Labor of Love

Finding Religion

A few months ago, my daughter Ayla and her little friend were busy exploring a pumpkin farm when the topic of Halloween arose amongst the parents.   One mother explained that she was in limbo—unsure of whether to celebrate Halloween in their family.  She intuitively felt that if she said “yes” to Halloween, then it would be hard to refuse Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and so on.  “What will I teach my son to believe in?” she wondered aloud.  “And if I’m not teaching him to rally around a cast of pseudo-religious, imaginary characters, what can I offer instead?” [She was raised in neither a religious nor a spiritual family.]

This question would haunt me for many months after the ghouls and zombies disappeared from my neighborhood.  I knew that if I pried off the lid to this Pandora’s Box I would be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of unanswered questions about my own faith, and my personal struggle to find a spiritual home.

In my childhood, practicing religion was a means to access a community of other new immigrants, with similar life experiences.  We all gathered in the same place every Friday evening, fumbled through the complicated prayers we were supposed to recite and breathed a collective sigh of relief when the service was over and we could socialize.  My parents alternately boasted about the kids and exchanged gossip with their friends—but the net effect was that they felt a part of something bigger than themselves.  On the way home, they often criticized religious doctrine and anyone who professed to actually believe in it.  But that didn’t stop them from coming back week after week.

Having a spiritual community also freed us to celebrate other quasi-religious holidays.  My parents didn’t try to resist Santa or the Tooth Fairy because they felt secure that Santa was no match for everything we did and gained from our faith community.  For most of my childhood, I attended Friday night service along with Saturday morning religious classes, evening rehearsals for dance performances and impromptu after-school gatherings.  Our faith community kept me busy, focused, and out of trouble.   Santa merely kept me amused for a day or two.

But after I grew up and moved out, I decided that my parents’ religious choices were rife with compromises that I couldn’t accept.  I wanted to find a faith in which I liked more than the social hour.  I wanted to believe in the precepts, savor the time for prayer and meditation, and do more than gossip after the service.  In my twenties, I floated through ashrams and progressive Christian churches and then settled into the Quaker community in New York City. I loved sitting inside the silent, beautiful Friendship House north of Union Square; being able to sit quietly and reflect on your week was an indulgence that few New Yorkers could afford.  But during the social hour I felt like a misfit—I was so different from the other Quakers.  Instead of the easy conversation my parents enjoyed after service, I found myself gulping down a cup of tea and slipping out the door before anyone could ask who I was.

After that, I entered a spiritual desert of sorts.  Giving birth and raising Ayla quenched my thirst for faith.  Between my work with homeless youth and my life as a mother, I found a rich spiritual home, at home.  But around the time when local shops were mounting Halloween displays, I entered into a conflict with an intimate friend and my thirst grew yet again. 

Normally, I side-step or deflect conflict because I’ve learned that even when you win a fight, you wind up losing more than you gain.  But in this particular case, I took the bait that was dangled in front of me. I felt that I had been treated unjustly; I believed that it was important to fight this fight. The conflict was post-modern, that is to say, we fought primarily via email and voicemail.  Every week for the past year, I’ve turned on my computer to find an angry or threatening email in my Inbox.  I would read the message, reflect on it for a few minutes or a few days and then respond in kind, that is, with a degree of anger commensurate with what I received.  I won some concessions, lost others and many, many months later, I’m not sure that I’ve gained anything at all. 

What has been most disheartening is that I lost sight of some of my hard-earned values in the process of fighting: It obscured my ability to see the goodness in my opponent.  I also conveniently forgot all about the redemptive power of forgiveness.  I erroneously decided that I was justified in my anger and allowed it to take a huge toll on my serenity.  And I completely disregarded my belief that it is not my job to bring justice upon another person, no matter how badly they behaved. 

For almost a year, whenever I said this person’s name, I recalled only the horrible, hurtful things he had done.  I left no room for him to do or say anything positive.  When you close the door on another person, you also block your own escape route.  Just as Santa was appearing in store windows this fall, I realized that I was trapped in this conflict and that there was no easy way out.

When you’re backed into a corner, you lose your freedom of movement but you also gain some perspective.  You cannot help but see your life from a new angle when you’re scrunched up in the corner, sitting helplessly on the floor.  When I peered out at my life, I saw many good things—a strong network of family and friends, a meaningful job, a healthy home environment. But there were a few missing pieces—one of which was the connection to a spiritual community. 

Just last week I realized that I’ve been craving a space in which to explore my core values—which revolve around the primacy of love, forgiveness and service—with a community of like-minded individuals.  I wonder whether I would have fought as long and as hard had I been part of a spiritual community; perhaps I would have realized the futility of the fight or been inspired to find other ways for dealing with this conflict. 

However imperfect, my parents did have a place to go every Friday night in which they were subtly reminded of what matters most.  No matter how good my intentions, I simply forget to dialogue about spirituality at the dinner table and the topic perpetually takes a backseat to the day's headlines in conversation with family and friends.  Instead of trying to do it on my own, I feel ready to join a community that convenes people for the purpose of deepening their faith, even if it involves making some compromises along the way. Not just for me, but to help Ayla explore the great mysteries, and universal truths, of life.

Although I haven’t made a decision about “which one” and “how often”, I feel oddly reassured, as though my load has already become lighter.  Last night, as I was nursing Ayla to sleep, I felt goosebumps rise and spread across my flesh, and a few seconds later I realized that I was ready to forgive my friend, and myself, for all the hurtful things we’ve said and done.

In the past week, minor ideas and feelings that I've had for years just came together, like a flock of birds finding each other in the sky and silently becoming an entity capable of surviving the long flight south. Now I am ready to forgive, heal and move on with my life.  As I look back on the past week, I wonder if it is the result of trying to live an honest and examined life--or perhaps it is even simpler...perhaps it is just a matter of having faith. 

Discipline, Love, and then Repeat

In recent weeks, I noticed a distinct shift in my daughter’s behavior.   She began to push back on well-established boundaries in our relationship.   Yesterday, she calmly fed herself breakfast, lunch and dinner; today, she won’t eat unless I put each morsel in her mouth and demand that she chew and swallow.  Yesterday, she wore a diaper; today she tears them off.  Yesterday, she said loving things to me; today she shouts “Go away” and seems to enjoy the hurt expression on my face.

My first reaction was awe (okay, maybe my first reaction was indignation, but awe did follow).  How could my 20-month old fearlessly challenge me—the bigger and stronger person(ality) in our relationship? And later, a new question arose:  How dare she just change the rules, without giving me fair notice?  But just as David found the courage to battle Goliath, and so too did Ayla.  And what choice did I have?  Either I could fight, or flee.

The plethora of parenting books means that parents are more educated than ever about the psychology and developmental stages of their children.  For example, we know that children are often aggressive when frustrated, rather than being inherently violent.  But I quickly realized that understanding your child’s behavior is entirely separate from modifying it.   I could spend hours getting to the root cause of her behavioral shifts.  Or I could do something about it.  I know many parents who have found sophisticated reasons for fleeing—parents who prefer to explain the why’s of their child’s behavior rather than getting their hands dirty trying to change it. 

After Ayla began to challenge me, I realized that it was not authentic for me to flee, nor would it be a good (short or long) term decision for Ayla.  Ayla is naturally independent, self-directed and fearless.  When children know how to assert themselves, their parents ought to teach them when and how to take a step back.  Besides, if I didn’t step in, Ayla would soon run the house, and my life.

So when my toddler began spitting out half-chewed mouthfuls of food, I acted decisively.  I spoke in a loud but calm voice and said, “We do not spit out food in our house.”  Then I proceeded to methodically shovel the half-chewed bits of food back into her mouth, until it was all gone.  She could tell by my eyes and my body language that I was serious, and that her behavior would not be tolerated.  Afterwards, I was sure to express love--to send the message that she wasn't bad and that my love for her was unconditional.

It was my first major lesson in disciplining my child—a word that seemed so simple and straightforward until I had to enact it.  Now the words feels like a fancy word for something much more crude.  Is discipline anything other than engaging in a power struggle with your child, and deciding which battles you will win, and which you will concede?

Although I tried to engage my mind in the process, I learned that disciplining was much more instinctive than cerebral.  Rather than calling forth directives from “Unconditional Parenting,” and “Becoming the Parent You Want to Be,” I found myself making decisions based on my extensive database of life experience.  There was no clear or succinct theory to describe what I considered acceptable and unacceptable.  Every woman knows the difference between flirtation and sexual harassment, and precisely when that line is crossed.  Similarly, I just know that it is (messy but) reasonable for Ayla to touch every object on my bedside table but that she mustn’t dump out the contents of her lunch bag.  I know these things not because my brain tells me the answer but by reading the sensations in my heart and gut.

Another surprise was the sheer volume of repetition involved in setting boundaries. Instead of languishing after her early defeat, my daughter rallied. She spit her food out at least ten times before she decided to stop; and even then, she occasionally decides to try her little trick again.  In other matters she is absolutely indefatigable; she won’t stop pushing the buttons on my laptop, no matter how many times I say no, or redirect her, or give her different choices.  As you may recall, David didn’t attack Goliath directly; he won by changing the game.  Ayla’s strength is her persistence.  Even if she doesn’t know it yet, eventually she’ll catch me at a moment of weakness and will get her way.  And then what? Will we have to start all over again?

I also learned that I have only two parenting styles in my repertoire—Calm (aka “well-rested”) parenting and Irritable/Short-Fused (aka “not well rested”) parenting.  Learning how to convert the latter into the former is the hardest part of all.  Where and how do I find the resources to speak firmly and calmly when I’m tired, frustrated or simply having a bad day?  This feels like the greatest personal challenge for me in the coming years. How can I both follow my instincts and control my emotions?

I know that this new phase in our household is inevitable and that it too will pass. I console myself with this thought on my bad days, even though I secretly know that it will be decades before Ayla stops pushing my boundaries—and my buttons.  I will have to “Discipline, Love, and then Repeat” ad nauseam, until Ayla finally learns how to successfully negotiate what she needs from the world. 

For now, I’ve taken to my bed each afternoon for a nap.  Because what I’ve also learned is that even a tough cookie like Goliath gets tired, and that sometimes he just needs to lie down…

(Un)Conditional Love

Last week, I wrote about my daughter’s all-out protest against winter and my half-hearted embrace of the coming deep freeze.   I described how awkward it was to have fallen out of rhythm with my child, after a year-and-a-half of keeping the same beat.   At the heart of my post was something so unsettling that I was afraid to think about it, let alone write about it.  But this week I feel brave enough to dig a little deeper, and stare one of my greatest (unspoken) fears in the eye. 

The first twenty weeks of pregnancy were the hardest for me.  I was afraid of miscarriage, I was nauseous and I could only eat Saltines in any great quantity (torture for a any foodie).   But I was also afraid that I was having a boy.   Instead of confronting my feelings, I decided to believe that I was having a boy  and dedicated a full 20 weeks to getting used to the idea (getting happy about it would have to come later).  When we had our first sonogram and discovered that our little babe was indeed a girl, my eyes leaked a steady stream of tears for 40 minutes straight.  A girl! A girl!  I no longer had to pretend that my firstborn’s gender didn’t matter.

After 41 weeks, Ayla came out of the womb exactly as I had hoped.  She was alert and beautiful and even at the age of 4 days, she had a smug little grin that made me laugh.  With every passing day, I had more cause to celebrate.  People constantly stopped me to compliment her perfect features and even temperament.  Someone suggested that she become a spokes-baby for diapers and pureed carrots in a jar (No thank you!).  She learned to crawl at 6 months, walk at 9 ½ months and was speaking and signing by 11 months (whether any of this is objectively miraculous is irrelevant; I thought my baby was tops).   Ayla didn’t appear to have any fears, she loved being outdoors, was naturally social and so on and so on.   She was everything I hoped she would be.  Or, more accurately, she was everything I would have wanted to be as a baby.

And then, the temperature dropped and I saw a different side of her.  Now I had to face the part of her that cringed when the wind blew (my fearless daughter, cowed by a brisk wind?) and that said “NO” to the prospect of wintry adventures.   After eighteen months of us jointly digging in the dirt, jumping in mud puddles and dancing in the rain, my daughter was becoming something different than I wanted, and had expected.

I’m ashamed of my unspoken and verbal responses to her completely reasonable decision to brave the winter indoors.  I engaged in name-calling (silently deciding she was a “wimp”) and threw minor tantrums (“What? You don’t want to go outside?  FINE.  We’ll stay in.)  My mind began to do what it does best—it began to attach conditions to my love for Ayla and to try to chip away at the bond that I felt was unbreakable.

It was my first experience of involuntary separation from my child—the first time that I was forced to acknowledge that although Ayla is my bosom buddy and my best friend, we’re different people and this will not be the last time that she takes a step away from me.  In fact, this is the first of many leaps she’ll make towards achieving her own identity, and with it, her independence (from me).

My job in all of this is to accept her, just as she is.  No matter that she’ll make decisions that I’ll disagree with, or even disrespect.   I have to remember that my role as a parent is not to form her, but to embrace her, as she evolves into herself.   My brain knows this to be true, but still, when faced the prospect of loosening the mother-child bond, I’m scared.  How will I ever let go of my one and only precious child? 

I remember seeing a play called Flesh and Blood (adapted from Michael Cunningham’s novel of the same name) at the New York Theater Workshop in 2002.   Near the end of the final act, the mother character, played by Cherry Jones, is confronted with yet another disappointment from her daughter (who later commits suicide).  For thirty years, she has comforted and supported her children through their decisions to love people who didn’t love them in return, to run away from their problems and to punish themselves instead of loving who they are.  With each revelation, she has never strayed from her unconditional love.  Then, finally, her daughter presents her with something that she thinks she cannot bear to accept (I won't say what; I don't want to spoil it for you).  Cherry pauses, and along with her, the entire audience holds it’s breath.  If a mother cannot love her child through everything, then what hope have we got for the future of the American family? 

Cherry looks up into the blackness, knowing she has a choice.  She can take her daughter in her arms and love her, but she has ample justification to turn around and walk out the door.

But ultimately, she is a mother.  And she cannot reject her child—not for being who she is.  The doors of her heart burst open.  The daughter begins to cry, because her mother’s acceptance is the deepest affirmation of herself...of her beautiful, fallible self.  

I didn’t quite understand the play until now.  Great art often takes years to reveal itself to us.  But now I get it.  I understand that my task is to remain open in the years and decades to come, as my child reveals herself to me, and to others.  My role as a parent is to accept her whole self, and if I'm strong enough, to appreciate every dab on the canvas as a small part of a great masterpiece. 

I Hate Winter but My Daughter Hates it More...

For the past week, my body has felt like an advance warning system for The Weather Network.  Last week, I developed a low-grade headache that won’t go away (seasonal drop in barometric pressure?), my joints began to ache (from the impending cold?) and my nose started dripping like a leaky garden hose—silently but incessantly (but with no cold/flu symptoms).  And then, two days ago, I woke up feeling like a thousand clothespins had been clipped onto my back, resulting in a pinching sensation so intense that I rolled from the bed onto a yoga mat, hoping to find just one position in which my back didn’t hurt (it turned out to be a standing side-bend combined with a half-hunch…impossible to maintain with a toddler in the house).  I have been sleeping in strange positions (head under the covers, toes poking out) since the temperature dropped.

I have one other symptom of the forthcoming deep freeze—I can’t get enough sleep; even when I wake up from a nap, I want another one right away.  We haven’t even had our first frost warning and my body is behaving like it is the middle of February.

Last Monday—Canadian Thanksgiving day—I was so cold that I began having fantasies about warm-sounding words (moomba, lamaya) and announced that I was going south (alone if I have to) to escape the cold (which hasn’t arrived yet…except in my bones).  My sister finally said, “Grow up.  It’s only been cold for a week.”  Of course, she was right.  I pursed my lips in frustration because I couldn’t think of a good comeback.  

As I shivered my way through our family’s Thanksgiving apple-picking expedition, I looked up at the sky and felt the urge to shake Mother Nature by the shoulders, asking Why? Why? WHY?  Why does it have to get cold?  Why must it snow? Why black ice and blizzards and frozen pipes and salt stains on our leather boots?  Why?

I wish I didn’t know the answer.  But I do.  We need winter to help us slow down.   As the Wheel of the Year turns, our energy shifts, enabling us to gain a new perspective, let go and change alongside the earth.   Winter is a gift; a time for the fields to lay fallow and for families to sit together, quietly, and reflect on what has passed and what is to come.

This morning, I woke up ready to embrace Mother Nature’s frosty gift to all living things.  At 6 a.m., I poked my head out from under the covers and didn’t complain about my aching joints and runny nose.  I rolled over, and began to drift back to sleep.  Then, I felt my daughter’s cold hand on my shoulder.  “Stroller?”  She wanted me to get out of bed and find her baby stroller so that she could give her teddy bear a ride.  Even though it was pitch black outside and frigid inside, she was ready to play.   She was completely indifferent to her wintry mama wrapped in blankets, sprawled across the bed.   When I didn’t get out of bed, she ripped through the house like a miniature Tazmanian devil, dumping out the contents of the kitchen drawers and over-turning any piece of furniture that she could tip.

And then finally it hit me.  What was bothering me was not that winter was on it’s way but that my daughter didn’t seem to notice.  Here I was, succumbing to the gradual inertia of the cold season while she was acting like it was mid-July.  I began to feel like I was at a junior high school dance where everyone is terminally incapable of moving to the same tempo, leading to a roomful of knocked knees and trodden-upon toes.  Only in my world, the dance doesn’t end until May.

It’s strange to be out of sync with your child.  And this season, Ayla and I seem to be occupying different corners of the universe.  I want to sleep and she wants to run around.  I want to eat and she’s lost her appetite.  When I feel hot and groggy from the effects of our heating system while Ayla is cold.  I love the feeling of cozy sweaters and coats; she seems happiest in an undershirt and diaper.  I like taking long walks when it gets cold; Ayla spends a few minutes outdoors and shouts “Cold, cold” and climbs into the stroller (I know she’s not cold because she’s wearing three layers on top, tights, warm boots and a snow jacket).  I can’t wake up without a hot cup of tea and she wants frozen smoothies for breakfast with chopped up tropical fruits.   Some days, I feel like I’m on the North Pole and she’s on the Equator and there is giant, un-crossable ocean between us.

Once I embraced the winter spirit, I longed to share it with her.  As much as I detest the cold, I am willing to brave sub-zero temperatures for the sheer joy of teaching Ayla to ski, skate and toboggan.  I remember how much I loved winter as a child; my sister and I would spend hours building snow forts, crashing our sleds into trees, tackling moguls on the ski slopes.  I especially loved the apres-ski—the hot chocolates, the warm fires, the hot baths.  Now that I’m no longer a child, I ache to share everything I’ve learned to love about winter with Ayla; I want us to hold hands and fall backwards into a soft snow bank and then carve snow angels and make snow balls and eat mouthfuls of snow.

Last winter, Ayla was still a baby.  We shared a lovely winter; but it was on my terms.  I strapped her into the Moby Wrap and zipped my winter coat around her and took her out into the cold.  This year, Ayla is a totally different being.  She has learned to express her individuality in words and deeds.  And from what I have seen thus far, she hates winter and wants nothing to do with it.  Even worse, she is in denial that it is getting cold and that it will only get colder.  Last night, she violently tossed the book, A Snowy Day across the room making it abundantly clear what she thinks of my attempts to celebrate winter.

Seasonal change is new to her and toddler-hood is new to me.  It’s anyone’s guess how we’ll fare this winter.  Perhaps she’ll bow to the snow gods and my winter fantasies will all come true.  Or maybe we’ll pack up and head south—where Ayla’s liable to develop heatstroke and want to go back home.   Or maybe, we’ll reach a compromise.  I’ll spend the winter on the balcony building a giant snow fort while Ayla will dance naked on the other side of the sliding doors, sipping a smoothie and waiting for spring...

Taz's Anniversary Blog Post, What I've Learned after 1 Year of Blogging

The Anniversary Post--Labor of Love Just Turned One!

Roughly a year ago today, I launched my blog, Labor of Love.  One of Ayla’s caregivers—who herself had blogged and was “in-the-know” (whereas I knew almost nothing about blogging except that it was popular and happened on the Internet)—pointed me in the direction of mommy blogs I ought to read before starting.  I wanted to understand the medium and how good bloggers developed a loyal following.

Early on, I had plenty of misconceptions about blogging.  I thought people could still earn a living doing it (most can’t and won’t) and I thought it would be easier for readers to find me (there are literally millions of blogs; you have to work really hard at putting yourself out there).  Stylistically, I thought it was safer to write the way good bloggers did and cover issues that attracted mass audiences (Wrong! In my opinion, great blogs are personal and impassioned). 

And then, after a lengthy R&D phase, I tossed almost everything I had learned into the Trash Bin.  When I read through posts I had written with the goal of becoming a top blogger, I found my words dry and purposeless.  Why bother writing unless I had something real to say?  Why add another voice to the blogosphere if I was just mimicking what had worked instead of pushing the medium in new directions?

Shortly thereafter, I deleted all of my earlier posts and started writing from the heart, with absolutely no intention of earning a living or building an audience.  Writing Labor of Love was part-catharsis (I feel called to write and am off kilter when I don’t) and part-offering (I wanted my daughter Ayla to understand her profound impact on my life; I planned to have the posts bound one day and give them to her to read).  I started blogging a couple of times a week and then settled into a new rhythm of writing longer posts, less frequently. 

Gradually (and unexpectedly), I developed a theme.  I began blogging about the link between music and parenting.  I love music and was so often moved by the soundtrack to my life as a parent.  There were so many songs, lyrics and melodies that comforted me in those early weeks and months.  Music helped me loosen the grasp on my old life and enter the flow of my new life as a mother. I wanted my blog to pay homage to the extraordinary musicians who made it feel good and right to shift my focus from “out there in the world” to the “here and now.”  Music inspired me to find joy in my child, home, neighborhood and local community.

A few months into Labor of Love, my daughter Ayla began to sleep less and explore more and suddenly I didn’t have the time to write and research music.  Given the choice, I felt like I had to give up music; I simply didn’t have enough time to do justice to both. 

In the next phase of the blog, I dabbled in writing about neuroscience, spirituality and a variety of other micro-interests of mine and then inadvertently found myself writing consistently about one of my core beliefs—that children are our best teachers and that our progress as human beings depends more on our ability to learn than our ability to teach.  In many respects, this is how I define life and parenting and spirituality.  It’s all the same thing to me.  I’ve learned more from the homeless youth (whom I’m supposed to be helping) at the Reciprocity Foundation than I have from my formal education; and my infant child has amplified my life learning-curve tenfold—I can barely keep up with all the growth that Ayla inspires in my life. 

Other things have changed too.  On the advice of a friend who works in the media business, I added advertising to my site (via Google Ads).  She insisted that they would legitimize my blog and impress magazine editors at publications where I had hoped to pitch stories.  Last time I checked my account, I had amassed $0.01 in ad revenue.  I was secretly pleased that people were reading my words instead of getting distracted by an ad for organic diapers or nursing bras. 

In the beginning, I spent a few hours writing and another few hours seeding conversations at various parenting hubs on the Internet (Motherlode, Babble, Working Mother, Facebook, Twitter, Digg).  Then I settled on one or two places to post my writing (Motherlode, Intent, Facebook) and trusted that people would find my blog at the right time in their lives.  So far this approach seems to be working; one year later, I’ve had nearly 15,000 readers for my 61 posts.  I’ve received about 90 official comments, but many more of you email me personally to let me know what you like, and don’t.

I’m not sure how long I’ll keep this up.  Maybe one day the book publishing industry will rebound and I’ll start writing in long-form again.  Maybe I’ll run out of things to say next week.  Or maybe this will continue to be the most satisfying writing I’ve ever done and I’ll never, ever want to give it up.

The strange thing about my one-year anniversary is that I finally get it.  I understand why blogging has such mass appeal.  As a blog reader, I love that citizen journalism enables me to connect with the few (or many) who share my precise state of mind at any given time.  I never have to feel strange or alone or freakish anymore; a few clicks on Google and I can see that hundreds or thousands share my sentiments or experience.  I know it sounds trite but the Internet, and the blogosphere in particular, is awesome.

As a writer, I have never felt more connected to my readers, which makes for the most satisfying writing.  I love the immediate gratification of receiving comments in the minutes and hours after each post.  I love hearing how the blog has affected you, how it helped or healed, or if I enabled a perspective shift that was ripe in your life.  The comments I receive from you often move me to tears—sometimes, reading your words is more powerful than writing mine. 

And so, a year into this experiment, I want more than anything to say Thank You.  I am so grateful for this connection that I share with all of you.  Thank you for encouraging me to write honestly and for reading my posts (even the crap ones!)  Thank you for talking openly with me about your lives as parents and inspiring new posts.  Thank you for helping me finally achieve what I had always hoped for—the ability to do what I love (writing, parenting) and to feel loved for it.   After so much searching and striving in my career and personal life, it is nice to feel good about being here, now, with all of you.   Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Sleepus Interruptus

Some things in life are constant.  For example, there is nothing that I enjoy more than a good night’s sleep.  I love every part of the process—the onset of sleepiness, bedding down under the duvet, the delicious fog of pre-REM sleep and then kicking off the covers in the morning and taking a few minutes to contemplate the world before I get up.  Before becoming a parent, I slept for 8 hours a night and often spent Saturday morning in bed, making up for any late or sleepless nights.  More than the physical rest, I loved the way the sleep changed my inner world:  a good sleep stole the heat from my anger and the despair from my worry.  When I woke up after a good night’s rest, I felt perfectly in balance—like Buddha sitting under the Bodhi tree knowing that everything was exactly as it should be.      

So you can guess how I felt after I gave birth to Ayla and realized—firsthand—that one of the great losses of parenthood is sleep. I willingly gave up my privacy, my time, my ability to chew while eating.  But sleep.  Ah.  I struggled with that one.

My coping strategy early on was to go to bed at the same time as Ayla.  Since I was exhausted from the birth and since we were co-sleeping, it was easy enough to climb into bed at 8 or 9 p.m.  I much preferred sleep in long stretches rather than short bursts, but I wound up getting about 8 hours a night, and decided that I could sacrifice quality so long as the quantity was right.

But then, as Buddha calmly predicted, impermanence set in.  I eventually found myself wide awake at 8 p.m. and realized that my body no longer needed as much rest.  I spent evenings cleaning, cooking, emailing, writing, and doing anything else I fancied.  Sleep was good, but I was beginning to miss my adult life more.  I began to invite friends over for dinner or visited with family instead of catching extra zzz‘s.  For a time, that worked too.

But the winds of change swept through my bedroom once again. After a few months of sleeping at midnight and getting only 5 or 6 (constantly interrupted) hours a night, I morphed into a different person.  More than the grogginess and irritation, I hated the sleep headaches and the mental chatter that accompanied them.  The chatter was always negative and combative, and endlessly repeated itself.  A typical dialogue sounded like this:

“You wouldn’t have this headache if you had gone to bed earlier,” my Left Brain would scold. 

“But I can’t fall asleep at 9 p.m. anymore,” my Right Brain would answer. 

“Just look at you—you’re a mess.  You’re not going to get anything done today,” Left Brain would snicker. 

“But I’ll drink coffee,” Right Brain would plead.

Left brain would persist, always wanting to have the last word. “Drink a whole pot and you’ll still feel like crap.  Good luck parenting a newborn today!”

And with those words, my right brain would cower, and back down, knowing that I would struggle to think straight and that at some point, I would lose my cool.  I would go through the day alternately wishing I had gone to bed earlier and counting down the minutes until I could go to sleep again.  And that night, Ayla would wake up 9 times instead of 5, and the next day I would feel even worse.

I reached my breaking point around the ten-month mark and called in for reinforcement. I didn’t recognize myself anymore.  I needed to sleep “properly” again. Some friends of mine called Dr. Sleep or Nurse Sleepytime who promised children would sleep through the night and parents would achieve “pre-child” sleep quality.  Others visited places like Whisper Cottage and 40 Winks.   I called my dad.  During a family trip to Florida, he night-weaned Ayla without forcing her to cry herself to sleep or to face the struggle alone.  A week later, Ayla was sleeping through the night in her own room, and I was sleeping in long stretches again, feeling invincible in the mornings and forgoing coffee altogether.  Sleep was heaven.  And I was grateful that I had been given back my wings.

For three weeks, I slept soundly, feebly clinging to the belief that it would stay like this forever.  But one night, I found myself unable to fall asleep, and later, to stay asleep.  I didn’t know what was happening or why everything had changed.  As the clock ticked on and on, I recalled a persistent memory of my father. 

As a teenager, every time I took the car and went out for the night, I would return home to the same sounds—my father’s footsteps plodding to the bathroom, the toilet flushing and then the sound of him getting into bed.  We didn’t talk about it but it was clear that my father couldn’t sleep until he knew that I had safely returned from my outing.  This pattern continued for decades, and finally, when I was in my early thirties and visiting from New York for the weekend, I said, “You can go to sleep now.  I’m not going to drink too much or drive too fast.  I care about my life as much as you do.”  And my dad’s response was to pat my shoulder, lovingly and knowingly, as if to say, when you’re a parent you’ll understand.

After Ayla began sleeping through the night and I found myself unable to sleep through the night, I finally understood. In contrast to the promises of the Dr. Sleeps of the world, I am drawn to my father’s ways, whom I lovingly call “Dr. No-Sleep.”  Now that I’m a parent, I too sleep with one eye open and when I hear or sense Ayla’s discomfort, I am instantly awake—my blood coursing with adrenaline—racing out of my room to be at Ayla’s side.  I don’t want to achieve “pre-child sleep patterns” because what I want more than sleep is to be available to my child.  And now that I no longer crave the way things were, I am pleasantly surprised that Sleepus Interuptus doesn’t bother me anymore. 

Two years ago, I would have thought that I’d be Dr. Sleep’s top client.  Today, I couldn’t be less interested in turning back the hands of time.  Last night, Ayla woke up at 1:40 a.m. shouting “Shovel! Shovel!”—and I wasn’t sure if it was a nightmare or a play-mare.  I patted her back to sleep and then went to the bathroom, flushed the toilet and lay awake for another hour, listening to the wind.  My Left Brain and Right Brain were quiet.  I wasn’t angry to be awake or desperately counting minutes of lost sleep.  Eventually, I fell asleep and when I woke up, Ayla was at my bedside scrambling to get into my bed to nurse.  And that’s when I realized that my love of sleep wasn't a constant in my life.  Now I value a good wake-up call more than a good night’s rest…

Let the Breast Milk Flow and Flow (or why I nurse my toddler)

It has been eighteen months since I painstakingly helped Ayla latch on for the first time.  In those first days and weeks, I was certain that I wouldn’t last past three months.  But I made it to three, and implored the gods to help me make it to six. Then six months passed.  And I set a new goal: Twelve months.  After that, I swore I would be done. 

But some things changed along the way.  To begin, I reached a point where I forgot I was doing it.  Pulling up my shirt and guiding Ayla to my breast became second nature.  It’s the same thing that happens when I’m driving on an open road for long stretches of time.  At some point, I realize that I’ve been driving (for minutes, or hours) without the help of my conscious mind.  My mind would have been watching the vast sky or reliving a special moment in my life and all the while another part of me had been driving carefully, changing lanes and shifting gears. I can’t recall exactly when I stopped keeping track of which side Ayla was drinking from or whether it was time to switch from the Cradle Hold to the Football Hold.  But when I could let go of the mechanics of nursing, it became a deeply meditative interlude in my day.  And in those moments, I felt more spiritual than I have while sitting in meditation or praying or practicing yoga under the stars.

Another change was gradual disappearance of my enormous (bourgeois) guilt about nursing.  I had read enough progressive parenting books to know that there wasn’t a bottle in the world that could compare to my breast milk.  Ounce for ounce, my milk outpaced formula in every category.  But while knowledge can liberate us, it can also erect tall fences around us.  And in those early painful months, I felt confined by my decision to breastfeed.  On the one hand, it was convenient not to have get out of bed in the middle of the night or rush home from the park to make a bottle.  But once you start nursing, you can’t stop.  I wanted to so desperately not to be needed all the time.  I wished for a few days off now and again, to gain some perspective before returning to the job.  

But once Ayla was eating solid food, need, so to speak, dried up.  And so, nursing became a choice that we each had to make.  At some point after the six-month mark, we both enthusiastically said, “Yes!” to nursing.  This time around, I found many and varied reasons to want to nurse.  Some days, when I felt enveloped by darkness, I knew that nursing would help me see light again.  Nothing grounds me more than feeling Ayla’s tiny body in my arms and listening to the soft puffs of her breath.  No matter what storms are passing through my life, I am reminded that they will pass when I’m nursing Ayla.

Similarly, I noticed Ayla seeking out my bosom when she wanted to reconnect or play with me (or my nipples), rather than when she was thirsty.  Nursing is a means for us to reacquaint ourselves if I’ve been out for the day or away on a trip.  I’ve grown to love all the gestures and movements that make up our breastfeeding body language.  I can tell when Ayla wants to nurse by the way in which she reaches out to me.  We have little rituals about how we curl up in each other’s limbs—how her head rests on my upper arm and how her toes seek out the warm crevice behind my knees.  We both heave a silent sigh once the milk starts to flow.

What I like most about breastfeeding my toddler is that the dynamic has shifted.  My breasts are no longer the great providers and cosmic soothers that they were in the early days.  Nowadays, breastfeeding feels more like an exchange amongst equals—it is something we both choose day after day, because it enables us to share and reaffirm our love for each other.  

Eighteen months ago, I thought breast milk was all about providing nutrition and immunity to my child.  But I've since learned that "milk" is another a four-letter word for love. 

Music for New Mamas

I just wrote a piece for one of my favorite magazines, Mothering. Feel free to click on the link to read my piece (http://mothering.com/pregnancy-birth/music-for-new-mamas) or to browse other areas of this terrific resource for progressive parents. 

By Taz Tagore
Web Exclusive - September 1, 2009

Music, like birth, is an enigma. Neuroscientists can’t pin down a specific part of the brain that is dedicated to music. Music moves like an apparition through our brain, lighting up neural circuits here, disappearing, then reappearing elsewhere to work its magic. Similarly, we can’t seem to come up with a scientific way to predict how a birth will unfold. Part of the miracle of childbirth is that it is always a surprise. Like childbirth, music’s impact is far-reaching. Music touches our physical bodies, stirs our emotions, and awakens our spirits. Birth and music are deeply connected by their ability to transform us long after their tunes have been played.

I’ve been a student of music for most of my life, and when I found out I was pregnant, one of the first things I did was to create a playlist for my iPod. It was the only way I could express the enormous joy, fear, and anticipation I felt. Words fell short, but music offered a means to express the complex brew of emotions stirring within. The songs I chose were jubilant (“To Zion,” by Lauryn Hill), contemplative (“Swirling Beyond Belief,” by Dean Evenson), and profound (“Landslide,” as performed by Fleetwood Mac).

About midway through the pregnancy, I began working on my labor playlist, as I was sure that music would play an important role in Ayla’s home birth. I worked at it for months, listening to my old favorites as well as following others’ recommendations into undiscovered musical territory, and eventually settled on a soundscape befitting an experience as profound as childbirth. I chose otherworldly instruments—singing bowls, harmonium, flutes—and female singers with ethereal voices: Snatam Kaur, Morgan Doctor, Hayley Westenra. During labor, each song on the playlist helped me release my grasp on the outside world so I could listen to my body and tune in to my daughter’s spirit. Music led me within, to the place where I had the strength and courage to birth my daughter, and myself as a new mother. (See sidebar: “Taz’s Labor Playlist.”)

Scientific research is divided on the topic of music and childbirth. The introduction of music into childbirth education is believed to prepare mothers and fathers for childbirth, but so far the effects are considered not quantitative but qualitative—that is, unmeasurable. (See “References” for studies by Caryl Ann Browning and M. E. Clark et al.) Similarly, researchers who have studied the use of music during childbirth overwhelmingly agree that music offers effective relief of pain and stress, but the devices used to record changes in a woman’s heart rate, blood pressure, and other vital signs have produced statistically insignificant data. Do we need better science and more precise measurement tools? Or are we to conclude that music, like childbirth, can’t be precisely measured by science?

As a childbirth educator, I’ve coached women before, during, and after childbirth. I have a wealth of anecdotal evidence demonstrating that music can have a powerful and positive effect on childbirth. One of my clients, Sarah, who had chosen to birth in a hospital but wanted a natural childbirth, had, on the advice of her doula, packed in her hospital bag an iPod filled with calming music. She was “overdue” and was therefore advised to stay at the hospital and receive prostaglandin treatments to ripen her cervix. During the first two treatments, she nervously chatted on the phone with friends, paced the hospital corridors, and took short walks with her husband. Feeling frustrated that the drugs weren’t working, she turned to her iPod for help. After Sarah had listened to violin concertos for several hours, she spontaneously dilated to four centimeters. While the prostaglandins certainly played a role in advancing labor, Sarah felt that they worked better when she was more relaxed and psychologically open to going into labor. In this regard, music was as important to Sarah as the drugs.

Another of my clients, Willa, explained that listening to the guttural chanting of Tibetan monks during childbirth gave her permission to make her own primal sounds. Nancy, who gave birth last month, found that music helped her to quickly establish a rhythm for managing each surge or contraction. Even after a distracting cab ride, hearing music helped Nancy reestablish her laboring rhythm in the new environment of a hospital labor room.

Most childbirth practitioners have had similar experiences with their clients. Music can calm a woman’s nerves during an uneasy pregnancy. It can help soothe her fears when the first contractions hit. It can coax her into labor at moments when drugs and words fail. Even during the transition phase, when the outside world has largely dissolved and she is exclusively focused on birthing, music can slip through the cracks in her consciousness and quietly allay her deepest fears.

My own experience with laboring women echoes the findings of a small body of research that I find fascinating: the use of music during the postpartum phase. I, too, have discovered countless ways in which music can help ease the transition to motherhood. In my own life, music helped me manage physical pain, calm my child and myself, and establish my own rhythm of parenting.

There were several scenarios in which music helped me cross a difficult threshold. The first occurred in the first weeks of my daughter’s life. There were countless moments when she was unsoothable: Diaper changes, nursing, bouncing or walking in a sling—nothing offered comfort. Each time one of my calming techniques failed, I grew more impatient. Finally, in tears, I put aside my checklist of baby-soothing techniques. I breathed deeply, then spontaneously began to sing. I chanted “Om.” I sang “Kum Ba Yah.” I hummed Vivaldi’s Spring concerto. I felt myself relax. And just as in the in-flight oxygen-mask scenario—first you put on your own mask, then you put a mask on your child—I sang myself into a state of calm in which I was capable of soothing my newborn.

Another personal experience with music therapy unfolded as I suffered through a prolonged period of blocked milk ducts. Listening to music while nursing helped me transcend the physical pain and focus instead on the life-giving exchange taking place. When I nursed without music, I found myself oscillating between crying from the pain and worrying that I couldn’t breastfeed. Music helped me rise above my pain and my fears to a place where I could envision my ducts slowly opening. For the first 12 weeks of Ayla’s life, I used one hand to cup her head in nursing position and the other to hold the remote control for the stereo. When the music flowed, so did my milk.

A third experiment began once Ayla had begun to settle as a baby and I had emerged from the bliss bubble of new motherhood. The calls of the outside world were urgent—friends wanting to catch up, unanswered e-mails, grant proposals waiting to be written—and distracted me from mothering Ayla. On some days, instead of mothering Ayla, I felt as if I were merely managing her with the aid of such devices as her bouncy chair. When I felt myself drift away from her, music helped bring me back. African folk songs, Celtic lullabies, and the gentle sounds of Zen flutes and waterfalls became the soundtrack to our playtime. Music helped me tune in to my daughter rather than being distracted by the noise of everyday life.

Oliver Sacks has published scientific papers and popular articles and books about music and the brain. In his book Musicophilia, he writes of music’s capacity to unlock our creativity and intuition. Although I aspire to parent intuitively, as a thinking person, I’m susceptible to the seductive “answers” offered by parenting books. Here again, I’ve found that music is an important enabler. When Ayla’s behavior baffles me and I’m not sure what to do, music helps set the tone for intuitive exploration. With a soothing tune playing in the background, I try this, then that, without succumbing to anger or frustration. Eventually, I do something that works. My daughter ceases to make dissonant sounds. She laughs. My heart sings with joy. And in this way, we make music together.

TAZ’S LABOR PLAYLIST
Snatam Kaur: “Ek Ong Kaar,” from Shanti
Morgan Doctor: “Drolma-La,” from Is This Home
Dean Evenson: “Swirling Beyond Belief,” from Healing Waters
Krishna Das: “Om Namah Shivaya,” from Heart Full of Soul
Caitlin: “Om Mani Padme Hum,” from Sacred Mantras
Ali Farka Touré & Toumani Diabaté: In the Heart of the Moon
Various Artists: Dream Therapy
SoundScapes: River

TAZ’S BREASTFEEDING PLAYLIST
Michael Maxwell: The Elegance of Pachelbel
Kikujiro: Original Soundtrack (Various Artists)
Putumayo Presents: French Café
Ry Cooder & V. M. Bhatt: A Meeting by the River
Everything But the Girl: Amplified Heart
Ismael Lo: Iso

TAZ’S POSTPARTUM PLAYLIST
Putumayo Presents: Dreamland: World Lullabies & Soothing Songs
Louis Armstrong: The Best of the Decca Years
Les Nubians: Princesses Nubiennes
Dean Evenson: Healing Waters
Van Morrison: Days Like This
Gotan Project: La Revancha del Tango

REFERENCES
    Caryl Ann Browning, BEd, BMusTh, MTA, CD (DONA), “Using Music During Childbirth,” Birth 27, no. 4 (December 2000): 272–276.
    M. E. Clark, R. R. McCorkle, and S. B. Williams, “Music Therapy-assisted Labor and Delivery,” Journal of Music Therapy 18, no. 2 (Summer 1981): 88–100.
    Lynn Durham, RN, and Mike Collins, EHD, “The Effect of Music as a Conditioning Aid in Prepared Childbirth Education,” Journal of Obstetric, Gynecologic & Neonatal Nursing 15, no. 3 (May 1986): 203–274.
    Sharon L. Olson, RN, PhD, “Bedside Musical Care: Applications in Pregnancy, Childbirth, and Neonatal Care,” Journal of Obstetric, Gynecologic & Neonatal Nursing 27, no. 5 (September 1998): 569–575.
    Elizabeth A. Geden, PhD, RN et al., “Effects of Music and Imagery on Physiologic and Self-Report of Analogued Labor Pain,” Nursing Research 38, no. 1 (January–February 1989): 37–41.
    Oliver Sacks, Musicophilia (New York: Vintage, 2008).

Taz Tagore is a mother to Ayla (17 months); the founder of the Reciprocity Foundation, an award-winning nonprofit; and author of a music and mothering blog, “Labor of Love”.

An Eye for an Eye...

Before giving birth to Ayla, I was well aware of some of the unpleasant aspects of parenthood—the explosive poops, the pre-dawn cries for milk, the tantrums and the impossibility of adult conversation in fragments longer than 90 seconds.  But the violence—nobody mentioned that.

I’m not talking about being beaten to a pulp with a baseball bat.  But violence is a spectrum.  Yes, Ayla’s “violence” towards myself and others is mild in comparison to a stabbing.  But even still, I was taken aback when my child began exploring her physical strength and the idea of cause-and-effect by hitting, biting and pinching.  I know parents who have been punched by their child; a mom friend of mine had to endure months of painful hair-pulling before that phase finally passed.

The truth is most of us are unfamiliar with physical aggressiveness before having children.  The closest I’ve come to violence in recent decades is an uncomfortable shove on the subway during my morning commute.   Thankfully, I’ve never been mugged and or been in a physically abusive relationship.

That’s why I found myself so taken aback when Ayla looked me in the eye and bit down on my thumb as hard as she could.  I remember tears springing to my eyes; I recall feeling emotionally wounded too, as though I had been wronged.