gearhead mama

We’ve been trying to have Mr. Gearhead take over more of the bedtime and nighttime parenting, in preparation for the arrival of the new baby. Overall, things are going okay, but the middle of the night wakings are still not nearly as smooth or short as when I handle them. When getting back to sleep is of the utmost importance to me, I will lug my tired butt out of bed and handle things myself, just to speed things along.

I know some of you regularly get up with your kids at 6 AM or so, which means 5 AM wouldn’t seem that out of the ordinary; but I had the pleasure of spawning a kid who often sleeps until 9 AM (or later), so 5 AM is obscene to me. Obscene. (And before you hunt me down and shoot me – or at least peg me with rotten tomatoes – please bear in mind that I pay my dues in lots of other ways.) So when M awoke at 5 AM yesterday morning, I quickly made my way to her room. Problem is, she wanted her papa. Or at least said she did. There’s a lot that goes into this – primarily that papa is not as comfortable in his skin as mama, and has a harder time being internally clear on who is responsible for what. This means he has a harder time being externally clear on who is responsible for what, and is more likely to be unduly influenced by pleading and negotiations. M has recently figured this out, and all of a sudden papa is her favorite person when it comes to anything pertaining to going to bed (she may sleep late in the morning, but the kid still hates going to bed).

So going to bed and going back to bed almost always go faster and easier when I’m in charge, but now M is asking for papa because … well … faster and easier is not at the top of her list. Rather the opposite.

When I informed her that I would rock her and not papa, she let out a shriek that pierced my eardrums and made my brain recoil in pain. Then she kept shrieking. I sat with her in the chair and started rocking. I know from experience that when things don’t go her way she will get upset, and all I have to do is stick with her, hold her, let her be mad, let her get it out, and most of the time we’ll be okay in short order (this is another thing that Mr. GH has not yet mastered, and the end result is a lot more tears). But this shrieking took things to a new level, and I quickly began to question my decision. The whole point of my choice was to make things easier. Was it possible I had miscalculated? Had we finally reached a point where Mr. GH could do this faster and easier than me? I replayed recent nights of listening to her beg for this and that, and the inevitable finale of enraged crying, and I didn’t think so. But as the shrieking continued I had my doubts. I crawled around inside my head trying to figure out what to do. Do I stick to my guns? Hand her off to Mr. GH? Neither seemed like a good choice. My anxiety mounted and still the shrieking continued, along with kicking and thrashing. My thoughts started turning to, “I wish she would just quiet down and go back to sleep,” which is always a sign that I have strayed from my center.

Knowing that this was not a good space to parent from, I tried to calm my mind and accept where she was at. In order for me to help her successfully move through this kind of anger I needed to be in a place without judgment, without attachment to outcome, of unconditional love. But I was struggling to get there. I was tired. And my ears hurt. It was harder than usual. Then I suddenly had the thought that I needed to move out of my head and into my heart. I pulled myself down into my chest, and the anxiety and whirling thoughts and what-ifs slid away into the dark night. I stopped trying to talk myself into loving her, and instead urged my heart to physically open to her, to beam its unconditional love across the small gap between us and engulf her. Within 5 seconds the screaming had stopped. She rested her head on my shoulder and let me rock her. I was back in bed within 10 minutes.

The heart is a powerful thing. I wish I was able to remember that more often.

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Confidential to Leigh: I am not ignoring your requests for more belly pictures. To the contrary, I am equally impatient with myself to get some done, and disappointed that the weeks are slipping by undocumented. But fatigue and laziness are powerful things. Mr. GH has some time off during the holidays, and with some extra time on my hands I expect to finally surmount these obstacles and have some new pictures. Stay tuned …

In an effort to make my life simpler, I have mostly abstained from letting M have sweets. She can’t ask for them if she doesn’t know they exist, and then I don’t have to figure out what to say (I’m reluctant to say “no” all the time, especially after reading this; scroll down to where Alan Alda says, “We’re back in the lab for another experiment on kids’ attitudes to food. We’re going to turn one of these foods into forbidden fruit.”). She has had a few banana nut muffins, and I did relent and allow her to have pumpkin pie over Thanksgiving (which she still asks for every few days).

Sadly, I do not have such discipline when it comes to myself. Mr. Gearhead bought me a box of Godiva dark chocolates for my birthday, and I’ve left them sitting in a tempting spot on the kitchen counter. Over the last few days, I have quite frequently gobbled one down while ducking my head behind the dish drying rack to avoid being spotted.

Today, in preparation for M’s nap (that only happens 50% of the time, but I digress), I changed her diaper, dressed her in jammies and set her in the crib while I went in search of her favorite doll. As I passed the kitchen, I shoved a truffle in my mouth. It was long gone by the time I returned to M, but she busted me nonetheless.

“What is mama eating?”
“Ummm … uh … nothing honey. Uhhh … I just had a little nibble.”
“M wants to see the nibble.”
“Oh. Um. It’s all gone. See?” Opens mouth to show that it’s empty.
“M wants to smell the nibble.”
“Oh.”

She leans in close, and I reluctantly open my mouth so she can smell it, while thinking, “Damn, my kid is no idiot. Mental note: in the future, do not eat chocolate when you’re going to be in her presence within the next 15 minutes.”

I discovered the most amazing slippers last year. They made my tired feet feel so pampered, and the all natural materials meant they never got hot and sweaty. I didn’t realize until I got these slippers just how often my feet got overheated when swathed in artificial fabric. It all of a sudden made sense that I could never find my slippers. My feet would get hot, I would kick the slippers off, wander away, feet would get cold, slipper hunt would commence. The Padraigs solved that problem, and I essentially lived in them last winter.

When it started getting cold here a month or so ago, I pulled them out and was dismayed to see that the wool was disintegrating on one side (I had managed to break them in wrong, and was walking partly on the side of the slipper). I wore them anyway, but the hole grew larger and larger, and it was soon apparent a new pair would need to be purchased. I was disappointed they didn’t hold up longer because they’re not exactly cheap, but M needed another pair anyway (damn those growing toddler feet), so I decided to splurge on another pair for myself. Conscious of my ever-expanding belly, I decided to get a mule style that I could easily slide on and off without bending over.

They aren’t available at any stores near me (although a friend recently found them at her local Whole Foods), but there is a woman in the area who sells them through her website. I mistakenly thought she was a brick-and-mortar business last year, and called her up to find out her hours. She kindly explained I was calling her home (the number listed on the Padraig website) and that she ran a web-based business, but that I was more than welcome to come out to her house and buy them from her, so that’s exactly what we did. Wanting to support local businesses (and also not sure what size to buy for M), I called her again this year. We went out the other day, and sat in her kitchen trying on slippers. She has a lovely old home, with a wooden floor worn to a golden sheen. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, and a delicious smelling stock simmering on the stove. I slipped on soft wool and sheepskin slippers, turning them over in my hands and picking through the colors as M played with her sons on the floor. I made my choice and pressed a check into her hand as she invited me to stop by her warehouse and browse through her stock of slippers, organic woolens and Waldorf toys any time I’d like.

We reluctantly left her comfortable kitchen and stepped out into the wintry air. I drove home with my lovely new slippers and a sense of connection I have never gotten from purchasing something in a store.

(This post is for mb)

I was tired and short-tempered yesterday, not wanting to deal with the usual negotiations it takes to get M into her high chair and at least pretending to eat. I took a path I rarely take, and used brute force instead. It felt so wrong, but I couldn’t stop, wanted her in the chair, meal out of the way, nap started so I could lie my exhausted body down and rest. I pushed and she pushed back. I yelled and she screamed back. I wanted her to fear me, to cower and submit to my commands, but she refused. Even in my anger, even as I wiped the tears from her eyes, I realized that I was not a failure. This was not a shining moment for me, but whereas I would have sunk down and obeyed my mother under such threats (harboring secret thoughts of rage and revenge all the while), my daughter rebelled. She does not fear me. She does not obey me. She does not submit. She is her own person. I am not proud of my behavior, but I am very proud of this.