Labor of Love

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…

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.

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. 

Fear & Love

A couple of weeks ago, a small tragedy hit our community.  An acquaintance of mine lost her son; baby Nolan choked to death on a piece of apple at the zoo.  As I read her short note detailing his death, it slowly dawned on me that my father was taking Ayla to the zoo that day and that in Ayla’s bag, I had packed apple slices.  I know I should have been racked with grief for my friend’s loss, but instead I grabbed the phone trying to decide whether to tell my father to come home, and whether to insist that he toss the apples out of the car window.

Fear is a strange emotion, and one of our most common.  We literally live in fear all the time.  Before we cross the road, take a bite of food, or step out of the tub, our brains are assessing the risk of death and deciding whether we ought to stop in our tracks or forge ahead.  And even if you weren’t very afraid as an adult, having a child supplies new intimacy with fear.  I used to jaywalk in New York City, unafraid of speeding taxis and SUVs with New Jersey plates.  They’ll stop in time, I’d assure myself.  And they did, every day, for six years.   But now that I have a child, I don’t jaywalk.  When I’m in New York City, I hold Ayla to my chest while crossing the street.  Even at small intersections, I’m waving to cars and taxis to slow down, so that Ayla and I can safely pass. 

As it turned out, I did call my father that morning.  And although I didn’t insist that he bring Ayla home, I did forbid him from feeding her apples…ever.  But it was another moment in which to reflect on the questions:  “How much fear is enough?”  and “Should I be more or less afraid for my child’s life?”

Bye-Bye Placenta

Last week, I opened my freezer to look for a long-lost salmon filet and found myself nose-to-nose with my daughter’s frozen placenta.  It had been waiting patiently for over a year for someone (anyone!) to do something (anything!) to it.  Instead of trying to forget I’d seen it, this time I pulled it out and sighed.  It was the day before Mother’s Day.  It would be a great time to “deal” with the placenta. I groaned and then left it on the counter to thaw.

I had been contemplating the question of what to do with the placenta—later renamed, that god-damned placenta!—since conception.  I always liked the idea of planting a tree with it.  But where? Our family doesn’t own any land where Ayla could watch it grow.  Public parks are governed by strict rules for tree cultivation.  In a moment of desperation, I hatched a plan to illegally plant a tree (and placenta) in the middle of the night.  I eventually came to my senses and let go of that plan.

Although I am a tree lover, a few years ago I switched from being a “forest-person” to an “ocean-person.”  I can’t pinpoint exactly when or where it happened, but I gradually stopped craving long hikes in the woods and started salivating over the prospect of taking long walks on the beach.  Mother Ocean had cast a spell over me and now I felt the urge to walk along her soft edges and feel her water wash over me.   I finally decided that I would find a way to return the placenta to a body of water.  But since Mother’s Day was less then 24 hours away and since I live nowhere near an ocean, I settled on Lake Ontario.  

Having decided on a final resting place was only half the battle.  I couldn’t dig a hole in the lake or just toss it in.  I vaguely remembered a doula telling me that you could dehydrate a placenta in the oven and then grind it up into a fine powder. But recipes for dehydrating a placenta were hard to come by.  So I impulsively greased a pan and preheated the oven to 450 degrees.  A few minutes after the placenta was placed inside, the entire house smelled of cooked blood.  For a family of vegetarians, it is a strange thing to smell blood—especially your own blood—for hours on end.  During those hours, I was alternately attracted to the oven and repulsed by it.  My placenta was a fighter—it took almost seven hours to cook it to a crispy finish.

I’d like to spare you the details of the grinding phase except to say that halfway through it I realized that I should have left it in the oven overnight. Instead of placenta ashes, I ended up with liver-colored soup. As I poured the mixture into a yogurt container (my makeshift urn), I wondered if I was committing some kind of bio-hazardous crime.

I decided that I should focus on my intention, rather than the outcome of this strange exercise.  Bidding farewell to my placenta was a means to say "Thank You" to the Universe.  To this day, my entire body tingles when I think about the miracle of conception, and childbirth. And this strange organ I was about to dispose of had made it all possible.

When I finally bid my placenta farewell, it was not the magical moment I hoped it would be.  Instead of sprinkling crimson fairy dust upon Mama Ocean, chunks of placenta stew plopped into Lake Ontario.  The wind nearly blew me over as I recited a prayer.  Even though I tried to find stillness, I was constantly looking over my shoulder for cops or marine biologists. I finally had to accept that not every ritual or ceremony turns out the way we imagine it.

After packing up the stroller, I scooped Ayla into my arms and held her close.  Together we stared out at the white-capped waves, lost in thought.  As we walked away, Ayla waved furiously towards the lake. “Bah-bah,” she shouted.  I joined in, “Bye-bye, placenta.” 

Ayla, as always, had the last word.  “Bah.”  And so my placenta returned to Mother Earth. 

“Back to the Newborn”: My Experience with Time Travel

I’ve always fancied time travel. When I was younger, I wanted to travel into the future. I dreamed that life at 30 would be sophisticated; I would dab Coco Chanel on my wrists before stepping out of my New York City apartment for a glass of champagne with friends. Now I long to travel into the past—to revisit brief pockets of time when my life was insatiably good. If I had a time machine, I would set the clock back to my summer writing retreats or a handful of episodes in my life defined by a particularly poignant friendship or love affair.

Funny enough, I had a chance to travel back in time last week when my daughter’s molars emerged from her gums. I woke up one Saturday morning to find the hands of the clock had turned counter-clockwise—my toddler was in so much pain that she behaved like a newborn. It is a terrible thing to see a child, especially your child, suffer. But there was a silver lining—at least from my perspective. I was able to dive back into my life as a new parent, a second time.

While Ayla whimpered and writhed in pain, I was—for the first time in months—able to hold her close to me, rub her back, hum soft lullabies into her ear. Then, after taking a long morning nap, Ayla walked right over to our Ergo baby carrier and tugged at it’s straps. My heart skipped a beat. “You want mama to put you in the carrier?” I asked, barely able to conceal my excitement. She tugged the straps again. I couldn’t get the carrier on fast enough. I could feel my eyes well up with tears as I lifted her up and placed her against my chest. Instead of squirming around in typical toddler fashion, she put her head against my chest and actually hugged me. My heart melted.

I have persistent memories of the hardest moments of newborn parenting—the sleepless nights, the un-diagnosable tears, the explosive poops. But I had forgotten how life affirming it is to have a child nestled in your bosom, and to feel their heart beat against your chest. During the first two days of Ayla’s retreat into newborn-hood, I was ecstatic. I didn’t realize how much I missed the intimacy of newborn life. I had forgotten how fulfilling it is to give round-the-clock hugs. It was so life affirming to give and receive affection all day and night long.

There were other things too. Traveling back in time helped me realize how much I had grown as a parent. Instead of living in a state of constant anxiety about what to do next, I was relaxed and confident. I wasn’t worried that Ayla would have an outburst in public or that I wouldn’t know how to meet her needs. This time around, reading and responding to Ayla’s signals was near effortless. I could anticipate her exhaustion and her hunger; my responses quickly fulfilled her needs.

It is a strange thing to re-visit your life as it was. The gift of time travel was a yardstick against which I could measure my hard-earned maturity as a parent. Just as my daughter had undergone enormous development in the space of a year—so had I. I wasn’t a mother-in-training anymore. At first, motherhood had felt like a badge pinned to my chest. I had given birth—I had done it—I was a mother! Now motherhood felt more like a well-worn sweater; I wore it comfortably, and with more softness, than I had in the past.

When Ayla’s teething pain subsided, she no longer gestured for the carrier. She wanted to be free now. She wanted to explore the world on her own terms, instead of mine. So I put Ayla down to play and headed to the bathroom. I was amazed to find that I was menstruating again; after nearly two years of being free of my moon cycle. Was this a sign from the universe—that I was ready to have another child? Was the experience of time-travel an affirmation of my readiness to give birth again? I started to imagine life with two children and then stopped. For once, I didn’t want to travel into the past or the future. Today, I just wanted to live in the present moment.

My Child, My Teacher

There are moments in books and movies when a small gesture reveals a profound insight about a character.  They might decide to go barefoot, or refuse to board a bus, or turn their face upward to taste the rain.  After consuming enough literature and films, we learn that these moments matter and that the author is helping to reveal a character’s deepest self with these gestures. Recently, I was reminded that those moments aren’t limited to fiction, nor to adults.  My 1-year old daughter Ayla taught me that lesson last week when I found her asleep in the bathtub.  Let me explain.

Since Ayla is now sleeping in her own (door-less) room, she is prone to wake up in the wee hours and wander around the apartment or into my bed.  Last week, Ayla woke up and stumbled into the bathroom.  I’m not sure exactly what transpired but my best guess is that she accidentally closed the bathroom door and couldn’t reach the handle.  She was stuck.

While most babies would scream out in her situation—knowing that their light-sleeping parents would quickly come to the rescue—Ayla stayed put.  She didn’t cry or scream out. Instead, she navigated around the bathroom by the dim glow of the night-light.  She gathered a few towels.  She found a pair of my leggings.  Then she got into the tub and somehow fashioned a small bed out of them.  Finally, she put herself to sleep.

She had just turned one—only a few days before this happened. 

The next morning, unable to get out of her tiny bed, she called out to me and I came running into her room.  When I didn’t find her there, my heart started pounding, loud and fierce.  Then I checked the bathroom and found her standing up in the bathtub.  It took a second to register the salient details of the scene: Her towel-and-legging bed, the scratch on her nose (from the faucet?), her well-rested countenance. There wasn’t a trace of injury—no bruises or bleeding.

I quickly grabbed Ayla and pulled her close.  I scanned her face and body to make sure she wasn’t hurt.   Within seconds she was cooing and laughing—she was her usual, happy self.

Over the next 24 hours, the significance of Ayla’s bathtub adventure unraveled itself from the knot of worry that had formed in my belly.  I had to remind myself that I didn’t sleep through Ayla’s cries—we are too deeply connected for that to happen.  The truth of the matter was that Ayla didn’t call out for me.  Her instinct told her not to panic.  Her gut reaction was to convert a less-than-ideal situation into something agreeable.  She was creative.  She improvised.  She relied on her body and her intuition to guide her to safety.  A 1-year old infant did all of this in the middle of the night. 

In the days since I found Ayla in the bathtub, I keep the bathroom door locked at night.  But more importantly, I see Ayla in a different light.  She is no longer just a baby in my eyes.  I see her as a human being with a formidable character.  She is a tremendous problem solver.  She has the even-handedness of a surgeon.  She is a wise soul.

Last week, I learned that I admire and respect my tiny daughter.  I’m not sure that I, even today, would have handled a similar situation with such grace.  But perhaps the biggest revelation was that it was time to  reassess my relationship with Ayla.  I have evolved so much as a person as a result of giving birth and becoming a mother.  But it’s not just the situation of parenthood that is spurring my growth.  I’m finally ready to look into my daughter’s eyes and see her as more than my child, but also as my teacher. 

And if this is what she can teach me at the one-year mark, I can’t begin to imagine what she'll teach me in my lifetime.  

Turning One: A Milestone for Parent & Child

It didn’t hit me until I was sitting in the café above Loblaws (a grocery store in Toronto) that something big was happening inside.   The stroller was wet from the rain and filled with party food I had just bought—frozen hors d’oeuvres, expensive cheese, sparkling water.  The only thing that was missing was the candle—a big “1” with a wick on the very top. 

As I contemplated running downstairs to buy the candle, I started to cry.  Then the floodgates opened and suddenly my cheeks were stained with tears.  Crying was my body's way of heaving a huge sigh of relief.  Making it to one year was an accomplishment that I had taken for granted until that moment--but it is a big deal to give birth to a child and to yourself as a parent.

On the heels of the first cry came another.  This one felt like tears of joy, mostly because Ayla is doing so well and has been such a beautiful, happy and engaged baby.  Then there were tears of sadness—that Ayla was growing up and it was all happening too fast, and soon she would be all grown up.  And then tears of love surfaced--with a purity and power that recalled my tears after giving birth.  The tears were cleansing--I felt my love for her grow even deeper and wider than it had been for the past year.  I peeked inside the stroller to watch Ayla sleep and felt like I was falling in love with my baby all over again.  I knew what would happen when she awoke--she'd look for me, nuzzle my breast for some milk and then smile, or even laugh, in response to my loving gaze.  Reflecting on all of those things is when I really started to cry.  I felt reborn as my tears ran down my neck and soaked my hands.

Turning one is a big milestone—for parent and child.  I have heard parents talk about children being overwhelmed, and even a bit scared, by the gathering of friends and family at their first birthday parties.  Children are perplexed by the song “Happy Birthday” and unsure of what to do with the big cake (touch it? blow on it? eat it? all of the above!?) As I carefully planned Ayla’s first birthday, I didn’t think about anything other than who to invite, how to craft the menu and the notion that I wanted to have a “welcoming ceremony”—something to mark the occasion of her birth and her life (which I hadn’t found the time to do yet).

But the day before the big day, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion.  Turning one, as a mother, was a joy, and such sweet relief.  I could do this mothering thing, I mused. I might even be good at it.   But for me, turning one also meant that I had morphed from an independent individual to a nurturing mother, without trauma or regret.  In the past year, I had let go of my old life with little resistance.  I had moved to Toronto to rejoin my family of origin.  I had joyfully relinquished many of my career ambitions.  My worldview had shifted.  Now, at the center of everything, was Ayla. And it felt right and good to be in Toronto, with Ayla, surrounded by a web of loving friends and family.  Every strand in that web felt like spun steel--it took a full year to realize how lucky we were to have such extraordinary people in our lives. 

And so I cried and cried before, during and after Ayla's birthday party.  I didn't realize how much I needed an occasion to pause, reflect and celebrate a milestone that Ayla and I shared--one year of being fully alive, together.  And so when everyone sang Happy Birthday, it was me who made a wish before blowing out the candle.  What I wished for is a secret.  But I think you can guess what a happy mother wishes for herself and for her child. 

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?