Labor of Love

(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...

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.

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.

Saying "Yes" to the Recession

I was born in Canada—the land of snow.  And though I grew up skiing, playing and snowshoeing in piles of it, it has taken decades for me to say “yes” to wintertime.  When the first northerly winds blow into town each fall, inspiring me to cook stews and sleep later, I resist.  

“No!” I shout out to the heavens.  “I don’t want to slow down. I don’t want to be cold.  I don’t want to spend more time inside.”

But we all know that there is a season for everything.  The earth needs time to lay fallow—to gather strength for the burst of life in spring.  And since the earth cannot resist orbiting around the sun, winter is inevitable.  If we say “no” to winter, we will only make it harder on ourselves.  

This past year, I tried to apply that logic to recessionary times—I wanted to frame the downturn as an economic “recess,” or timeout.  I wondered if we collectively needed time to step back from our careers, investment portfolios and consumption to assess what we really value and how much we really need to live happily.  

As a child, I have only fond memories of recessionary times.  In the early eighties, our family was forced to downsize our lifestyle—we lost much of our income so  we moved to a smaller house and radically cut our spending.  But from a child’s perspective, the recession meant my father worked fewer hours and spent more time at home.  What a gift! It also was a time when we played creatively because we didn’t have piles of new toys.  We spent less time talking about money or buying goods at the mall and focused on play, spirituality and gardening.  All in all, I enjoyed our family’s “recess” from the hustle and bustle of new immigrant life.

So when our economy began its downslide last April, and I lost about 50% of my income and investments, I teetered on the precipice of despair.  I wanted to shout, “no.”  I wanted to find a way to get more work and have more money.  But gazing upon my daughter, I decided to say “yes” to the recession. 

I’ve taken a mental break from a handful of projects. I spend less time shopping and more time sharing what I’ve got.  I forego restaurant meals for tea-dates at friends’ homes.   Most important of all, hours I might have spent working are now dedicated to playing with my daughter.  Because more than anything else, I want my daughter to remember the recession of 2008/9, as one of the best times in our lives.

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 Rise of the "Married Single Parent”

The 2005 supplement to the US Census reported that for the first time in modern history, households headed by singles now outnumber married couples.  What's more, almost a third of American children are being raised in unmarried homes.  In practical terms, single parenthood is no longer sheathed in secrecy.  That means that single parents—either by choice, divorce or widowhood—can actively seek out the help and support that they need to successfully parent their children.

But that’s old news. 

So what is the new news? A trend I call, “Married Single Parents” or MSP’s.  This is when one parent works obscene hours—either by choice, habit or because American workplace demands are spiraling out of control—and the other parent raises the child/ren single-handedly.   The working spouse might catch a few minutes with the child here and there, but it doesn’t add up to much real shared parenting.

What worries me about this trend is that unlike single parents—who, in the best case scenarios, rely on a network of extended family and friends to help them raise their children—Married Single Parents don’t feel the same license to ask for help.  After all, they’re married.  They might have a breadwinner in the household.  Someone else to worry about mortgage payments and health insurance.  They usually live in a house, and have a car.  They have all the trappings of the perfect American family.  Even so, they’re worth worrying about. 

Why? Because it’s harder to express your frustration when you seem to have it all.  Compared to a single parent, Married Single Parents feel that they can’t complain.  They’re also burdened by expectation. They’re supposed to be able to handle child-rearing amongst them, so they’re less likely to ask for support. 

There might also be other issues.  Resentment towards the workaholic spouse.  Feeling isolated.  Under-appreciated. I’ve also heard many Married Single Parents express untold technology rage—moments when they’ve wanted to detonate their spouse’s laptop or Blackberry, or even better, the whole home office.

Mostly I worry about Married Single Parents because it’s scary to finally have everything you thought you wanted and still feel lonely and overwhelmed.

What to do? I think we need to start a dialogue about finding inventive ways to raise our children in community.  Because it’s neither healthy nor fair for one person to raise a child—under any circumstances.

[Below you'll find the link to a song that reminds me of the impossible but essential dance of coupling and human love...]

And Love You

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.