Have you ever had someone comment to you how “well-behaved” your baby is? If not, don’t worry, just read on.
This compliment reflects a pervasive Western misconception about how babies function. Have you ever met an under-one-year-old who understood what society expected of him and adjusted his behavior to accomodate those expectations? I haven’t.
I was among the lucky parents who was approached by strangers who commented on my baby’s “good behavior” (as opposed to those parents who received seething glares from fellow diners at a restaurant – although, believe me, we got those, too). But I deflected every compliment with a comment on my baby’s state of mind, like, “her tummy’s full and she’s satisfied” or “she’s well-rested.”
Every parent who’s been there knows that it’s impossible to control your baby’s behavior. The best effort we can make to ensure that our baby reflects the contentment and joy we associate with “good” behavior is to anticipate and meet his needs, as well as we can.
My baby was “well-behaved” because her needs were met. She had trouble sleeping alone, so I cuddled her to sleep. She often wanted to nurse, and I met her requests as quickly as possible. She preferred being held to sitting in a carseat, so we carried her in arms or in an ergo most of her first year and well into her second.
Was my baby responsible for regulating her internal state to please strangers in restaurants and supermarkets? No. Her parents were. And believe me, we weren’t thinking about those strangers when we were doing it.
We didn’t do a perfect job, if such a thing exists, but we did the best we could. And she let us know instantly how well we were doing. And so, I guess, did all those strangers.
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 nursing 3-year-old doesn't look much different than an infant
In the attachment world, we hear a lot about the importance of breastfeeding. And lots of women breastfeed for an extended period of time.
In our culture, more than a year is considered extended breastfeeding. So that’s what we call it.
I just considered it breastfeeding. I was nursed until I was 3. My mother was a La Leche League leader when I was child, so I grew up understanding the importance of breast milk and hearing the “breast is best” message all my life.
What I never heard was that extended breastfeeding is hard.
Lest you get the wrong idea, I don’t regret doing it. I nursed my daughter for four years. She weaned in May on her fourth birthday. To be honest, it was my idea. I have no doubt in my mind that if it had been up to her, she would still be nursing at least once a day still.
But I was done. And for all intents and purposes, so was she. She just needed a little tiny bit of encouragement and I needed to set the boundary.
Here is a slightly edited version of the post I wrote right after we weaned. I feel it is an important one to share. Because even though I always knew I would breastfeed my child long before she was even born; and even though I never had any supply issues or trouble with latching, there were things about it that were hard. It was hard on my back. Hard on my breasts. And hard on my psyche. And it was totally worth it.
Here is the post written in May of 2012:
We are done. Finally. After four years, exactly four years. My daughter is done nursing.
We made a deal a few months ago that on her fourth birthday she would be done nursing.
It still trips me out that we nursed this long. Even for me, a kid who was nursed for at least three years, the idea of nursing a child for four years seems long to me.
Most of my attachment parenting mama friends weaned in between 2 and 3 or a little longer. But even in my circle of mama friends who nurse their babes way, way longer than the average American nursing mom, I am still an anomaly.
And, in case someone takes it the wrong way, I’m not bragging. It’s the opposite. It feels weird to think that I actually nursed my child this long, even though women around the world do it all the time and many cultures don’t think anything of it.
The truth is, I didn’t love nursing. When my daughter reached 18 months, I remember having thoughts of weaning. I was tired. But I knew that it couldn’t be done without lots of drama. I couldn’t traumatize her. This was one of those instances where some advice from another mom friend echoed in my head that said something to the effect of, “I have to remember who the adult is in this relationship.”
So the adult part of my brain pushed aside the cranky, selfish teenager and said, “You know she is not ready to wean.”
So we plugged away.
I fought it. I reveled in it. I loved it. There were moments when it was the only way I could make it through the day with sanity. And there were moments when I hated it because if I had to sit down one more time while I was in the middle of something else, I was going to scream. But then there were the moments when I was so happy that all I had to do was pop my boob out and five minutes later, heavenly sleep had descended upon my child.
And in the end, I was finally resigned to the idea that I was going to be a mom who nursed her kid way longer than most people. And I’m okay with it. I have a long, cozy relationship with being the odd woman out. It’s all good.
But we’re done. And I don’t really know what to say about it except that we’re done.
For the first week, there was a tiny part of me that whispered, “Keep going. You can do it. She’ll quit eventually on her own.”
That’s what I really wanted. But when she was an infant, which seems so very long ago, I imagined that would be sometime around the age of 2 or 3.
As time went on, I began to imagine that it would be around 3.
That birthday came and went without any signs of letting up. But for my own sanity, I had to set some limits.
She’s told me how much she loves mama milk. It tastes like ice cream, like strawberries. It’s so good, and right before she weaned, she’d been saying she wanted to nurse “forever and ever.” But she also wants to marry one of her female friends (which would be totally fine with me) and sleep at her school on the playground at night after everyone has gone home. She has no real concept of “forever and ever.”
It’s been almost two weeks since we nursed. She asked me last night if she could nurse and even begged a little. I stood firm. And for the first time since we began nursing, it felt like a solid boundary and not an arbitrary no. She didn’t like it, but she also didn’t get overly upset. It was almost like she was testing me.
So, it’s done. We are finally weaned. I don’t feel super emotional. I don’t think I’m hormonal. I’ve always heard of women who get super weepy and sad when they wean their kids. That didn’t happen to me.
I needed to just let Annika nurse as long as she really needed it. We made it. I made it. And in looking back, I’m super proud of myself for just letting it be for so long.
Feeding with love is an incredibly challenging yet important part of our parenting adventure. My husband has a ridiculous number of food allergies, as a toddler I had tons of allergies and my daughter is at risk for allergies. Early in my pregnancy, I came to the decision I would delay solids for our daughter, Arbor, to give her a better chance at avoiding the allergy issue. To me, this was feeding with love. Arbor is exclusively breastfed, which is a great victory to me because she spent her first ten days of life in the NICU. We had some challenges getting started with our breastfeeding relationship so our success has meant the world to me. I had great support and managed to avoid formula, thanks to the great ICN staff and lactation team at Duke. This was also feeding with love.
Now I have a happy and healthy five-month-old who nurses like a champ. Our nursing relationship is one of the single most important parts of our family dynamic. However, we’re getting to the age where most babies start solids. I was really hoping to avoid this until she was a year old. Some people have told me that’s utterly ridiculous while other moms have shared their experience with delaying. Arbor is at the age and developmental phase where she is gaining an interest in food. She’s started grabbing at our plates, has attempted to snatch food from our bowls and follows our every motion as food is moved from fork to mouth. She can now sit independently, has lost the tongue-thrust reflex when her lips are touched and can grab her toys, bring them to her mouth and chew like there’s no tomorrow. Developmentally she’s exactly where she should be in order to begin experiencing solid foods. I’ve been sticking to my guns about waiting until a year though. If you want to learn more about bay food nutrition facts, check this dailymom.com out.
This weekend we had a total game-changer. While my husband was snacking on a bowl of oatmeal, Arbor began her usual visual analysis of this whole “eating” thing Daddy was doing. Then she started chewing her mouth along with him and imitated his motions. She began grunting and leaning in towards him, all but begging for a bite. She grew increasingly frustrated that Daddy was not sharing that marvelous goop with her and I felt like we were being mean for upsetting her. I asked him to go eat in another room so she wouldn’t be as mad, so he hid behind a giant pillow where she wouldn’t see hIs food. I offered her the breast in case she was just hungry… she had no interest. She wanted Daddy’s oatmeal. Fortunately, out of sight, out of mind works for little babies. This frustration didn’t last long but it did open up the weaning discussion for Izzy and me.
We weighed out the pros and cons of both options… but it’s definitely not an easy decision to make. I almost went to the store that instant to pick up some avocados for her to try but Izzy reminded me that it’s only another three weeks until she hits the six-month mark. She might really need those three weeks to let her gut finish closing. After that date, we will keep good wholesome foods on hand that can be her starter foods when she is expressing a deep interest in starting solid food. We believe in baby-led weaning, so it’s important to us to allow Arbor to initiate the process, within reason. This too is feeding with love.
It’s my job as her mother to protect her and I take this role very seriously. It’s equally important that I not get so hung up on my individual goals for her that I’m preventing her from a normal, healthy and even fun part of her growth and development. I’m incredibly excited to see how she reacts to her first taste of flavorful food and am allowing that excitement to be greater than my fear of allergies. So we are preparing to lovingly usher in the next era of our parenting journey. Time to stock up on drop cloths and fresh veggies!
With less than half of women breastfeeding at the six month mark we have to assume that many women believe they don’t make enough breast milk. But what about the others? The ones at the other end of the spectrum, making enough to feed a small village of babies? As one of these women, I can say that we are often told to be grateful for it because women who don’t make enough would be happy to have our problem. Well… I’m here to say that oversupply ain’t all it is cracked up to be. And just because someone has the opposite problem, doesn’t mean that oversupply isn’t a problem in its own right.
Oversupply isn’t just about having too much milk. If that was all there was to the problem, it probably wouldn’t be a problem. Oversupply is usually accompanied by a letdown that causes mom to spray milk at a high rate, which causes the baby to choke and swallow air. What eventually happens is that the baby fills up on the milk, which contains very little fat and air and this leads to gas and stomach pains. This causes the baby to appear colicky and have explosive gas and bowel movements. And also want to nurse constantly, perpetuating the cycle of oversupply and colic.
My oldest daughter had colic. It lasted way beyond the typical three months. In fact most of her first year is a blur due to her constant crying and nursing. My middle daughter didn’t have it, mostly because I was still nursing her older sister as a toddler and she helped mitigate any extra milk. When my milk came in, three days after the birth of my youngest, I recognized the signs of strong letdown immediately.
We tried block feeding (nursing on only one side per session) for several weeks. This along with positioning the baby above my breast really didn’t seem to help at all. I resorted to pulling her off when my milk let down and spraying into a cloth then relatching her. But women have multiple letdowns during each nursing session, so this was extremely inconvenient when not at home. I was desperate for answers… so I turned to Dr. Google and came across a very interesting study in the International Breastfeeding Journal.
The Protocol
You can read the study for free here. But basically the protocol consists of pumping your breasts dry. I used a hospital grade pump from A Mother’s Boutique, but I’m sure you could use a regular double electric pump. Followed by a nursing session where the baby nurses freely from each side. This lasted several hours! And was followed by a very deep, comfortable sleep by my baby. When she woke up, I began nursing from one side and stayed on that side for 3-4 hours. Then I switched for the next block and continued on for the next week.
Day One
The day after doing this our baby was noticeably less fussy. She also had a really nice poop that she did on her own without much fuss. She was less gassy and easier to nurse. I did experience a bit of engorgement about 30 hours after the initial pumping session. This led to a crazy letdown. But I did not repeat the pump out and just allowed the milk to spray into a towel and then relatched.
Day Two
I was noticeably less engorged, but still full. Again, I had to take her off for the first couple of letdowns during the first nursing session of each block. But other than that, I did notice that my breasts were softer at the end of the block and I was certain she was getting more fat. She was still much less gassy and fussy.
Days Three and Four
I almost never have to take her off for any letdowns. I am leaking way less during feedings and even though I have spontaneous letdowns in between nursing sessions, I don’t leak at all during them. Her gas is back to a normal amount for a baby. She is still not really pooping regularly, but I no longer feel worried that it is due to an imbalance of too much fore milk.
Day Five (today)
No engorgement and my breasts always feel soft. I never have to take her off for letdown and my leaking is almost nonexistent. She was a little more fussy and gassy last night and today, but I suspect the six week growth spurt is the culprit. We are planning to return the pump tomorrow or Thursday because I am sure I won’t need to repeat the draining.
I am so happy that I discovered this study. It does not seem to be well known because the Breastfeeding Center of Pittsburgh consultant that I spoke to had never heard of it. I hope that writing about it on my blog will help others find it.
Nothing on API’s website should be construed as medical or legal advice. API articles are provided for information purposes only. Consult your healthcare provider for your individual health and medical needs and attorney for legal advice.
The Momosphere is all atwitter over Time Magazine’s cover story: “Are You Mom Enough?” From its “shocking” cover photo to its provocative title, it’s obvious Time was shooting for “mommy war” controversy (something I work hard to stay away from).
If I shy away from controversy, why would I ever agree to the possibility of being on the cover of Time? Because I want to normalize breastfeeding past infancy. Extended does not equal extreme.
People have said that my son (and moreso Jaime’s son, who is on the cover) will be upset or embarrassed someday by this article. But that is the attitude we are trying to change – we do not want the sight of an older nursling to cause a stir ten years from now. By agreeing to be a part of this photo shoot, we wanted to create opportunities for conversation and education about how normal and natural it is to nurture our little ones by nursing past infancy. We want our children to never bat an eye at the sight of a mother breastfeeding past infancy.
So how can one photo stir up such controversy and negativity? And why would any mother choose to nurse for longer than a year?
The Decision to Breastfeed – For Three Months or Three Years – Is Culturally Influenced
Western culture tends to focus on the sexual aspect of the female breast much more than on its biological role of breastfeeding, despite the fact that we are mammals. The word “mammal” is derived from mammary glands. Mammary glands are those amazing parts of our breasts, the primary purpose of which is to feed our young. So while we often hear about nursing moms being asked to leave or cover up, you rarely hear about petitions to have Victoria Secret ads removed from evening television or city billboards. Go figure, eh?
In addition to our culture’s fascination with breasts as sexual objects, breastfeeding is also “modified by a wide variety of [cultural] beliefs, not only about infant health and nutrition, but also about the nature of human infancy and the proper relationships between mother and child, and between mother and father1.”
That must explain many of the objections I’ve read whenever there is an article about nursing past infancy. There are vague complaints about it being “too sexual.” That it encourages children to be overly dependent on mothers. That it is somehow at odds with a child’s development (ever heard the one about children old enough to “ask” should not be nursing?).
Nursing older children, however, is not a new thing. Not only is there evidence that mothers have nursed past toddlerhood throughout human history (and have been recommended to by physicians!), but cultures around the world continue to nurse to three years or beyond today2. If nursing past infancy were a harmful practice, the human race would not have flourished so.
And so while the “median age of weaning throughout the world is between ages three and five[,]” here in North America we are weaning our children when they are far younger.
Breastfeeding Beyond Infancy Benefits Children and Mothers
The biologically normal benefits of breastfeeding do not magically disappear once a baby turns a year old. Breastmilk still provides nutrition that is far superior to cow milk. It contains an abundance of antibodies. “In fact, some of the immune factors in breastmilk increase in concentration during the second year and also during the weaning process3.”
Think about it like this:
Suppose you have an oil well in your back yard. Like all oil wells, its yield is highest in the first year. You get a check for $100,000 dollars. Great! So now do you cap the well? The next year you get a check for only $10,000. Do you cap the well? The next year you get a check for $1,000. Do you cap the well? The next year you get a check for $100. Do you cap the well? [The] point [is], the well will *always* yield a benefit. . .
Breastfeeding works something like that. Its nutritional and immunological importance wanes over time. But there’s never, never a time when it’s not a good food or a good source of antinfectives. And, of course, this analogy doesn’t address the emotional value, the place breastfeeding has in the mother-child relationship4.
For the record, the American Academy of Family Physicians has said: “As recommended by the WHO, breastfeeding should ideally continue beyond infancy, but this is not the cultural norm in the United States and requires ongoing support and encouragement. It has been estimated that a natural weaning age for humans is between two and seven years.”
So this idea of a mother breastfeeding her three or four year old as unnatural? It’s incorrect.
Breastfeeding can continue to be a normal, healthy part of your relationship with your child into toddlerhood and beyond. It has been one reason that my son counts my embrace as the most secure, loving place he knows. (He told me!)
Did you breastfeed past infancy? Why or why not?
References, and for more information
1. Jen Davis, <a href=”http://www.lalecheleague.org/nb/nbsepoct07p196.html”>Breastfeeding Beyond a Year: exploring benefits, cultural influences, and more</a> quoting Dettwyler, K.A. “A Time to Wean” in Breastfeeding: Biocultural Perspectives. Hawthorne, NY: Aldine de Gruyter, 1995.
3. Extended Breastfeeding Fact Sheet (citing Goldman AS. et al., Immunologic Components in Human Milk During Weaning, Acta Paediatr Scand. 1983 Jan;72(1):133-4; Goldman, A., Goldblum R.M., Garza C., Immunologic Components in Human Milk During the Second Year of Lactation, Acta Paediatr Scand 1983 May;72(3):461-2; Hamosh M, Dewey, Garza C, et al: Nutrition During Lactation. Institute of Medicine, Washington, DC, National Academy Press, 1991, pp. 133-140)] The longer you breastfeed, the less risk you have of developing breast cancer, endometrial cancer, or ovarian cancer.[6. See Extended Breastfeeding Fact Sheet and citations therein, and 101 Reasons to Breastfeed Your Child and citations therein.
I don’t normally eat anything found under my bed. The vacuum cleaner can only reach so far. I also have two house cats, and that’s where they go to get a little R-and-R from my three kids. Plus I do have a kitchen stocked full with food found in usual places like the fridge or pantry. But since going gluten-free this winter for medical reasons, it’s not often I get a chance to eat a beautifully soft bagel mounded with cream cheese spread. And I really wanted that bagel.
Losing the bagel – sunny side down, mind you – to the depths reminded me of a great disappointment a few months earlier. I had just left the doors of Burger King with my three children, a baby in a car seat and two girls, ages four and five, and in the crux of my arm balanced a refill of Dr. Pepper that I was really looking forward to drinking. It was a little breezy, and the older children were tired, and the parking lot seemed to be especially busy. When I got to the car, I put the drink cup on the hood and began the process of getting the car seat into its base and the older children into their booster seats. Triumphant with how smoothly things seemed to be going, I reached for the drink cup – when suddenly, a gust of wind shot it off the car and my longed-after Dr. Pepper dumped all over the ground. I was so disheartened that I didn’t even think of going through the drive-thru to get another one.
So, yes, I wanted that bagel. I didn’t want a repeat Dr. Pepper episode.
How did that bagel get under the bed, cream cheese side down, stuck in the dust bunnies and cat hair? Well, I was doing one of my infamous multitasking attempts. I was breastfeeding my baby while sitting on my bed, using the breast pump on the other breast (due to chronic yeast), talking on the phone with a client, sketching out an idea for a project with a pen and notepad, and eating this bagel – at the same time. The baby is at that age where anything within reach is in danger and he batted at the bagel. It dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed. I couldn’t express my dismay more than grimacing a little, because I was still on the phone. And I couldn’t attempt to get the bagel before the 30-second rule, because I was still tethered to the breast pump.
My husband didn’t even blink when I asked him to please retrieve my bagel from under the bed, like I do this kind of stuff all the time…
This post is part of the “Delicate Balance” series, which chronicles the juggling act of work-at-home attachment parent Rita Brhel.
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.
Have you ever had someone comment to you how “well-behaved” your baby is? If not, don’t worry, just read on.
