Labor of Love

The Octomom, the Media & my Mind

In less than a fortnight since I wrote my last post, the tide of media and public opinion towards the Octomom—Nadya Sulemon—has turned.  I spent part of this afternoon at the hairdresser and had a chance to read through a short stack of tabloids. To my great amazement, I no longer recognized evil Nadya—the witch-mom I had come to know via television and the Internet.   Instead, I came face-to-face with a new and improved Octomom who bought diapers at Target and frolicked in the yard with her children.

At first, waves of criticism crashed into Nadya, brusquely exposing her shortcomings.  She was portrayed as deranged and suspicious.   Now her media image softly ripples out over the airwaves.  We see her lovingly welcoming two of her newborns home, accepting the help of volunteer caregivers and leading circle time with her children.

What happened?  The media invested so much energy in ensuring that we demonized Nadya, and then turned 180 degrees, and invited us to love her.  But instead of feeling frustrated, today I was reminded that the media, like the mind itself, is fickle.  One day, it craves something, often desperately, and the next day, it wants nothing to do with it.  And just like the media, our minds are engaged in a constant monologue, issuing breaking news at every turn.  Our mind fights to stay “on,” in order to maintain control.  If we dare seek out silence, in order to better listen to our hearts, we are tempted to do something--anything--to keep our minds occupied.

The fickleness of the mind, of my mind, hit home when I attempted to get out of bed this morning and found that my eyes wouldn’t open and my body wouldn’t move.  My daughter is learning to sleep independently, in her own room, and on some nights she’s up every hour, and on others she nearly sleeps through the night.  When she sleeps well (which means that I sleep well), I think of her as “good.”  But when I’ve got to drag myself into another room six times a night, I find myself labeling the night, and by extension, my daughter, as “bad.”  Even though I know (in my heart) that my daughter is a beautiful soul (a being that transcends mere “good” and “bad”), there are moments when I allow my mind to label her behavior.  And trusting my mind is dangerous business—because the needle flickers back and forth all day long and won't decide on one extreme or the other.

On days like today, I wish for a lobotomy, or at least a brief respite from my mental chatter.  What would it be like if I woke up everyday and didn’t judge, or begrudge, anything.  What if I refused to be mad or glad about the weather, or how much I slept the night before, or the state of disorganization in the house?  What if I welcomed everyday with the same open arms, knowing that it will bring a little bit of every flavor of experience and emotion? 

Will I ever get there?  Can someone give me a map?  Because most days, I lose my way sometime after breakfast, when most of Ayla’s scrambled tofu ends up on the floor and my coffee gets cold while I scrub it clean, mumbling under my breath that she really should learn how to use a spoon.

What do you do to maintain a non-judgmental perspective on your life as a parent?  Do you have stories to share on this topic?

A Second Defense of Nadya Sulemon, Mother of Octuplets

In my first post about the octomom, I received almost nothing but criticism.  People commented on my blog and also sent personal emails letting me know that they disagreed with me and did so fiercely.  In the days since that post, even more tidbits about Nadya Sulemon have been released, and the media is  showing the most unflatteringly edited clips.  But instead of jumping on the bandwagon, I’m happily standing alone.  I'm doing to defend Nadya Sulemon a second time.

Here's what I've got to offer this time around. 

First, do you really believe that the media is portraying a fair and balanced opinion of Nadya?  Have you ever worked in a newsroom or for a tabloid?  Do you know how much manipulation is at play in a headline story?  Would any of us survive a media frenzy of the scale mounted against Nadya?

Second, what good is our universal condemnation of this woman?  Can it help her? Or her children? Can it take away the doctor’s decision to implant so many embryos?  Will it make the children's lives any better? Will Nadya mental health improve after watching herself be lambasted on paper, television and on the Internet?

Third, if her children are taken away, which seems to be one “solution” bandied about in chat rooms, would her children really be better off?  Have you heard about the injustice, sexual abuse and plain negligence that can take place in a group home or foster household?  Will anyone be able to take all 8 children and if they are split up, would that make for a better life for the Octuplets?

What I propose is a different response to this mother’s predicament.  Instead of name-calling and indignation, how about offering Nadya Sulemon a few things that might actually help her, and her 14 children? 

For example, what if her neighbors were to set up a parenting circle in which local families donate time, advice or hand-me-downs to her children? 

Or how about creating an online forum in which she can ask experts and counselors for non-judgmental advice to help her tackle the challenges of single parenthood to multiples?

For those who are spiritually inclined, how about prayer circles in which blessings are offered to mother and children?

For still others who believe she needs therapy, how about fundraising to pay for counseling sessions or volunteering to help her?

When the world held their breath after the birth of the Dionne quintuplets, wondering if they'd survive, the end result was destructive and humiliating for the children.  They were separated from their family and  turned into a tourist attraction.  As we consume negative story after story about Nadya Sulemon and her octuplets, we are in danger of repeating a tragic hisstory that haunted the Dionne sisters for their entire lives.

Can we all stop throwing stones at Nadya Sulemon and offer sage advice, nonjudgmental support and generous prayers instead?   Or if you want to throw a stone, how about aiming the next one at me?

In Defense of Nadya Sulemon: Mother of Octuplets

It’s almost like witnessing a stoning in Afghanistan.  When news hit that a single mother was giving birth to Octuplets, the first rocks were tossed.  Then, with each subsequent revelation about Nadya’s life, the stones came fast and furious.  

Some are disgraced with the fact that she’s not married.  Others don’t like the fact that she kept all eight children, rather than selectively terminating some of the fetuses.  Others are angry that she’s not working.  Still others blame all of this on the doctor who implanted too many embryos when she only wanted one more child (now she has fourteen). While I don’t know all the details of her situation, I take the greatest offense to the claim that her desire to love and nurture children is an obsessive compulsive disorder.  That stone was simply too brutal to go unchallenged.

When a mother adopts a houseful of orphaned children from a war zone, she’s called a hero.  Foster parents of more than ten kids are usually awarded a community citation for selflessness.  And the mother of the Brady Bunch was considered normal for loving and raising her large brood. So why is Nadya Sulemon considered crazy for wanting to mother seven children?  What would be a more noble goal for a modern woman: To make heaps of money? To work long hours in the corporate sector? Why is extreme motherhood condemned while extreme careers are not?

There is another aspect of the Nadya Sulemon case that irks me—that Nadya should have had a job, or more money, in order to justify having another child.  But I wonder, how many of us were absolutely certain that we could afford the lifetime expenses of our children when we conceived? Were we absolutely certain that we had enough money to pay for every single expense to come? What if our child required emergency medical care?  Or something else occurred that we didn’t plan for?  Were we irresponsible for having children with slim bank accounts but a bounty of love in our hearts?

Underneath all of the Nadya Sulemon fury is something much deeper than a dislike of this woman’s marital status, mental state or earning power.  To me, our collective response to her reflects a deep distrust of life.  In condemning Nadya, we’re also condemning the wisdom of the universe.  Isn’t it true that we’re never given obstacles that we won’t eventually overcome?  Isn’t life benevolent enough to provide for our children—even when we haven’t planned for all of the costs of parenthood?  Don't strange and unexpected things happen for good reason--even if those reasons are not illuminated for some time?

Clearly Nadya Sulemon took a risk when she sought to have a seventh child and ended up with octuplets.  But isn’t it interesting how this “accident” will enable her to support her children? That is, with a few well-timed interviews on ABC or Oprah, her earning power in one year will probably eclipse yours or mine in a decade!

Nadya’s life path is unusual.  Perhaps she took more risks than you or I might.  And maybe she is a little "different" from mainstream society.  But I can’t condemn a woman for wanting to love and nurture children.  To me, that’s not a disorder.  It’s a noble ambition—one that should invite respect, rather than condemnation.

Michelle Obama: Mother of all Mamas?

On the day of President Obama’s inauguration, when everyone in the world is eagerly anticipating stirring speeches and sparkly dresses, I can’t stop thinking about the First children—Malia and Sasha Obama. 

Here’s what I’m thinking: How can these two beautiful girls have a chance at being happy and balanced adults given their prominent role in American history?  After all, they’re the offspring of America’s first black president, and it’s a big load to shoulder when you’re 8 and 10 years old.

I’ve been racking my brains for the past week trying to figure out what these children need most in the coming years, and the only answer I can stand behind is this: Their mother. 

This conclusion goes against every grain in my feminist body.  I’ve been taught to be a strong woman. An independent woman.  I’ve internalized the notion that I can and should aspire to a successful career.  I believe that women can be great and powerful leaders.  And still, what I want Michelle Obama to accomplish in the next four years is to be a great mother to Malia and Sasha.

Should I bite my tongue and join the chorus of women who say that Michelle Obama can be as transformative and effective in the White House as her husband? Should I support her right to be anything she chooses—from doting mother to the pioneer of policy reforms?

But the truth is that what I want Michelle Obama to do in the White House is to be First Mother rather than First Lady.  I want her to show the world that American women don’t always choose work over family.  I want her to remind us that being present for our children when they come home from school really counts.  I want her to urge Malia and Sasha not to ride on the coattails of their family’s success, but to struggle to find their own unique role in the world.

And most of all, I want her to explain that although their father was elected President, we still have to work towards the day when a woman holds that same title.

In short, I want Michelle Obama to be a great parent.  Because we already know that she was a great lawyer and could achieve success in the working world again.  But for once, I want to see a woman in the White House who can do just about anything, and still chooses to be a mother.

The Sexiest Man Alive: A Good Father

Last fall, on a flight from New York City to Toronto, I met a great father.   It was a short flight—50 minutes—but in under an hour, this man nearly stole my heart. 

Everything leading up to the flight was a bit ominous.  Ayla’s dad was running late enough that we were in danger of missing the flight, the taxi was parked on a blind corner and required 10 minutes of searching to detect, and traffic out of the city was murderous.  I was sure that we were going to miss the last flight of the evening and would have to try again tomorrow.  But on that day, the sky gods were merciful—the flight was delayed and we arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare.  The only bad news was that the plane was full so we wouldn’t have an empty seat beside us.

In the waiting lounge, I scanned the faces of the other passengers wondering who would be our seat-mate. Was it the fellow barking orders into the Bluetooth device?  The teenage girl flipping through a magazine and snapping her chewing gum?  We boarded the flight cautiously, hoping for a genteel companion.

When a man dressed in black with a Blackberry in his hand sat down beside us, I shuddered.  Was he an uptight, workaholic who’d be irritated by Ayla’s cacophony of coos, laughs and whines?  But as soon as he sat down, he introduced himself to both of us and then proceeded to amuse Ayla with his funny faces and game of peek-a-boo.  Ten minutes into the flight, Ayla was madly giggling with him and showed no signs of napping.  Fifteen minutes later, she was bouncing up and down on my lap and snorting every time he boinked her with her teddy rattle.  A few minutes later, Ayla wanted milk so our seat-mate put on his iPod and turned away to give us some privacy.  When she was satiated, he opened my water bottle and unwrapped my snack. Later in the flight, when Ayla grew restless, he voluntarily occupied the flight attendant’s seat at the front of the plane to give her more play space (he vowed to stay away until the plane landed or he was ordered back to his seat).

When we chatted briefly about parenthood, he shared profound reflections on what it meant to be a father, what he might do better in the future, and how much he loves children. 

It’s hard to strike a good balance between masculinity and femininity; tender men are so often dismissed as “effeminate” and steadfast women are deemed too “rigid.”  For the first time, I met a man whose strength was perfectly balanced with softness—a man who was credible as a business consultant and yet equally comfortable playing silly games with children.  I could picture him keeping a cool head in the workplace and still radiating warmth to his colleagues and clients.  His handshake was brisk and firm, but I could also imagine him lovingly caressing his wife and child. 

After we landed, he collected all of Ayla’s toys from the floor of the aircraft, re-packed our backpack, helped Ayla into her baby carrier and fetched our coats from the overhead compartment.  As we waved goodbye, I realized that he and Brad Pitt had something in common.  They might have been born good-looking, but fatherhood turned both men into the Sexiest Men Alive.  Because there is no greater turn-on than a man who knows how to freely love, and be loved, by a child.

One Love

Parenthood is one big, long experiment.  And when it comes to getting our kids to sleep, we’ll try anything.  Ayla has fallen asleep to the sounds of a vacuum cleaner, hair dryer, dishwasher, humidifier and, in a pinch, a photocopier. Although I tried Tracy Chapman and world lullabies, Ayla sleeps best when household or office machinery play a role.

So you could imagine my envy when my friend Sonja Rapp told me what puts her daughter to sleep—the song, “One,” by none other than the amazing Irish band, U2.  She plays it loud, once or twice in a row, and miraculously, Helena nods off with a smile on her face.

The song’s meaning has sparked controversy.  Music fans have claimed that it is about the re-unification of Germany.  If it is, Sonja, who hails from Germany, may have chosen the right song for her daughter’s naptime.  But others have called it an anti-war song, a love ballad, and a song about globalization. 

In 1993, in an interview with the Los Angeles Times, Bono explained, "It is a song about coming together, but it's not the old hippie idea of “Let's all live together.” It's saying, We are one, but we're not the same.  It's not saying we even want to get along, but that we have to get along together in this world if it is to survive. It's a reminder that we have no choice."

While the song’s meaning resonates deeply with Bono and his humanitarian work, and all the problems we’re facing as a global community today, Bono has been more secretive about the origins of the song.  Here’s what I heard from a mommy and devoted U2 fan:

The song One was inspired by the birth of Bono’s first son, Jordan Hewson, in 1989.  Bono, like any parent, was literally blown away by his son’s birth.  The concept of one-ness became clearer, and more urgent, as he watched his wife Alison nurse and soothe their child.

I haven’t had the chance to personally ask Bono to validate the Mommy Theory of One, but doesn’t it make sense that one of the greatest songs ever written—it was named the 36th greatest song of all time Rolling Stone magazine—was inspired by childbirth and motherhood? 

Listen carefully.   The song’s lyrics are simple but profound.  The music moves in slow cycles, with lots of repetition.  Bono’s voice grabs a hold of and tugs on your heart strings.  Sometimes it makes me want to hug someone.  Sometimes it makes me want to cry.  But in the final bars of the song, I’m left feeling only One thing: Love.  Sound familiar?  You must be a mother too.

Two Poops for the New Prez

If yesterday’s election taught me anything about my daughter, it was that American politics has a stimulating effect on her bowels.  Let me explain.  We attended an election party on Tuesday night but, just after the Democrats claimed Ohio, Ayla signaled her readiness for bed.  As much I want her to care about the political process, I could tell that she’d had enough of Anderson Cooper's mug and crowd scenes at Grants Park.

So we woke up to the news that America had elected Barack Obama—the first black President of the United States.  It was right there in my New York Times daily digest: “Obama elected President as racial barrier falls.”  In celebration, I stripped off Ayla’s diaper (she loves being diaper-free) and I swung her around in circles chanting “Yes we did!”  I finally put her down, smiling and cooing, to turn on the television.   Watching the scenes from Obama’s acceptance speech was stirring—I cried and then turned to check on Ayla—and noticed that a different part of her had been stirred up—her bowels!  There she was, sitting gloriously in a pile of her poop, touching the Playdoh-like substance that had magically appeared for her touching pleasure. 

Celebrity Baby Playlist: What about "Penny Lover"?

I have to admit that I was a bit skeptical about Nicole Richie and Joel Madden transforming themselves into responsible parents after an accidental pregnancy. They were young, rich celebrities without a whiff of stability or a hint of visible selflessness. But the recent issue of People magazine has me convinced that it’s possible for a baby to change almost anyone. 

Nicole is breastfeeding (yes, breastfeeding!), pureeing her own baby food and baby Harlow’s schedule is the clock by which their household ticks. Joel admitted that Harlow is the “best thing that has ever happened to me,” and looks forward to composing music with his daughter when she is old enough to play an instrument. And they started a children’s foundation to help underprivileged parents buy baby supplies and support children’s charities. I’m not in the habit of getting overly sentimental about People magazine cover stories but I was genuinely touched.