Megan Oteri is a wife, mama, and writer. She lives in North Carolina with her husband and son. She enjoys wide open spaces and wide open hearts. She writes about her experience as a new mom and AP parent at www.memomuse.wordpress.com. You can follow her on Twitter @memomuse1 and find her on Facebook under memomuse.
My father was a mystery to me. He had issues of his own that I really never understood until after his death in 2003 when I had the wisdom to see him as a person separate from his role as father. He grew up during the Great Depression — born October 5, 1929 — his birthday month ringing in the Crash; his family lost everything. He had to sleep in the enclosed porch of his Southside of Chicago home, as his parents had to have boarders to makes ends meet.
My father stopping to smell the roses on my wedding day
My father’s father was an alcoholic –a singer and musician who played in Chicago nightclubs. Some nights he was funny and charming, other nights cruel and mean. I think of my father as a little boy and imagine what he may have gone through.
There is a story that breaks my heart and a story only told to me by my mother, with direct instructions to never let my father know I knew. My father, 6’3, black curly hair, green hazel eyes, filled with pride of his first car, eager to share his pride with his own dad. My father must have been 16 or 17.
Instead of sharing in this proud moment, my father’s father berated him, cutting him down and assaulting him with insults about his crappy car. All my father wanted was his father to be proud of him.
My mother told me this story once to help me understand my dad. It made me sad to think my father went through that.
My mother also told me this is why he bought me a royal blue 1970 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia in mint condition when I was 16 years old. Man, that car was cool! And I will never forget the pride in my father’s smile when he showed it to me, surprising me by ushering me outside to have a look.
Betty and John were special people. Anyone that ever met them knew this. They were storytellers and magicians. They made people feel good. Sure, like everyone, they had their problems, but deep at their core, they were the pot of gold. My magic - my love.
My mother didn’t tell me this story until I was in my late twenties. My dad was an alcoholic and quit drinking cold turkey when I was born. I imagine he drank to tame his demons from childhood and from the war.
He fought in the Korean War. He was a member of the Frozen Chosen, the Battle of Inchon, where he saw thousands of men murdered. It was so cold during this time that men’s eyeballs froze — their own tears icicles upon their own eyes.
I never was able to look at this as a reason for his own depression and anger. At times, he was down right frightening, flying off the handle in a rage I did not understand as a child nor a young adult. He did not physically abuse me, but there was mental abuse at times.
The thing is, now as a parent, I am able to forgive him and understand him. I love him and honor all the good about him. He went to work everyday to support his family and had a boss that berated him and put him down. He brought me home paper to draw on as a child from the bank where he worked as one of the mobile patrol security guards in downtown Chicago. He worked the second shift and never missed a day of work.
I think of him struggling to drown his depression and sorrow in a bottle, but he never did. He soldiered on. I imagine him discussing the horrors of war and his own childhood with his therapist, a very kind man he saw for many years.
My dad during the Korean War on a ship. He was a Marine.
I think of my father marching out of Inchon, knowing in his heart there was a family waiting for him on the other side of this awful war he witnessed. Somehow, he knew in his heart that our family would make him whole even though he had not met us.
It would be almost twenty years after Korea that he would meet my mom. They would go through so much. The first night my parents met, he told her everything about his past, including the sad story of his father assaulting him with insults the day he showed off his first car.
My dad in Korea. He was a member of the Frozen Chosen who fought in Inchon in the Korean War. He is buried at Arlington Cemetery.
My dad and his friend from Korea. This man called me shortly after my father died. He told me a story of how my father saved his life and how my father's thick head of black curly hair stuck out of foxholes because he was so tall.
Now that I am a mother myself and understand how overwhelming it is to be a parent at times, I have so much respect for my father for not continuing the cycle he saw. He did the best he could and he was torn up from war, childhood, and a hard life.
My father and I on my wedding day, November 23, 2003. My father has cancer and my husband and I got married in my parents' bedroom so he could give me away.
Photos from my wedding
So instead of remembering the bad things and his imperfections, I remember the kindness and courage I saw on a daily basis. He taught me so much and I just wish I had the opportunity to tell him that I am proud of him.
My dad around Christmas time 2002 -- his last Christmas
He died 9 years ago in the middle of the night, technically December 11 at 4 am holding my mother’s hand. December 10, 2003 was the last time I saw him and had to say goodbye to the father I loved for 29 years.
Death sucks, but it is a part of life. But you see I miss him. I miss him, and as grief has numbed the loss – a hole that death leaves, gaping in concave fragments of the heart, a sense of longing has replaced this. This sense of missing him, knowing he is gone.
I miss him.
I miss seeing the veins on his hands, crossed in a holding pattern on his lap, a cigarette always tucked puffing solo in his lips. I miss his morning silence and two cups of coffee minimum rule: “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.”
I miss him.
I miss watching his gait, heavy to the left, limping, shifting the weight in stride to his other leg — the leg I now know had significant damage from frostbite from Korea. I miss his odd sense of humor and his incredible intelligence. I miss how he could talk to anyone. I miss his pride. I miss his pats on the back and how awkward he became when I insisted on hugging him.
My dad smoking his cigarettes thinking. I miss him.
I miss him.
I miss the way he could pack a car, no matter how large with flea market finds. I miss his Cuban wedding shirts. I miss his scarves which he always called mufflers and reminded me to bundle up on cold Wyoming winter nights before I left the house. I miss his anger, sometimes dark and black. I miss his garden and the flower pots he filled them with — stacked in neat rows around the brick wall around our house on Maxwell. I miss seeing him peaceful with dirt in his hands.
I miss him.
I miss the way he wrapped his shoelaces around his ankles, tying them pragmatically in double knots as an old man. I miss his grey hair comb over. I miss his kindness and Irish pride. I miss smelling Corn Beef and Cabbage every St. Patrick’s Day. I miss the strong scent of coffee in the kitchen of our home. I miss having a hell of a hard time trying to buy him the perfect Christmas gift.
I miss him.
I miss his voice and his ability to speak only when necessary in a conversation. I miss his knowledge and the statistics he could whip out on any baseball team in this century or the last. I miss that he could give the biggest compliment to me through a third person like when he told my best friend Heidi that she had to make sure I write because it is in my blood — “Make sure Megan writes; she is a writer — a journalist a poet. She is related to Percy Bysshe Shelley, you know? Make sure she writes — it is in her blood.” I miss his smile, sometimes rare and sometimes wild.
I miss him.
I miss watching him read thick books and biographies. I miss startling him if I walked up on him unexpectedly, giving me a sense he knew fear in the strongest sense of the word and I miss the sense of relief he had when he knew it was me. I miss his car — a long maroon Lincoln Continental plastered with proud Semper Fi bumper stickers.
I miss him: John Shelley Miller, my dad — the first man I ever loved.
Photo Title: "Fence" -- I send messages to my father through the birds. Cardinals deliver same day mail. My father loved cardinals and I can't help but think he sends me messages back when they whistle by me. My yard in North Carolina is filled with cardinals. I see one weekly -- at least.
My thoughts and prayers go out to the families and community of Newtown. There are no words, only grief.
I don’t know how Bob got the name. Something about Bob wanting to break up with Ben, my son. I said it in jest and it just took. During the times I didn’t want to breastfeed, somewhere between a meltdown and bad day, I would say to myself or maybe even out loud, “Ben — Bob wants to break-up with you.” Some days I will be honest, I hated breastfeeding. I wanted to slip out the back Jack, make a new plan, Stan…” but I continued breastfeeding because I finally got to a place where I trusted my instinct and my choices. I knew that Ben would decide when it was time to end breastfeeding. I dropped the worry. I dropped the internal criticism. I just followed my heart.
Photo by Megan Oteri
I had a hard time with breastfeeding at first. It was awful. Nipple scabs. Bloody nipples. Pain. PAIN. And more pain. I remember being determined to make it work, but it was awful. Those first weeks of breastfeeding were some form of torture. When my son latched on, it was so painful. I felt like my nipples were rocks with the sensitivity of an ocean full of neurotransmitters right to my breasts and nipples.
We got through it. I called La Leche League. I called friends. I called my mom. But I felt like a failure. Nobody had told me it would be this hard. Nobody mentioned my nipples would have scabs and bleed. My husband came home with four different bags of candy on a particularly hard day. In his hands, he held two bags of candy, creams, Soothies (gel like cooling pads you place over your nipples) — and kindness that can not be measured. He was also draped in some sort of patience suit — he had to have been because I was not at my best those early weeks of breastfeeding. He hugged me. He kissed me. He knew this was something he could not empathize with, but he did offer sympathy. I devoured the bags of candy. Then I put on the cream and placed the Soothies over my breasts. I had a sense of relief for about fifteen minutes, until the next time my son wanted to breastfeed.
My son and me.
I did it all wrong. I had no clue what I was doing. I had never heard of Attachment Parenting. The lactation consultant that the hospital sent over to do a check-in at the home made a ten minute stop at my house. I stumbled to the door and managed to say hello. She gave me a hand held breast pump, quickly explained how to use it and sat with me on the couch for five minutes watching me breastfeed. I was desperate for information.
“Is this the right position?” I asked impatiently.
“Yes,” she offered.
“Are you sure?” I was so desperate — so clueless. So hormonal. OK — I was crazy. I hadn’t slept in a week. As they say in the South, I was a hot mess!
“Is this the easiest way to breastfeed?” I asked, hoping to dig an answer out of her.
“Yes,” she offered again, this time checking something off on her clipboard.
“Can you please show me an easier way to breastfeed? I feel like I am doing it wrong.”
“You’re doing it right.”
She showed me the football hold, telling me this may be easier for me. As my son fumbled in my arms, I felt foreign in my own body. I felt clumsy, unsure, and awful.
Why does it feel like I am doing it wrong? Why does it hurt so much? I wanted to ask.
She left my house. I wanted to scream at her, “Get back over here. We’re not done here. In fact we have not even started. Cancel all your appointments — you are mine for the afternoon.” But I said goodbye and she went on to the next home, the next mom, who was probably just as afraid and insecure as I was.
I called La Leache League immediately after she left and was hysterical, gasping into the phone. I think I thought they too were the enemy and asked them a slue of questions, ending each one with, “You guys probably think I am doing it wrong.”
For some reason they were the enemy. My own breasts were the enemy. The nipples scabs were the shrapnel wounds. My own son, the heavy artillery.
My son, Ben
So, what did work? How did we get to a happy healthy breastfeeding relationship? I worked at it. I suffered through the pain. I called my friend, Debra — who nursed all her children until they were three. She sat with me while I nursed. She watched me. She assured me I was doing it right. I finally allowed myself to believe her. She was very honest. She told me it would hurt until Ben and I got used to each other. She said it took time. It was something new for the both of us. He was learning how to breastfeed, just as much as I was learning to breastfeed.
I went to a local nursing mothers support group. We sat in a circle with our newborn babies — staring at each other and our babies. I broke the ice by saying, “My boobs feel like they are going to explode.” Then we all exchanged stories, fears, laughter, tears. A good friend of mine who was in my Lamaze class suggested I switch my nursing pillow. I ditched the one I was using and took her suggestion.
During the first few weeks, I used to set the alarm for every three hours, then take my Moses Basket filled with pillows, blankets, my safety pin (to remind me where I had nursed last), and the notebook where I wrote down every detail of how long my son nursed for. The basket held my pillows, the Boppy, and the nipple cream; it held my insecurity. I would slather on the cream, turn on the light to the living room, and arrange my pillows so I could start nursing. It was three AM might I add. And I insisted on turning on the living room light. I was so rigid. I was unable to let myself flow in this breastfeeding relationship. It had to be by the book, but I had no book to follow. I should have read more. I should have practiced. I should have…I should have…kept ringing in my ears. I had never heard of Attachment Parenting. I was determined to do it by the book. I even called a friend to ask her about using a pacifier. “I don’t want him to get nipple confusion.” We had an awkward conversation, filled with frantic questions, but answers seemed so far away. I felt alone and lost.
My friend, Debra, who came over and supported me with her smiles, tender looks, and approving nods, just said simply, “Why don’t you nurse him in your bed? Let’s try it. It is much easier lying down.”
I said, “No way, he is NOT coming into our bed. I might roll over him and crush him.”
She just smiled. I knew she knew something I didn’t. I was so determined to use the football hold and the across my chest hold.
Organically, Ben found his way into our bed and we co-slept as a family. I did not roll over him; I did not crush him. In fact, my husband commented on how protective I was of him when we slept, with my arm arching over him like a rainbow.
Photo by Megan Oteri
The truth is, I had to go back to work when my son was four months old; I was exhausted waking up in the middle of the night. I stopped setting my alarm every three hours and learned to trust the fact he would cry when he needed to be fed. He did. We figured it out. Along the way, I learned to trust my own instincts. I became the gardener in our organic garden of mother and son.
Photo by Megan Oteri
We learned together and found our way.
I told my friend, Debra, that there was no way my son would reference my breast by name. There was no way.
She told me a funny story about her three year old having a temper tantrum over wanting Ninny. Her daughter was eating spaghetti by the handful in her high chair. Messy red clumps of sauce on the floor, on the chair, on her hair. Her daughter called out, “Ninny, Ninny, Ninny. I want Ninny.”
Well, now that my son is two and half, he often would ask for the breast by name. In this case, “Bob.” He would say, “Bob inside. Can I have milk inside Bob?” Bob became his comfort, his nurturer, his friend. We decided that we would stop breastfeeding when Ben was ready. Ben has recently stopped. He sometimes lays his head on my breast, smiling and patting Bob.
I kept detailed journal entries in graduate school for an independent study course on motherhood I designed while my son was a baby. It was called, Motherhood: The New Frontier. I picked five books to read, and basically had free reign to write whatever I wanted to about motherhood. Well, to say the least, these journal entries are raw, edgy, hopeful, honest, vulnerable, and loving (and about a dozen more adjectives). These books on my reading list helped me realize I was not alone with my struggles.
My journal entries eventually turned into a book of my own. One of the themes of my motherhood memoir is the fact that I was practicing Attachment Parenting without even knowing it. AP is flexible and you can adapt the 8 principles to fit your family’s needs. People are up in arms about AP and the recent Time magazine cover. I really don’t understand all the hoopla and outrage, but the Mommy Wars are a real thing. I’m a lover, not a fighter.
Motherhood is beautiful, ugly, difficult, easy, complicated, simple, textured, smooth, heart-breaking, heart-pounding, and one of the most complex relationships.
Mama and baby moose in Yellowstone, Wyoming
My road to motherhood was not easy; I struggled with infertility, postpartum OCD and intrusive thoughts, postpartum depression, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and anxiety. As they say in the South, I was a hot mess. The thing is, nobody really talks about how hard motherhood is. In fact, it is a taboo subject. I guess it is easier to talk about the joys and blissful moments instead of talking about nipple scabs, cracked nipples, sleep deprivation, and all the other dirty little secrets mothers live through.
My little miracle. Hard to believe something as wonderful as being a mom can be so downright terrifying at times. — Photo by Sara Turner
I remember calling my friend, Debra Elramey in tears saying, “Debi, my boobs hurt.” My milk had just come in. I was not told it would feel like the lower falls of Yellowstone were dammed in my breasts.
Yellowstone Falls, Yellowstone, Wyoming
I was hunched over the passenger seat of our green Jeep in the parking lot near the super strip mall and my husband was getting me a Subway sandwich. I was trying to be strong, and the baby blues were coming on something fierce. Ben was sleeping peacefully in the car seat, probably a week old. Debi said, in a voice only a good friend can emulate, “Honey, you’re engorged,” she paused while I cried, then said, “You need to get a pump.” I was like, “What is engorged?”
Debi explained the situation and what I needed to do. I got a free hand pump from the city’s lactation consultant that spent ten minutes with me the next day. She said, “Yep, you got this, you’re doing it right,” as if I were some tick mark to check off on a list. I wanted to call her out and say, “Lady, I think you are mistaken — I have no f-ing idea what I am doing! Please sit your a– back down on my couch and please don’t leave.” Instead, I just kept a stiff upper lip until she left and then I cried. My next call was to the La Leche League.
Breastfeeding was hard. My nipples were scabbed, bloody and every time my son latched on, it felt like, well, I can’t remember what it felt like because I was so sleep deprived. I did not prepare for this. In fact, I winged it. I was not aware of attachment parenting and the first principle, Prepare for Pregnancy, Birth, and Parenting. I guess I was like a deer in headlights while I was pregnant. It never really sank in that I was going to be a mother until I was a mother.
I eventually got the hang of breastfeeding. In fact, I am still nursing my two and half year old. My support came from women in a nursing mothers’ group that the lactation specialist from the hospital organized. It was great to be around women who were struggling with the challenges of breastfeeding and motherhood.
My friend, Debra, also came over to my house and sat with me as I nursed my son. I kept asking, “Am I doing it right?” She responded, “You’re doing it, so therefore you are doing it right.”
It wasn’t until I allowed myself to follow my instincts and relax that I realized there is no manual to being a mother. I just followed my heart.
I carry him in my heart. Photo by my wonderful husband.
A good thief leaves no trace and leaves with a bounty.
I say, steal time away like a thief.
I just read a great article by my writing and personal inspiration, Anne Lamott. She wrote this article in Sunset magazine. I was lucky enough to meet her recently. She came to Raleigh, which is 45 minutes away. I got the call from my writer friend, Debi Elramey (you can read her wonderful blog here, “Pure and Simple”) at 4:30 in the afternoon. She told me Anne was coming. I asked her if she was going and she could not get away. But she said, with her curious giggle and enchanting smile I could hear through the phone, “You should go and represent our town.”
Our tiny town in Eastern North Carolina.
I said, “I’ll represent proudly.”
Debi is a recluse and takes pride in this. As she should. She teaches piano during the day; she writes through the wee hours of the night. Sometimes, there simply is no time to chatter.
Photo by Megan Oteri ~ Copyright 2011
I write this post as I look at the clock. Aware that my son will wake soon. Oh, that is him right now. I ignore the sounds of morning milk wants and continue writing, thinking to myself, perhaps I could give him a gulp of breast milk and be on my way back to the keyboard, back to the muse. Back to my post, that I ride like a proud cowgirl, on top of my gallant horse. But mom duty calls and I will honor it. But I plan to improve my thief skills. I will steal away more moments. I will make a plan. I will practice. Because as Anne says in her article, life is too precious to multitask. I want to wander, daydream, create, be filled with muse. And I will have to steal away moments to do this. Not always, as many moments are there for the taking if we are truly present.
But it helps to know how to pocket an hour in your sleeve without a soul knowing. These early morning hours are delicious to me. They taste like caviar. Like picnics.
I was lucky enough to meet Anne at Quail Ridge Books in Raleigh. It was a delightful evening. I got the call from Debi at 4:30 PM. By 4:45 I was off the phone and had called my husband at work and made plans for him to watch our son. I was in the car by 5:30 and off to Raleigh singing songs of wonder and excitement. Alone, but in company of thousands, on the highway, in the city, at the bookstore, I was present. I was able to get the last copy of her new book, which she was promoting, Imperfect Birds. Now, that was a sign.
I had my camera in hand. I saw her. There she was, greeting her fans like Jesus. Holding hands, hugging. The crowd was kind, and aware of something. They had made the time to come see her. Many stealing away from their husbands, children, jobs, energy, housework. But they were there. I was lucky enough to get a photo with her.
I snuck into a cove of crowded people. I am a fire sign, so when I have my eye on something, you better watch out. I’m an Aries to boot. And I lack a filter of sorts, thanks to my New Yorker mom and South Side of Chicago dad. And time living in Wyoming. And the years in-between.
I inched my way closer, squeezing through a narrow path. You know, suck in your gut, squeeze in your buttocks, and scoot your way through a wormhole tiny. Yep, that is what I did.
“Excuse me.”
“I’m so sorry,” dressed in a hopeful smile. Inside thinking, “Yikes, I’m lucky someone doesn’t purposefully trip me, I am so annoying.”
The target was seen. I was so close. I stopped to gather more strength. I was this close, I was going in.
Anne was greeting her fans still. Smiles were contagious. Everyone was high off Anne. High off her energy. High off the fact she is an icon for recovering addicts and alcoholics, one herself.
Her dreads dangled in her purply pink hair bandana, tied in a triangle around her fluffy head, soft with the brittle looking combs of dreads. She is simply beautiful.
Her wrinkles were within eye looking distance. I took a deep breath and spoke shortly with a pretentious looking woman. Well, it was more of how she reacted to me that thinks that.
I forgot what I asked her. But she responded with, “I’ve been following Anne for a long time.” In a deep husky patronizing snobbery way. thick with black wire rim glasses and some sort of grey black yogenia outfit. She had grey hair too.
It’s not what she said, but how she said it. But I don’t blame her for being rude to me. I was a bull in a China shop and she was a porcelain jar I had just tipped over.
Oops. Sorry.
Moving on, I jimmied my way through another batch of women. This time a circle of more stout and plump women. I had my work cut out for me. I was between the rotating cards on their display racks and a table of discounted books. I picked one up to be inconspicuous. My camera was around my neck. A woman smiled at me from across the room. She was me, only five steps closer, already one step away from Anne’s embrace. I put the discounted book on travels in Ireland down. The stout, plump women smiled at me. They moved their dangling legs off the discount book table top to make room for my eager ram horns wiggling by the discount book table and the greeting cards.
Photo by Megan Oteri All Right Reserved
“Thank you so much. I appreciate you letting me by, since it is pretty tight quarters?” They laughed, poised in their make shift seats on the discount book table.
I stood about four people deep from Anne. I said to the woman in front of me, “I’m stalking Anne,” as I clutched my copies of Bird by Bird, Operating Instructions (which was a saving grace to me as a new mom) and Imperfect Birds. Anne was scribbling away her name in black thick Sharpie ink, talking and chatting as she wrote. Her smile thick was like a blanket for many.
So, there I was. So close. The woman I said that to said, “We’re all stalking Anne.” I looked around the room and sure enough, we were.
A cute little spit fire of a five foot nothing gal, looked into my eager eyes, and saw my camera dangling. She said, do you want me to take your picture with Anne?”
“Ah, yeah. Word. Thank you so much. Do you have a camera? I will take yours with her.”
“Nope, I’m all set. But thanks.”
See, there you have it – the Anne fans.
Since a picture is worth a thousand words and it is time for this thief to make her getaway, since I have a nice size essay in my pocket.
I will leave you with this photo.
Photo by awesome Anne fan who took photo
But before we take care of that. Do me a favor. Read the article in Sunset that Anne wrote about making time for your muse. Whatever it is you do, do it. Don’t let yourself talk yourself out of it. Steal away the time like a thief in the night. There is no time stealing police. Only responsibilities and multitasking that need to get the hand. Talk to the hand. Go ahead and put that hand up like you are some bitchy high school girl. (hand motion – wrist circle and up it goes — “Talk to the hand.”)
Find the time. Because what fills you up fullest is often empty from external and material view.
“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did – that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that – a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.”
-Debra Ginsberg
Mother.
I was desperate for that title. I went through years of infertility. I was diagnosed with a uterus septum several years ago; I had several operations and procedures to diagnose it, as well as, fix it. My husband and I ditched fertility treatments (fertility drugs and two failed IUIs) and opted to have acupuncture. That did the trick; I was pregnant two years later, with my son. He was born, May 13. Now, his birthday falls this year on Mother’s Day.
Photo by Sara Turner
Now, I am a mother. And with this title, comes the work, the love, the magic, and the chaos.
Right now, he is watching Sesame Street so I can write this. Well, now his bare chested toddler torso is up against my right shoulder and I am begging him to press play again. So much of motherhood is a series of meltdowns that fury inside me, silently, and sometimes not-so-silent, while outside my own body, my toddler’s hands are everywhere, and my body doesn’t seem to belong to me, with cries for “Ba Ba” (his name for my breasts) and toddler somersaults across my chest and legs, crying “Mama Mama.”
Nothing quiets, UNTIL I STOP everything I am doing and throw up the white flag. I give in to his needs. I am not going to lie – this cheeses me off sometimes. I JUST WANT TO FINISH THIS ONE ARTICLE – THIS ONE THING. But that’s the thing – motherhood surrenders, not in defeat, but in victory – for it is in these surrenders, my toddler rises higher, smarter, more loved, more nurtured.
But darn, I just got a knee to the shoulder and his little persistent hands keep trying to turn off my computer. So, I compromise. I stop. And we read his favorite book for the zillionth time, Llama Llama Red Pajama.
The veil of motherhood only gets lifted for a few: my husband, my closest friends, and sometimes, it just does not. I cloak myself in the finest silk and finest expectations of motherhood, and sit idly, feeling ugly underneath that beautiful white silk – feeling dark, angry, forgotten and I stir. Oh, do I stir.
The comfort of kisses and hearing “Mama,” from my toddler, are like waves of rainbows. But the surrender flag must go up to see these rainbows, for I am blind to them if I do not. Magic is a funny thing – it comes and goes and sometimes there are droughts for days – no rainbows – no flag.
I managed to get through the first year breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and no TV.
Photo by R. Oteri
The second year, well, that was a different story. We still co-sleep, but it seems to be something our queen mattress has outgrown. And we are still breastfeeding. But motherhood is not a cut and dry thing.
I really have no idea what I am doing. Really, I don’t. I just have a swollen compass I call my heart which leads me in the direction of my instincts and those instincts some refer to as Attachment Parenting.
Attachment Parenting has taken a beating with the recent Time magazine cover. I have so many feelings about that cover, but mostly the feelings have dissipated and now I am left with the one feeling that is constant in my life: motherhood. My choice is to be the best mother I can and to accept that some of my own expectations of what motherhood should be, simply are not realistic. This flag of surrender, some might refer to as common sense.
Like Spiderman’s uncle said, “With great power comes great responsibility.” I am responsible to raise this little human being to the best of my ability. But babies and children don’t come with manuals. They do though, come into the world wanting to be loved and nurtured. That is manual enough for me.
I have no manual though and do I ever wish there was one. I do not reference parenting blogs, nor do I reference parenting books. Most of the time, I am frantic, unshowered, and bored out of my mind, waiting for something to happen. And it often does: a luminescent crayon streak on the clear plastic blender, a load of folded clothes haphazardly sprayed all over the not-so-clean living room, the dog’s water bowl tipped over onto something that JUST SHOULD NOT GET WET, and a plethora of other things.
I’m not sure if I am doing it wrong, or just being honest. Motherhood is hard. So many slices of myself get deli-sliced-thin and result in a big ole’ hoagie of letting go, sacrifice, doubt, and insecurity. The condiments hold me in place: friendship, love, and support, and the way my boy loves me.
Each mother has their own journey. And I just wish we would stop clothes-lining each other and let each other parent. The Mommy Wars have got to stop. We love our children. We really do and to each his or her own.
Most moms are doing the best they can. The judgment is excruciating. Painful. Ugly. But my theory of where the mommy wars and the judgement stems from is the Grand Canyon of doubt and insecurity you get when you have children. This great responsibility leaves one feeling powerless. And that is the truth (as I see it).
“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did – that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that – a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.”
― Debra Ginsberg
There are so many things out of my control, so I hold tight to what I can control – how I choose to parent my child. And nobody is going to get their claws on that, for it is wrapped in the impenetrable magic spider web of the love I have for my child. This intricate web is wrapped in the intensity of motherhood.
Photo by Megan Oteri
My mother did the best she could and I am doing the best I can (and some days I totally stink at motherhood, but I keep going, keep trying, and keep evolving). I have some more tools in my tote these days, with supportive mothers, and a computer to reach out on days I feel isolated and alone. Just to know I am not alone on this journey, gives me some sense of peace. I also have a friend who lives in the same town as me, who I can go to, and lift the perfect mommy veil, showing her my warts and scars motherhood brings.
She tells me, “Yeah, I get it.” That’s all I need to hear.
In the distance, I see the magic rainbow – and the beauty of it doesn’t make me feel better – it’s the realization that I can’t see the rainbow all the time that makes me feel better, because it’s raining – the hard hail storm pellets of motherhood.
The beauty, the heart wrenching worry, the deli-thin slices lost to the big ole’ hoagie of motherhood, another bite, another part of myself, as I knew it, gone.
But the rainbow comes out, as my toddler makes ambulance siren pitch sounds right in my ear, and talking toddler gibberish. I see it. I can smell it (or is that me who smells who has not showered or brushed my teeth this morning). I taste it. I touch it. I feel it (his toddler arms are wrapped around my neck as I write this). This is the texture of motherhood – smooth, rough, splintered, cool, hot, layered in the mosaic of mother’s love.
She is magic. But her dust sparkles the most in my childhood mind. She did it all, and now that I am a mom to a toddler at the same age she was a mom to a toddler and a new born baby, it baffles my mind she even combed her hair.
But her hair was always combed. In fact, she always looked beautiful — flaming red hair that sparkled when the sun hit it — a gregarious laugh that was never fake and always full — a smile that welcomed many a kid on our block into her arms.
My mom, the child whisperer
She was magic. She is magic. She is my mom. And she taught me about being a mom.
She threw elaborate dog parties for all our dogs: Shaggy, the Pekingese; Sam-I-Am, the runaway Irish setter; Bear, the Collie –- the-great-big-fluffy-his-breath-stinks-so-much-drooled-so-bad-he-could-clear-a-room-when-he-farted-soft-cuddly-lovable-dog that was my mom’s favorite; and even Arthur Roo, the-curly-tight-permy-looking-poodle-that-jumped-all-over-you-if-you-just-as-much-as-looked-at-him-sideways. He just was excitable. That’s what my mother said. Even jumping hyper freak dog got his own birthday party.
Then there was Penny. Penny was a German Shepard my mom adored and who protected her from an attacker once. Mom didn’t hesitate to get rid of Penny quicker than lightening when she started snapping and growling at us young kids. Mom always put her needs last and us first.
She was magic.
Each dog had its own party, complete with party hats, party favors (biscuits, balls, and bones.) What I remember the most was Mom right there in the middle of it — flaming red hair, giant open-hearted smile, and children surrounding her. Her hands calm and her warmth radiant. She responded with patience and humor. She loved a party. In fact, she wanted to own her own children’s party store, but did not pursue that because she wanted to be at home with us as much as possible.
That is my foxy redheaded mom standing next to some very important people at the King Home in Evanston, Illinois.
Betty chose us. She chose to be home. This was her greatest work, for we were her miracles. She had had over ten miscarriages. We were her miracles. We were her gift; she was ours.
She was magic.
The dog parties would have all the trimmings – really, I’m totally serious. My mom made the dog cake and let us help. It was made of wet dog food with dry dog food to create a crust. Party hats were given to dogs and children. Candles were lit; birthday songs were sung. Candles were blown out, and sometimes even the dogs barked out the candles. Party hats were given to dogs and children. Children were invited on invitations that read, “Sam-I-Am Turns Two. Bring your dog. Bring your sneakers.”
What party is complete without party games? Betty had that all planned. The ultimate party game was chase Sam-I-Am. We lived close to a huge field and behind the field was a forested path where Mom often took gangs of children to pick wild berries.
With a magical tone, she’d ssshhh us all down from the towers of sugared excitement. We’d all listen. She was magic, after all. She’d give the directions in clear, short sentences. We all understood, as our eyes widened.
The point of the game was to let Sam-I-Am off his leash and catch him in the woods. The winner would get a prize. We were gone for hours. On foot with our sneakers and curiosity leading the way, giggles and silly struts created a caravan, lead by Betty. We were on an adventure. It was magic.
She was magic.
Pow-Wow Party
That’s me at a Pow-Wow Mom had planned, complete with tribal dancing, a bonfire, a circle of sleeping bags, and Indian head dresses. That’s Betty dazzling her magic charm, handling out drums and enthusiasm.
I remember my older sister’s Girl Scout unit went to a party at the Girl Scout Cabin around Halloween. Mom had organized the best game ever – John Brown’s Body. She went to the butcher to get bones and the super market to get spaghetti. She peeled grapes for the eyes, and creatively and curiously narrated the spooky story of John Brown’s Body as we passed along intestines (cooked spaghetti), eyeballs (peeled grapes), and leg bones (beef bones from the butcher). Every major organ was represented by something we could touch with our fingers under the blanket so our imaginations could run wild.
The story got all of us spooked out of our minds, but we were mesmerized; It was magic. Mom told the story, with the lights off and a flashlight choreographed just right to give it enough spook and enough game to make us giggle nervously.
She was magic.
I wet the bed that night. I begged her to let me go upstairs with my older sister’s friends and the rest of the Girl Scout troop my mother led. She snuggled me close and told me just what I needed to hear. “Meggie My, you are little. You will be a Girl Scout soon enough. Snuggle here darling. Snuggle close. I need someone to keep me company and I’d like it to be you.”
I soon forgot about wanting to be older, wiser, and more girly. And Mom and I snuggled. I was embarrassed that I wet the bed. I woke her. I whispered, “Mommy, I wet the bed.” She whispered back, “We’ll take care of it.” She was so patient. We folded up the blue mat that lay on the wood floor of the big open first floor room in the cabin. I followed her, tiptoeing in wet pajama bottoms and we went into the kitchen through the swinging door. She made sure nobody would find out.
She made me an ice cream sundae after I changed. I could hear the Girl Scouts up above giggling, telling secrets and stories, playing with their flashlights. I got jealous I couldn’t be up in the loft with the other girls, knowing I was too little. Knowing I was still a Brownie.
Mom and I had our own magic. She washed me up, while singing me a song — probably one of her favorites from her childhood days of sleep-away camps and Girl Scouts. It was probably the song she always sang us — our lovie song, which I sing to my son now. It goes like this:
My mom with me on her lap
Who’s my Little Whose-It?
Who’s the one I love?
Who’s my little whose it?
Who’s the one I love?
The thing about that song was, after each line, I’d giggle, and jump into her arms saying, “Me.” Then I’d shake my little feet back and dance in anticipation for the next line:
Who’s my little whose it?
Me!
Who’s the one I love?
Me!
She was magic; she still is.
Mom went with me to the local college up the street as a young teenager. Somehow we’d just walk right into the gym and it would be empty and open. I would take the basketball and dribble, dribble, dribble. Then I’d practice my 3 point shot. And I’d practice again and again. She never got bored — that I noticed. She had no phone to text or call anyone. She just had me and she watched me — encouraged me. Even after air ball after air ball. But day after day, week after week, I started to get better. Her great big smile would cheer me on. She clapped, jumped, and cheered each time I made one fall through the net. Then her magic became my own. Ask anyone – I can seriously throw up a nothing-but-net-hear-that-electric-sound-of-the-swish-3-pointer- buzzer-beater.
Mom was The Picture Lady in elementary school. She volunteered her time to talk to my class about art. She’d walk into the class and that magic would light up the room. She’d bring Picasso, Monet, Manet, Warhol, and ones we never heard of, encased is shiny glass frames she would check out from the local library. She’d talk to us like we were brilliant, like we understood, because we did. She’d check out a new painting each week and she’d tell the entire class about the artist and the painting. But then she always turned it to us. She’d ask us what we thought and like elementary children are famous for — we all chitter chattered how it made us feel, think, and see.
She was magic.
Attachment
I remember sitting in the group, hands folded on my lap. Quiet. Questioning. My own wheels turning in my young mind. I loved art. But I loved that The Picture Lady was my mom. I watched how they reacted to her; the children danced in her presence. She celebrated with them and ignited something that seemed to already be blazing. That was my mom, she was magic and her flame warmed me.
We cuddled on Sundays when Dad was at work. My sister on one side, me on the other. She’d say, “That is why I have two arms – one for each of you.” We’d watch Family Classics with Frasier Thomas on WGN. And Mom always cried when it counted — when Scarlett O’Hara clutched dirt deep in her hands, and called out, “As God is my witness, I will never go hungry again.” And when Judy Garland sang out, “Clang clang clang goes the trolley, clang clang goes the band…” in Meet Me in St. Louis. Mom would sing.
She was magic.
Mom was a genius and could have had any job she wanted. But she chose to stay home and work part-time as an accountant at the gas station close to our house. Literally, it was just a quick run outside and through a secret tree lined passage and up into her office we’d go, in the midst of a kid squabble my father had no idea how to handle.
Mom was magic.
She’d explain it to us, Betty style – honest and direct, with her Cajun seasoning of magic. We’d shake hands or hug and off we’d go back to playing.
My mother taught me how to play. She taught me how to love and she taught me I have my own magic. And that there’s plenty to share.
She celebrated life.
She celebrated me.
She celebrated my sister.
She celebrated life.
She was magic.
And she taught me everything I know about the beauty of motherhood.
She is magic.
* My mother has been battling non-cancerous brain tumors for twelve years. She was diagnosed in 2000. Her condition has declined slowly and gradually. She has one brain tumor on her brain stem and one in her cerebellum. The magic is still there. Ask anyone. They all know Betty; nobody forgets her. She is magic, after all. Here is a link to a photo I have submitted to a creative invite from the Moxie Institute on Talenthouse.com. If selected, it will be featured in Tiffany Shlain’s documentary film called Brain Power. The movie will be viewed by non-profits. You can vote for the photo through your facebook or twitter account.
What I have come to accept is, no matter what happens, has happened, will happen — she will never lose that magic.
To be filled with life is something. To be pregnant with a growing little miracle of science and nature in your belly is beautiful. To lose a pregnancy is sad. The feeling is surrounded with so many emotions. Guilt, loss, nothing, emptiness, aching, breaking, bending into shadows dark. I had to take a break today and submerge myself in some creative work. I wanted to shake this feeling of empty. Shake it loose from the empty box it resides in now. Like a box with nothing inside. Just invisible strings connecting back to my heart. I don’t know how to put it in words so I am not going to worry about using dazzling adverbs or catchy phrases, but they may just happen to come out that way. I just want to write a post about it.
There are so many women out there feeling this same feeling today, yesterday, tomorrow. It covers me like a vine nobody can see. Much like a bean pole vine grasping to anything its tendril can reach.
Photo by memomuse – “Bean Pole Vines in My Garden”
Something sturdy, mounted in dirt, standing upright. This vine of sadness can’t grasp onto nothing. So I grasp and curl around words. Around people I trust. Around acknowledgement that it happened. That’s its over. That I need to grieve.
As my mind curls and bends in thoughts of what may have been, what was just yesterday, before the bleeding started, before the sadness erupted. Before yesterday, I was cocooning into a ball of beauty, growing inside, feelings of joy and elation surrounded me. Flowers and fruits of joy rippled in the sun.
“Layers of Light” – Photo by memomuse Layers of light echoed over me, through me, around me, spinning into thick spidery webs. Now there is nothing. Just this box of invisible sadness nobody can see with the naked eye.
Long story short – I went to visit my dying mother in Colorado three weeks ago. The night before I left, my husband and I made love. I went home to Wyoming and Colorado where I feel the most alive and vibrant, for it is home and my place on this earth. I have been transplanted to North Carolina and I am trying to make the most of it. But back home, where I come from, just as the Kenny Chesney song sings, I love it there. On this journey where I thought I was going to say goodbye to my mother, I was surrounded by a land that knows me. That I know. That I love. This journey home, this journey to say goodbye, something magical happened. We conceived a baby. A miracle. A seed that sprouted into life. I found out last week I was pregnant. I took three home pregnancy tests and was more surprised with each positive test, as I have struggled with infertility in the past. My son is just thirteen months old. We were not actively trying to get pregnant. So it was a surprise to find out we were pregnant without even a blink of the eye, without a blink of the heart.
I took a home pregnancy test on Monday, then Wednesday, and then Saturday. All positive. The faint blue line got thicker with each test. I took a urine test at the doctor on Monday and they told me to come back in a week because it was, not without a doubt, positive, but there was a shadow line. So I took two more home tests that week, Wednesday and Saturday. And sure enough, positive. I started to feel the pregnancy symptoms, fatigue and drop to the floor tired.
I went in to take another urine test at the doctor yesterday, feeling it wasn’t needed, feeling pregnant, feeling sure a life was growing and thriving inside me. I didn’t need a doctor or lab technician to tell me I was pregnant. Something bigger happened – a life bloomed from my journey to say goodbye to my mother. How serendipitous. How miraculous. How joyous. It made the fact that my mother is dying a soft sleeve to rest on. To rejoice on. I was sure this baby was a girl and I was going to name her Eleanor Elizabeth and call her Ellie Elizabeth.
My mom, Elizabeth, and me as a baby
Elizabeth, named after my mother. I had visions of her soft curls, her big blue eyes, her big heart.
When I took the test at the doctor just yesterday, I noticed some blood. Frightened, I told the nurse. Then the results from the lab technician came in. The test was negative. I fumbled with my paperwork to hand to the check out clerk at the doctors. She gave me a silent nod and a sweet abbreviation of sugar, “You’re all set, Sug.” I wanted so badly to walk out the back door, nobody to see my sadness or my tears, as they began to gush. I walked past all the ripe bellies, round and plump with life.
Sometimes I wish there was a sign women going through the grief of miscarriage could wear on their back. “Please treat with kindness – grieving heart – may slumber slowly today and tomorrow and certainly the day after next.” But it is invisible. Our eyes are swollen, sad, and watered with tears only time can heal. There is no clock for this time passage. It is not an hour, a week, a month, or a year. It is a hole in our heart. We go on. And on. And hopefully you can give a hug to someone in need. Perhaps, you just don’t know. And what do you say? There are no words. Just invisible tendrils trying to clutch at something strong, sturdy. For it may be the hope of another chance at conceiving.
My toddler in my arms
Perhaps it is the smile from a toddler in your arms. Perhaps it is the earthy soil in your hands as you plant a memorial garden. Perhaps, the box is still empty when you shake it, although you are sure something is inside. Something thick. Something heavy. Because something like a life just doesn’t vanish when you bleed.
Benjamin’s in my arms right now. Quiet, sleeping, calm. I’m watching him like an oil painting in a museum. My tiny giant one year old. I study his face and body. His ears have grown; they are now the size of apricots. His hair curls with the humidity. I study his sounds. His tiny snores zigzag under his breath. When he is asleep I am Wonder Mom. When he is overdue for a nap and I am in need of a sleep myself, I am Awful Mom.
The fight to go down for this nap lasted 30 minutes, seemingly like hours through toddler twists and mounts, crying screams that only escalated in decibels, cocooning into a curved ball on my shoulder, head butts to establish prime shoulder rest real estate, and a tenacious one year old desire to stay awake.
I tried the breast first. It used to be my go to sleep inducer. Doesn’t really work anymore; he filled up –recharged and energized, hips spinning from back to belly to knees to movement, pointing to things with toddler immediacy and curious craft. Saying “Dis, Dis,” and trying to unravel the mystery of each object. The air purifier: white like a Storm Trooper, sleek and tall, shiny, huffing out Darth Vader voices of puffs and curled noise with electric royal blue lights humming back and forth like an elevator. The light on the side table to the left of the mattress on the wooden floor — its cord now tucked secretly behind its back. The light, a montage of balls and gloves – football, basketball, soccer ball, and a baseball, all equally interesting to him. “Dat Dat.” He points again looking back at me with the inquiry of a class of eager freshman.
This nap is going nowhere. I start to think about moms who sleep train. I begin to envy scheduled nap time where babies know to nap and agree with baby coos and smiles, snuggling lovies that offer comfort. Teddy bears, baby blankets, little toddler hippos, grey and blue with fuzzy soft down material – some kind of something that will fill in my mom blank. Something he wants more than me right now when I am not soft and snuggly on the inside. In fact, I am dry as the desert and in need of an oasis of patience. I imagine one flowing full with clear streams of mother love. I begin to drool from the thirst.
This patience I barely have is wearing thin, like dough rolled out in transparent flakes. I suddenly am desperate for him to go to sleep. Desperate. My plans on peacefully napping with him to catch up on much needed rest and sleep passes. Quickly, like lightening bugs flashes. I suddenly want wine, sugar, donuts, cupcakes, beer, coffee, carbs, and lots of it. Out. An escape hatch. Where’s the nanny? Where’s the hatch? Oh, I am a Stay At Home Mom. There is no hatch. I even have an acronym: SAHM. I’m the nanny. There is no escape hatch.
He is smiling, grinning with giggles that echo through the room and bounce off the high ceilings of his blue bedroom. I get a cup of oasis patience water and smile back at him. I can’t resist the song of his giggles so gorgeous. I’ve sang him Over the Rainbow over and over the best I could. Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high da da da da da da da to dream aloud. Once upon a da da da da da da da. Way up top on chimney tops and lemon drops you’ll find me, waiting…
Where does the patience come from? Where does it end? It is quick like lightening when that long braided rope runs out, slipping quickly through my layered hands, my layered thoughts. Layered with questions, insecurities, doubts, fields of emotions, floors of frustration, conundrums, lists of things I’ll never do, wishes put on hold, way up top next to the creamed corn, on the shelf I can barely reach.
I’ve got to raise this baby. This boy. My boy, Benjamin. Hold those teeth tight. Lassi whoa, the horses can’t gallop off. I’ve got a family to feed, but the horses patter — their feet below the very ground that is supposed to hold me stable – sturdy – rooted in soil. My curled tendrils attach below this very ground in the garden of motherhood. The horses’ hooves start to become restless—eager to run – to escape – to gallop in a wild childfree shout. I start thinking about news shows and 20/20 segments about moms that start drinking at noon because of the boredom. I think about how having a job outside the home holds me in place. Holds my mind busy, scheduled, engaged in adult synapses of activity and thought. Boredom erupting, flowing over into red pooled lava circles. The containment area – lullabies, swing sets, and gooey gooey talk.
Earlier this morning on our morning walk, I thought about working, how even hanging on the back of a garbage truck would be more active than this. More exciting, as I listened to the men shout and rumble through the quiet morning streets, banging and pounding, creating a symphony of noise like jazz musicians. Strolling down the sidewalk, with my beautiful baby boy, who was taking it all in visually. His mind turning cartwheels and somersaults. My mind – numb with boredom. I was suddenly jealous, eager to be hooting and shouting along with the loud garbage men, bustling with activity on this early AM morning. I thought about interaction. About space. About time. About mind.
I thought about all the people I used to talk to on a daily basis when I was a teacher and now as a SAHM, I have to check in politely for bi-monthly play dates. I’m desperate for daily contact. I used to see my colleagues every day. A comment – a conversation – a break in the teacher’s longue. Something – an exchange of ideas, humor, fashion yes nods. “You look good today. I like that shirt; it brings out your eye color.” A question. An opinion. A complaint. A joke. A dare. A don’t. Something. I don’t get this from Ben, from the swing set at the park, nor does the stroller answer back. Instead, I look forward to bi-monthly mom meet ups. My version of lonely staff meetings where we make small talk about sleep schedules, baby food, and recipes and try to get to know each other through questions like, “Where do you live and what does your husband do?”
I am too open I think, admitting to post-partum depression barely after introductions are made. I stumble long after the group has assembled and disassembled, breaking down the baby strollers, and driving off to each of our own separate spaces. I’m still yearning for a 9 – 5 work day; a 9 – 5 play date would work. I ask myself and roll over the video in my sleep deprived mind – “Why did I say that? Where is your filter for goodness sake?” But then a mom I have just met clicks like links in a set. She laughs at my blunt cut Grade A honesty and nods her head. Yes, I get it. That’s all I need to hear. I’m not alone.
