It’s so difficult to complete a paragraph when I can’t even complete a thought without saying, “No, you may not open Daddy’s guitar case.” or “Please step away from the electrical outlet!” When the writing bug bites, I have to sit down as quickly as the thoughts come for fear of losing the whole idea. You may say, write the idea down for later. No problem. I’ll just see if I can track down a pen, some paper that doesn’t contain a grocery list or yesterday’s Jeopardy scores (I gotta have some fun) before being asked, “May I please have a harshmallow?” When I’ve located said implements I often end up writing down whatever cute thing Rafe just said (harshmallow is one of my favorites!) and putting in his baby book - which is so much more important than some Mommy essay anyway.

Then comes the guilt! I find myself feeling bad for the times I tell my son or husband, “Just a minute…” I apparently say it so often now that Rafe picked it up and chooses to use it at the most inopportune times, like when I say, “Please step away from the electrical outlet!”

The rub of it all is that a balance must exist between what’s acutely important and what must be done for sanity’s sake. Sitting on the couch watching Clifford with my baby who’s so quickly morphing into a boy, that‘s acutely important. Playing trains with him when his mind is working at warp speed and he’s imagining a whole world before my very eyes, also acutely important. The “stuff” that I must do for sanity’s sake, is, say, sweeping the grit off the floor after we’ve been in and out a dozen times because it sets my teeth on edge, or going around to pick up the sippy cups that appear in the oddest places so that a top can be found for milk at 6:30 a.m. Because I must accomplish at least a few of those tasks each day, I try to utilize Rafe’s nap time for something other than my own nap. This isn’t easy because my writing is usually relegated to the after midnight slot and my little alarm clock is full-speed ahead bright and early.

I do, however, have to boast that I have the most wonderful (and blessedly retired) mother-in-law in the entire world who delights in Rafe spending the night with them at least one night during the week. My own dear mother is always happy to have him sleep over with them on the weekends. The support helps me catch up with the mundane but necessary.

It‘s so cliché to say, but there just isn’t enough time in a day to get done all the things you want to do and all the things you have to do. My heart chooses the acutely important while my mind chooses the necessary, and never the twain shall meet, so to speak. My stress levels when the necessaries are lacking make the acutely important harder to enjoy! It’s easy to be sentimental and say, I’ll worry about the chores later. That’s all fine and good until someone doesn’t have a clean towel or underwear. My daily prayer is that I can strike the balance of being available for the important while doing enough necessary for all of us to leave the house clothed tomorrow. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask God to help me remember to scoop up all the acutely important moments I can.

In that spirit, two of my favorite poems on this subject come to mind. I think I’ll print them and put them on the fridge to help me relax and remember what’s truly “necessary”.

My dishes went unwashed today, I didn’t make the bed.
I took her hand and followed where her eager footsteps led.
Her little singsong voice I heard, her thoughts I understood.
My kitchen wasn’t mopped today, but life was rich and good.
That my house was neglected, that I didn’t sweep the stairs,
In twenty years no one on earth will know or even care.
But that I helped my daughter into a joyful woman grow,
In twenty years the whole wide world may look and see and know.
Anonymous

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait ‘til tomorrow
For babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow
So quiet down cobwebs, and dust go to sleep I’m rocking my baby,
and babies don’t keep.
Author Unknown

One Big Boob

As seen in Valley Babies Magazine
October/November 2008
http://www.valleybabies.com/

So you’re breastfeeding. Do you ever feel like all you are is one big boob? Your baby wants them, your husband wants them for an entirely different reason, and even though the boobs are attached to you, they betray you at every turn: they leak, they grow at alarming speeds, and just keep ‘em full for a couple hours too long, and they turn to stone.

The Issues

Health:
My choice to breastfeed was based on the well-being of my baby. I was terrified before and after he was born that he wouldn’t take well to nursing, and that I wouldn’t have enough for him. As my friend’s pediatrician tells her in heavily accented English, “You don’t worry for that!” I needn’t have worried on either count. On the contrary, Rafe had no problems, and when the milk came, it did so in abundance.

What I never imagined was that the choice to breastfeed would have such an impact on my well-being. When Rafe was around 6 weeks old, I began to experience postpartum depression. I believe if I had not been breastfeeding, I would have totally disconnected from him. I dreaded him, feared caring for him. My husband would send me out to shop, or to drive, or to exercise, or to listen to music, but when it was time to feed the baby, I had to come back home. While, at the time, I didn’t relish the idea of coming back home to a colicky baby, for a few minutes during and after the feeding, I felt relief from my symptoms. Of course, there’s a biological reason for this. God doesn’t fool around with his planning. For me, nursing kept me from running away from my responsibility as a mother. Make no mistake, I did ask for and receive medical and pharmaceutical help for postpartum depression, but nursing played a part in my recovery.

Modesty (or lack there-of):
What’s funny to me is what happens to your modesty when you’re breastfeeding. As a young teen, I didn’t want my bras hung to dry on a rack where my dad might see them. However, the modesty issue became a non-issue when I began to breastfeed. I didn’t go bare boobed directly in front of the men in my family, but I sure covered with a blanket and fed Rafe in the same room with everyone when I didn’t feel like missing the conversation. One of my sisters-in-law was the same. I’ll always remember after my nephew was born how careful my father was to knock and announce his arrival to a room, having gotten an accidental eyeful early on. It became a joke to make sure she wasn’t topless when visitors arrived.

And let’s not forget the pumping. I had an electric pump with a special bra that let me pump hands-free. I usually did this in front of the television. Without fail, someone came to the door while I was pumping, and I had to disentangle myself from the contraption and “get decent".

A dear teacher friend of mine was pumping in her locked classroom during her planning period when she was surprised by the custodian who unlocked the door to clean the room. For her, there wasn’t time to “get decent”. She was embarrassed, but mommy immodesty goes a long way in saving face in a situation like that. I’ll bet that custodian never unlocked her classroom door again!

Ending:
I was sad when I began to wean my son from the breast. The last feeding time that I dropped was the bed-time one. The calming effect at the end of the day wasn’t just for the baby. You breastfeeding moms know the prolactin is fast-actin’! The bond lasts far beyond the actual nursing, and the “miracle of God’s perfect plan” moments far outshone the “one big boob” moments for me.

So if you’ve braved the wilds of breastfeeding, for however long, I raise my glass to you, and say, “Cherish your little one‘s babyhood, and cherish your firm breasts. Neither will last forever! Here’s to you.”

Peace Comes in a Whisper... I Usually Need a Roar

Written December 2008

There’s an old hymn entitled He Whispers Sweet Peace to Me. When I hear it, I always think of the funeral of a close friend of mine. He was killed in a car accident at the age of 20; an age at which most of us feel invincible. On that long ago June day, for me, invincible became inconsolable.

The reason, however, the long dreaded hymn comes to mind is because I recently shared the story of that funeral with another friend. We were discussing inappropriate reactions during tragic or emotionally charged events.

I recounted that at the funeral, a choir of elderly ladies sang He Whispers Sweet Peace to Me in what can only be described as quavering falsetto. Obviously their voices shook with sorrow. As they sang, I stopped crying momentarily, glancing at my mother, who was sitting next to me. She was looking down at her hands in her lap and her eyes widened slightly. Her response was nearly imperceptible, except to me, watching so closely. That reaction alone tipped the heavy scale of emotion from ragged grief to repressed mirth. Repressed, that is, until the gentleman in front of us, a talented and well-trained singer, gave his wife a nudge and uttered a dismayed grunt. The scale tipped all the way over and dumped my mother and me into a fit of giggles. The more we tried to suppress them, the less we were able.

Though I don’t believe anyone could distinguish between our ill-hidden giggles and the sobs from the previous moments, we were both very embarrassed. What is ironic to me is that the song was chosen as a comfort for the mourning crowd. Had I been able to get past the performance aspect and hear the message, it might have had a different impact.

Since giving the account, I’ve been thinking about the concept of God’s peace. I was raised in a Christian home and grew up in a church where I heard a lot about the subject. My mother, aside from the giggling episode (maybe that was God’s way of giving us a little peace right then!), is a living testament to the term. Even in the face of fears, disappointments, illnesses, and death, she is the stillness in the midst of calamity. When I ask her to explain, she shrugs and quotes, “And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." KJV

Her answer begs the question that's at the center of the issue of God’s peace. Which came first the peace or the stillness? I’ve always been prone to running around like the proverbial beheaded chicken. Peace often eludes me as I rush around trying to control everything.

On the other hand, it has been during periods of anxiety and deep despair that I learned lessons about peace. On my wedding day, I was plagued with a case of nerves just before leaving the bride room to enter the sanctuary. While I had no qualms about getting married, I believe it was stage fright of sorts. I realized 300 pairs of eyes eagerly awaited my entrance and would focus intently on me. My ever serene mother stood beside me, soothing me as if I were a crying child, while my heart hammered erratically. After a moment of fanning myself and fluttering around, my mother took my face between her hands. “Lori,” she said, “pray for peace.” I shook my head, amazed. Didn’t she know I was too keyed up? “Mama, I can’t pray right now. You pray for peace for me!” She led me to the sofa and held my hand. “Be still,” she said, then she began to address God like I asked. Almost instantly, a veil (no pun intended) of calm descended. Looking back, I believe God answered her prayer, and fast. I also believe her command to be still was a factor in the equation. I was no longer fretful or anxious. I floated through the ceremony on a happy high.

After my son was born, I experienced a similar feeling of fright (times 1000), only this time my body waged war on the perfect life I had planned. While I worried and cried without ceasing, my husband and my mother (who are eerily alike, by the way) were the catalysts for my calm. As I became increasingly desperate, they urged me to seek medical attention. While medication dealt with the chemical imbalance, it served another important function: it allowed me to be still. God sends peace in all kinds of packages, doesn’t He? My nearly hourly prayers were answered with a peace born of hope. Hope that I could get past the fear. Hope that I could be a sane mother to my precious baby. Hope that one day in the not too distant future, I could help my child understand that it’s not for nothing, that song. Be still and listen up…He WHISPERS sweet peace.