Recently I’ve been getting into some pretty heavy theological discussions with Rosalind.  I am tempted to take this responsibility very seriously.  I want her to be aware of spiritual things; I want her to have an optimistic and hopeful view of the universe; I want to be careful not to “program” her into any particular creed or away of thinking (even if that way of thinking is the absence of a creed.)

But then I actually talk to her and I realize my concerns are totally moot.  After all, I can’t even explain to her why Monday is a preschool day, how I am going to prejudice her notion of God?  She’s going to construct her own strange reality based on bits of pieces of words I don’t even remember saying.  And in fact, that’s what is happenning.

The first talk I had with her, we were about to leave on a longish trip when some missionaries came to the door.  I shooed them away, but I could only get Rosy in the car by telling her I’d explain about the men while we were driving.  Here’s a summary of what I said, although I’m sure it was even less articulate at the time:

“Some people [I use "some people" all the time when talking about religion, but Rosy doesn't notice at all] wonder why there are people, and animals, and the sky, and the water.  Why are these things here?  And some people think, someone must have made them.  And that was God.  And God is in everything, in the sky, in your hand, in the trees and plants and animals.  And some people have some stories about God, and those men wanted to tell me about their stories, but I said ‘No thank you’ because I don’t think their stories are true.  People have all different stories and sometimes they get in a big fight: ‘God had a son named Jesus!’  ‘NO!  God had a prophet named Mohammed!’  ‘NO!  God had a son named Jesus!’ And then they get really mad and try to hurt each other.”

All right, maybe I didn’t need to introduce the concept of religious wars just yet.  But it seemed to capture her imagination, and the whole way to the farm she continued to ask, “Tell me that story again about the guys who get mad.”  But when Nathan got home at night and I asked her to tell him what she learned about God, this is how she distilled it: “Dod is in my fingers!  And the sky!  But we tan’t see Dod.”

That all seemed like a reasonable place to end.  But the ideas are still percolating around in her head.  The other day, several weeks after our initial discussion, I was giving her her nightly bedtime massage and she asked for Dod.

“What?”

“I want Dod.”  She gestured with her hand.

“Uh..  You mean Gollum?”  This is what she was gesturing towards:

I gave it to her, shaking my head.

“This is Dod.  Dod is my friend.  He makes it rain, and also not rain.”

I just read an article about parenting in the New York Times: All Joy and No Fun: Why Parents Hate Parenting. It got me a little weepy (but then, lots of stuff does that when I have a baby in the house.)  It’s a well-written and well-researched article, and I don’t have anything really interesting to add.  But I want to go on record now with the resolution that I *will* enjoy my years as a parent.  And I mean, right now, not just in retrospect.

It’s actually easy for me to be vibrantly happy with Alden, just as it was with Rosy when she was a baby.  I don’t just love the transcendant joy of his smiles and giggles, I love the whole lifestyle of nursing and wearing him and sleeping with him and soothing him when he cries–and taking life slow.  But I’m not going to lie, the constant arguments that come with a preschooler (Rosy is not a toddler any more) can wear me down.  I don’t like conflict and drama, and I don’t like to be in control of someone else.  Ha.  The books (yes I read a lot of books) suggest that a zen, non-attachment (take that Dr. Sears) method of parenting is possible, that I can leave the drama and conflict to her and not partake of it.  That I can give her the gift of self-discipline through reasonable choices and reasonable consequences, that I can make her happy and self-confident by letting her know how much she is loved.  And I *do* believe in all this stuff, I do think I can be a good parent this way.  But day-to-day, it still feels like all I do is make thousands of very insignificant decisions and then fight for them with my life and sanity.

So today, I’m going to focus on playing with her and having fun.  Because sometimes, it *is* fun and today is going to be one of those days.

I just noticed this blog post in my “drafts” folder, 16 months later (7/26/2010.)  It’s not much of a post–I probably meant to include some video or something–but it’s part of the record so I’m putting it out there now.

* * *

I haven’t blogged in a few months, and now I have a completely different child.  I guess that’s how it goes.  At Christmas, she was saying some words, and she knew the names of the most important people in her life, and she would do signs that went along with a song.  Today she knows nouns and verbs and adjectives that she can put together in sentences, she can learn a name or any other word the first time hearing it, and she can actually sing recognizable songs herself.  Yesterday we went to the zoo and saw a bunch of animals, some of which frightened her.  This morning she told me me the whole story, about “zoo” and the “pea-tot” that we saw when we first got there, and the “ephant” (she was “scare”), and the monkeys and the lion that also scared her, and the bears.  She said “mama scare?” and when I said no, I wasn’t scared, she asked about her part-time nanny and her friend Nolan.  It’s not just that she has learned a lot of words.  She uses them to describe her experience, and even to express her thoughts.  It’s been such a ridiculously fast trajectory to this point, I am blown away.

Last Wednesday, November 19, was a notable day for me.  Two years ago, this was the official start date of my pregnancy with Rosalind.  (It’s true that she wasn’t conceived for another two weeks, but it’s the symbolism that counts here.)

For nineteen years before that date–that’s nineteen years–I was a woman with a predictable cycle and a predictable body.  And since that date, I haven’t been.  First there was the 42 weeks of pregnancy, that was a roller coaster and a half.  And then exclusive breastfeeding for 5 months or so, and continued breastfeeding since then.  For two years, my body has not truly been my own; it’s been mine, but also Rosalind’s.  When I eat or drink or breathe something questionable, I think of her, not me.  These days I feel very normal, I’m no longer constantly prey to the vicissitudes of hormonal changes.  But I don’t feel the way I did before pregnancy.  Time is measured by Rosalind’s growth and development instead of anything happening in my own body.  One day my cycle will come back, at least I assume so.  But I think I will always inhabit my body a little differently.  These two years of putting it in the service of someone else have made it more my own.

There is some hubris in how I think of myself as a mother.  Those of you who have read the first post on this blog already know this.  I admit it–I think I’m good.  And so long as Rosalind stays cheerful and loving I don’t think I’m likely to change my mind.

However, it turns out not everyone hears angels singing when they observe me with my daughter.  This was illustrated well during our travel to Colorado last week (we visited friends and family around Denver.)  First was the reaction of the couple who sat next to us on the plane.  I think horror is not too strong a word when they saw they’d be next to a toddler.  They tried to get up immediately to hunt for somewhere else, but the evil flight attendant forced them to remain where they were until after take-off.  They had to endure me nursing my daughter, and even sometimes bouncing her!  (The man made a loud comment to his companion that his seat was moving, “I don’t know why”.)  Of course Rosalind fell asleep before we reached cruising altitude, but nevertheless as soon as the fasten-seat-belt light came on they stood up and addressed me for the first time: “Excuse me ma’am.”  There was no eye contact, nor had there been any through the whole ordeal.  Of course Rosalind woke up when I moved, but at least Nathan and I got to sit together alone in a row of three.  That proved fortuitous when she threw up all over us an hour later.

After the vomit, I had to take all Rosalind’s clothes off, and we didn’t have spares so I wore her off the plane in the sling with her clad only in her diaper.  She was quiet and not fully herself, poor girl.  After we got our bags, I got her pajamas out and went into the bathroom to change and dress her.  And there I met a woman who really disapproved of my parenting style.  Forty-ish, very respectable looking, with perhaps a slight Scandinavian accent, she lit into me like a bear into a salmon.  I believe it started with “How can you live with yourself” and ended with “Bitch!” and in between had some references to the cold, my baby’s lack of attire, and the fact that I deserved to be shot.  At first I tried to explain the circumstances, but either she didn’t hear what I said or truly thought there was nothing that could justify what she saw.  After a quick mental reevaluation, I said something befitting my arugula-and-sushi-eating lifestyle like “I’m really sorry for whatever you are dealing with, but I’m not going to talk to you any more.”  (If I was more of a red meat woman I could have offered a few choice opinions to her, instead of platitudes.)  And then I blocked her out and got Rosalind changed and dressed while she ranted some more and finally left.

Neither of these encounters bothered me while they were going on, because in both I was only focused on my daughter.  But it’s odd how they’ve both stayed with me.  Sure, I tell the stories and it’s clear the players were rude and/or crazy, and that I did nothing wrong.  But then why do I keep replaying them in my head?  If this is how I react to completely undeserved criticism, how am I going to handle the inevitable times when I am truly at fault?

From the moment she emerged from the birth canal, Rosalind has been one robust baby.  Sure, she’s gotten a sniffle here and there, a bruise or two, but the rule has been sturdy, happy, and healthy.  That is, until the last few weeks.  First there was a bad cold, complete with lots of green snot; that turned into an ugly cough.  While that was going on, a mysterious foot or leg injury appeared that had us at Children’s Hospital late on Friday night for x-rays.  She wouldn’t stand or walk and wailed whenever she tried to put weight on her right leg.  However, x-rays were apparently negative–the doctor thought he saw a fracture but we think he was overruled by the radiologist.  He was a bit of a joker.  Anyway her leg seemed fine 24 hours later.  But no sooner had the trauma from that incident faded from my mind than Rosalind developed a random throwing-up problem.  Five vomits in six days, all of them while she was sleeping or immediately after waking up.  She wasn’t too bad off during the day, but her appetite was small

All this pain and suffering, I have to admit, it gets to me!  The worst was her leg.  Walking and running are such a huge part of who she is right now; seeing her hobbled was agonizing.  This is yet another aspect of being a parent that I observed without understanding for my whole life until now.  “Come on, what’s the big deal?” I asked myself when I saw people going crazy over a skinned knee, or even a broken leg.  “It will heal, there’s no long term harm.”  Sure, you can look at things that way when you break your own leg, if you are exceptionally patient and mature.  (Ask me how I dealt with it when I badly sprained my ankle.)  But when it’s your child–all I can see is her immediate affliction, and my inability to help.

Compared to that feeling, the stink of clothes and hair soaked in baby vomit is barely even worse noticing.

Nathan and I have been trying to teach Rosalind baby sign language since she was about five months old. At first we were pretty desultory about it, remembering only some of the time, but still it didn’t take her long until she understood things like “milk” and “more”. Around seven months, she started making some hand motions that could be interpreted as “milk”, but usually only when she was already nursing. Then at ten months, she had a breakthrough with “milk”: she figured out how to sign it deliberately, often right in my face, to get what she wanted. Pretty exciting! From there the signs picked up pretty rapidly, and now I count at least 21 that she does and many more that she understands. She is just starting to put them together in sentence fragments.

These days, here in Seattle, every mother I know tries to teach her babies at least a few rudimentary signs. It’s part of the culture. But every so often I run into someone who still criticizes the practice. And I look at these people like they are crazy. I ask you, what could be more satisfying than helping your daughter learn to communicate? It is great on so many levels, and understanding her meaning is only a part of it. There’s also watching her get visibly smarter, as she starts putting words together and using them in unique ways. And best of all perhaps is seeing her own pride and joy at mastering something. In addition to her word-signs, she does a lot of signing along to songs, like “Twinkle twinkle”, “Wheels on the bus”, etc. There’s nothing useful about that, but she loves it just the same.

There is one downside to the signing. Once she knew she can be clear about what she wants, she got even more ornery about not getting it!

Rosalind’s signs

There are so many ways to live your life these days, the possibilities are daunting to acknowledge. From the time we leave high school, there are so many paths to take, it’s easy to become paralyzed with indecision. “Find your passion!” we are told. That’s the way to happiness and fulfillment. Your passion will fill your days with challenge, frustration, and joy. You won’t get tired of it. You’ll never master your passion but you’ll always want to keep learning about it. It will make you whole.

Well, I never found passion in my professional life. I loved programming and working in the software industry–I loved it in the sense that I enjoyed it. I found it fun, and stimulating. But I never read programming books on my own time, or gleefully keep up with the bleeding edges of the technology. I could easily forget all about it indefinitely if I found something else interesting to think about. And you know what? It was fine. I didn’t care that I wasn’t passionate, because I loved my life and all the different parts of it. Sports were fun and fulfilling, I had good friends, and later of course I had Nathan. Books, movies, all these things were part of what I considered a very complete life! I felt no lack.

But now I know what passion is all about. It snuck up on my from a source I wasn’t even expecting, much as I anticipated it in other ways. I am passionate about motherhood. I don’t just mean I love my daughter, though of course, I do–with the heat of a thousand fiery suns. But also, more than in any other role, I feel comfortable, competent, intense, in the role of the mama (or parent, if you prefer.) I act it. I think about it. I read books about it (a lot.) I talk about it (even more.) Now I’m blogging about it. I am completely absorbed in the responsibilities and pleasures and choices and challenges.

This is all surprising to me, and even a little disturbing to tell you the truth. If you’d asked me about what motherhood would be like when I was, say, twelve, I probably would have described it much as I’m experiencing it. (I was a baby-crazy kid.) But in the intervening 20+ years, life has been much more about becoming an individual. Forging my own self, and concentrating on my personhood in a gender-neutral kind of way. And now look at me, I’m spending my days hanging out at the playground and thinking about what to make for the family dinner. And I’m enjoying it indecently! Can it be that my “calling” is really wife-and-mother? Ugh, I feel I’m letting down the sisterhood. And yet–apparently, this is who I am. And after all this time in my life is not permanent, in fact sometimes it feels as fleeting as the morning dew. So what can I do but throw myself into it as fully as I want to?

I love it!