Parenting books scare me. They stare at me from their dusty home on our bedroom shelf, taunting me with their guilt-ridden advice. Sometimes at night, I hear the authors whispering "if you read my book, Elliot will become the president someday. And by the way, I have 5 PhDs and you only have half of one...do you really think you are equipped to raise a child?".
I've managed to avoid most parenting books until now, despite their attempts at manipulation. Because every time I pick one up I am tempted to call CPS and report myself for committing such awful crimes as a) feeding my child right before he sleeps b) feeding my child too soon after he wakes up c) feeding my child too much produce or d) feeding my child anything other than organic produce which I grew in my own garden and mashed up with my own hands to avoid the perils of electricity exposure (which, by the way, causes Autism). If you feel confused by this paragraph, trust me, I'm more confused than you.
But lately I've been asking my mom friends for parenting book recommendations. What led me to this desperate place, you ask? It has a little something to do with the fact that I find myself saying "no Elliot!" every other second...as Elliot inserts wires into his mouth, attempts to grab tasty morsels from his dirty diaper, prepares to dive down lengthy stairwells, etc. And every time the word "NO" emerges from my lips in various shades of panic, I wonder "is there a better way to do this?".
Despite years of teaching experience I will be the first to admit that I know absolutely nothing about how to discipline a child. My parents did a great job raising two (really awesome and really attractive) kids. But I also missed 50% of 6th grade because I stayed home whenever I pleased (I know this because the school sent a very official letter). So I feel like my "discipline" technique is a blank slate, and now I'm faced with the monumental task of picking the right story to fill that slate (or write on that slate...what the hell do you do with slates by the way?).
I know there is no perfect theory or solution, unless the Super Nanny will agree to come live with us for the duration of Elliot's childhood. So the primary principle I am going to stick to for now is compassion: for myself as I fumble through parenthood, for my child as he fumbles into toddlerhood, and for all the parents who I've ever judged (except the parents who abuse their children- sorry jerks, I'm not that zen yet). Because when it comes down to it, the majority of us turn out OK. I skipped half of 6th grade and went on to have a 4.0 in high school (except for that stupid gym class, which I got a D in because I refused to take the body fat test in front of my snickering classmates), and my friends who were raised with stricter parents are all loving, well-adjusted people. As tempted as I am to treat parenting like an assignment with 1 correct answer, I will have to accept that there are no perfect answers. And as long as I don't fake a fever and stay home from 6th grade parenting school, I think Elliot will be OK in the end.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Size [n > 10] and LOVING it.
You know those weight loss articles in fitness magazines that show the women before and after their 30 lb. weight loss? They typically include all the stats about pant size, weight, etc., and let's just say my pant size and weight tend to dwell stubbornly on the pre-weight loss end of the those stats. And for the first time in my life, I can truly say that I'm fine with that.
I began dieting as a, hem hem, "pleasantly plump" 12 year old. 7th grade lunch period equaled calorie counting. I remember joylessly chewing on my "light" wheat bread and tuna sandwich while the other big-banged pre-teen girls stuffed greasy tator tots into their mouths with careless abandon. After school I would rush home , put on an awkward 80s leotard and aerobics video, and flounce around the living room in an earnest attempt to shed the pounds. I lost a fair amount of weight this way, and I will never forget shopping at the gap and finally fitting into a size 10. What victory!
After that first taste of dieting obsession, I never stopped counting calories. During my 20s my weight fluctuated more than a bipolar person's mood. If I were to chart my weight during this time, I'm quite certain the graph would resemble a sinusoid. And the low amplitude portions of the sinusoid would occur after each break-up. But one thing that never fluctuated was my ability to list every calorie I'd consumed on a given day.
As fun as that perma-diet was, counting every calorie you consume is an exhausting practice to say the least. So I've stopped counting, and I really have no clue anymore whether I've had 2000 calories or 4000 calories each day. Perhaps it's because I'm now using all of my "calorie counting" neurons to keep track of what I feed my son. Or perhaps it's because I've realized that there are more important things in this life than obsessing over how thin I am. I think it's a combination of the two.
This is not to say that I've thrown in the towel and plan to spend my evenings cuddling up with a box of oreos (or watching the final episode of the bachelor while inhaling a box of girl scout cookies...you know, just a random example). I still try to eat healthy and I exercise when I can. But now when I exercise, I do it to strengthen my heart rather than tone my ass. I do it to keep myself healthy and energized so I am not out of breath when I play with my kid. And I do it to get a few sacred hours to myself. When I look in the mirror at the yoga studio, I no longer fixate on every imperfection and lump. I have grown to appreciate the unique landscape of my figure, knowing that the hills and valleys brought life into this world.
I began dieting as a, hem hem, "pleasantly plump" 12 year old. 7th grade lunch period equaled calorie counting. I remember joylessly chewing on my "light" wheat bread and tuna sandwich while the other big-banged pre-teen girls stuffed greasy tator tots into their mouths with careless abandon. After school I would rush home , put on an awkward 80s leotard and aerobics video, and flounce around the living room in an earnest attempt to shed the pounds. I lost a fair amount of weight this way, and I will never forget shopping at the gap and finally fitting into a size 10. What victory!
After that first taste of dieting obsession, I never stopped counting calories. During my 20s my weight fluctuated more than a bipolar person's mood. If I were to chart my weight during this time, I'm quite certain the graph would resemble a sinusoid. And the low amplitude portions of the sinusoid would occur after each break-up. But one thing that never fluctuated was my ability to list every calorie I'd consumed on a given day.
As fun as that perma-diet was, counting every calorie you consume is an exhausting practice to say the least. So I've stopped counting, and I really have no clue anymore whether I've had 2000 calories or 4000 calories each day. Perhaps it's because I'm now using all of my "calorie counting" neurons to keep track of what I feed my son. Or perhaps it's because I've realized that there are more important things in this life than obsessing over how thin I am. I think it's a combination of the two.
This is not to say that I've thrown in the towel and plan to spend my evenings cuddling up with a box of oreos (or watching the final episode of the bachelor while inhaling a box of girl scout cookies...you know, just a random example). I still try to eat healthy and I exercise when I can. But now when I exercise, I do it to strengthen my heart rather than tone my ass. I do it to keep myself healthy and energized so I am not out of breath when I play with my kid. And I do it to get a few sacred hours to myself. When I look in the mirror at the yoga studio, I no longer fixate on every imperfection and lump. I have grown to appreciate the unique landscape of my figure, knowing that the hills and valleys brought life into this world.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
LATCH ONTO THIS Giselle (and other semi-cynical thoughts about modern day breastfeeding guilt).
Recently the supermodel mom Giselle was quoted as stating that mothers should be legally required to breastfeed their babies until at least 6 months of age.
Before I had Elliot, I must admit that I agreed on some level. A lithe, mildly anorexic Giselle sat on my shoulder during my first months of motherhood, encouraging me to keep breastfeeding through cracked nipples, mastitis, and thrush. I loved breastfeeding my baby, and there is nothing sweeter than looking down at a tiny human as he suckles contentedly on sustenance that you created for him.
But when Elliot stopped wanting to breastfeed at 4 months due to the pain caused by his reflux, there was no amount of Giselle-guilt that could get him to latch onto my nipples again. And there was a LOT of guilt, trust me. Part of this was my own grief that my breastfeeding relationship with Elliot seemed to be over. And part of it was the fact that every source I turned to for information poured salt on the wound. I remember taking Elliot to a lactation consultant shortly after he stopped wanting to breastfeed. We discovered that he hadn't been gaining weight, and determined that he would need to supplement with formula. As she handed me the carton of formula, she said "just so you know, studies are now showing that formula can actually CAUSE some diseases". As I searched parenting books and websites for information about how to help Elliot with his reflux, it seemed that every page I looked at said in bold "formula makes reflux worse! If you want your baby to recover, you must breastfeed".
Every time I came across these messages I added extra pumping sessions to my day and pounded fenugreek, all in an effort to increase my milk supply. Until finally Rob and I decided that it was more important for me to be present for my son than to continue agonizing over my dwindling milk rations. Elliot gradually transitioned to formula as my supply faded (despite my continued pumping efforts) and once he got on the right medicine, his reflux did get better.
I truly do believe that breast IS best. And I think any mom who has ever picked up a book or talked to a doctor believes this as well. So this leaves me to wonder who the current high-pressure breastfeeding campaign is geared towards. Because none of the moms I know need any more pressure or guilt. So to all of you doctors, authors, mompetitors, and super models who judge moms who have tried their best to make breastfeeding work but don't succeed, I say "LATCH ONTO THIS, JERKS" (insert lewd image that may or may not involve me holding my breast in a very threatening fashion).
I write this post in the hopes of offering another perspective to guilt-ridden moms (and because I'm stuck in bed with a flu). Breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But if your child never figures out how to latch, your breastmilk supply never comes in, or you have to supplement with formula for other reasons, please know that you are still an amazing mother and that you are not alone. Your child will still thrive, and will still bond with you. At some point, when you look into your child's eyes during a bottle feeding, you will be amazed to find him or her starting up at you with complete adoration and love. And there is nothing more pure than that.
Before I had Elliot, I must admit that I agreed on some level. A lithe, mildly anorexic Giselle sat on my shoulder during my first months of motherhood, encouraging me to keep breastfeeding through cracked nipples, mastitis, and thrush. I loved breastfeeding my baby, and there is nothing sweeter than looking down at a tiny human as he suckles contentedly on sustenance that you created for him.
But when Elliot stopped wanting to breastfeed at 4 months due to the pain caused by his reflux, there was no amount of Giselle-guilt that could get him to latch onto my nipples again. And there was a LOT of guilt, trust me. Part of this was my own grief that my breastfeeding relationship with Elliot seemed to be over. And part of it was the fact that every source I turned to for information poured salt on the wound. I remember taking Elliot to a lactation consultant shortly after he stopped wanting to breastfeed. We discovered that he hadn't been gaining weight, and determined that he would need to supplement with formula. As she handed me the carton of formula, she said "just so you know, studies are now showing that formula can actually CAUSE some diseases". As I searched parenting books and websites for information about how to help Elliot with his reflux, it seemed that every page I looked at said in bold "formula makes reflux worse! If you want your baby to recover, you must breastfeed".
Every time I came across these messages I added extra pumping sessions to my day and pounded fenugreek, all in an effort to increase my milk supply. Until finally Rob and I decided that it was more important for me to be present for my son than to continue agonizing over my dwindling milk rations. Elliot gradually transitioned to formula as my supply faded (despite my continued pumping efforts) and once he got on the right medicine, his reflux did get better.
I truly do believe that breast IS best. And I think any mom who has ever picked up a book or talked to a doctor believes this as well. So this leaves me to wonder who the current high-pressure breastfeeding campaign is geared towards. Because none of the moms I know need any more pressure or guilt. So to all of you doctors, authors, mompetitors, and super models who judge moms who have tried their best to make breastfeeding work but don't succeed, I say "LATCH ONTO THIS, JERKS" (insert lewd image that may or may not involve me holding my breast in a very threatening fashion).
I write this post in the hopes of offering another perspective to guilt-ridden moms (and because I'm stuck in bed with a flu). Breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But if your child never figures out how to latch, your breastmilk supply never comes in, or you have to supplement with formula for other reasons, please know that you are still an amazing mother and that you are not alone. Your child will still thrive, and will still bond with you. At some point, when you look into your child's eyes during a bottle feeding, you will be amazed to find him or her starting up at you with complete adoration and love. And there is nothing more pure than that.
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