I took quite a hiatus from blogging as I adjusted to my new role as both a servant and high priestess to a little prince or shall we say my lil' dictator. Instead of the usual personalized Christmas presents this year, we will be sending out a calendar with all of the little facets of my son's dictorial personality. I suppose I should be concerned about losing friends from such a controversial idea ... December will be a reference to Charlie Chaplin's film The Great Dictator.
The first blog back began to grow in importance the longer I let my garden go fallow. I have learned such a great deal about my relationships, myself and the numerous zealots who claim to know how to best be a mom - everything from the breastfeeding fascists, the cloth diaper masochists and the attachment parenting enthusiasts. I didn't know where to start - and I didn't want to start.
I expected more from my husband than I received. Because I believed the crowd of breastfeeding activists and I also wanted to experience this physical closeness to my child, I committed fully to breastfeeding. But, what I didn't anticipate is that breastfeeding would automatically designate me as the primary caregiver in all situations. Especially in the first few months, if my son cried, my husband would shrug off responsibility because he didn't have the lactational superpowers I did. After all of those years of believing my body, my particular mix of biology, is no basis for inequity, it suddenly had become a justifiable reason for my husband to hand me a screaming child as if I had the magical elixir that would transform this red-faced devil into a smiling angel. I often did not have that capacity. My helplessness in the face of his great need and my feeling of abandonment by my best friend saddened me.
I could not do it all. I could not write my dissertation, clean the house, care for a small child and clean those so-called environmentally friendly diapers. We made a spread-sheet to calculate how much it would cost to buy cloth diapers and including the costs of washing them, it turned out to be cheaper than disposables. We forgot to calculate my time. Time I have spent rinsing, washing and assembling them. Time I could have spent writing, interacting with my little boy or caring for myself. Let's also not forget the many night-wakings that could have been prevented if he had been dry. I think sometimes, perhaps I could've been more rested and happier, if I hadn't wanted to be environmentally friendly. At least I can hold onto my self-righteousness, but even that has dissipated. Left is a stinking pile of expensive cloth waste collectors.
Elimination communication has been a far better experience. The week when you catch all poops (and need not clean dirty diapers) becomes a time of sheer exhilaration - you cheer on a red faced little 5 month old as he sits on his potty and think, I have accomplished something. I can read farts.
Not only can I interpret his bowel symphonics, but I can understand his every mood from joy, peace, irritation and sadness as it plays across his features. It's not a rational knowledge, but intuitive as can only come from experience or getting to know someone deeply as you spend time with them. I spend most of my time holding and loving him, but have also discovered how important it is to let go. Without these quiet moments away from everyone I am not as rich a person. It is from my personal development that I will be a better parent and not from spending every waking moment with a little dude attached to me. He has two people to care for him, and to smile with him as he sits in his stroller.
It's my birthday today and the best birthday present I have received was this time to write. May every mother receive a quiet room of her own.
The first blog back began to grow in importance the longer I let my garden go fallow. I have learned such a great deal about my relationships, myself and the numerous zealots who claim to know how to best be a mom - everything from the breastfeeding fascists, the cloth diaper masochists and the attachment parenting enthusiasts. I didn't know where to start - and I didn't want to start.
I expected more from my husband than I received. Because I believed the crowd of breastfeeding activists and I also wanted to experience this physical closeness to my child, I committed fully to breastfeeding. But, what I didn't anticipate is that breastfeeding would automatically designate me as the primary caregiver in all situations. Especially in the first few months, if my son cried, my husband would shrug off responsibility because he didn't have the lactational superpowers I did. After all of those years of believing my body, my particular mix of biology, is no basis for inequity, it suddenly had become a justifiable reason for my husband to hand me a screaming child as if I had the magical elixir that would transform this red-faced devil into a smiling angel. I often did not have that capacity. My helplessness in the face of his great need and my feeling of abandonment by my best friend saddened me.
I could not do it all. I could not write my dissertation, clean the house, care for a small child and clean those so-called environmentally friendly diapers. We made a spread-sheet to calculate how much it would cost to buy cloth diapers and including the costs of washing them, it turned out to be cheaper than disposables. We forgot to calculate my time. Time I have spent rinsing, washing and assembling them. Time I could have spent writing, interacting with my little boy or caring for myself. Let's also not forget the many night-wakings that could have been prevented if he had been dry. I think sometimes, perhaps I could've been more rested and happier, if I hadn't wanted to be environmentally friendly. At least I can hold onto my self-righteousness, but even that has dissipated. Left is a stinking pile of expensive cloth waste collectors.
Elimination communication has been a far better experience. The week when you catch all poops (and need not clean dirty diapers) becomes a time of sheer exhilaration - you cheer on a red faced little 5 month old as he sits on his potty and think, I have accomplished something. I can read farts.
Not only can I interpret his bowel symphonics, but I can understand his every mood from joy, peace, irritation and sadness as it plays across his features. It's not a rational knowledge, but intuitive as can only come from experience or getting to know someone deeply as you spend time with them. I spend most of my time holding and loving him, but have also discovered how important it is to let go. Without these quiet moments away from everyone I am not as rich a person. It is from my personal development that I will be a better parent and not from spending every waking moment with a little dude attached to me. He has two people to care for him, and to smile with him as he sits in his stroller.
It's my birthday today and the best birthday present I have received was this time to write. May every mother receive a quiet room of her own.
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