Apparently, I could even be the nanny

Annika got mistaken for a boy at the park the other day. I guess the fact that she was wearing a black T-shirt and blue shoes won out over her blue nail polish and turquoise pants bespeckled with butterflies.

Those kinds of mistakes just make me laugh a little. At least they are the kinds of things that pretty much happen to everybody during the infant and toddler years. Mistaking a girl for a boy or vice versa is par for the course in pretty much any culture.

That experience far outweighed the interaction I had with a woman at the same park earlier in the week.

I was swinging Annika in the toddler swings when a graying White woman approached with a little blond girl.

I looked at the little girl and said to Annika, "She looks about the same age as you, sweetie."

The woman smiled and asked Annika's age. I told her, 2. She told me the age of the child with her, 2 and change. We smiled and murmured things about how cute they were. The girls giggled in their swings.

Then she turned to me and said, "Are you the mother?"

THE mother.  Not even her mother.

"Yes," I said.

This is where you expect me to get all irate.

But I didn't.

My stomach did not turn to bile or get all twisted up in knots. It turned more to a consistency of Playdough. Lumpy. Pureed. Mushy. Bored. Trite.

I felt my face go flat with disappointment at this now mundane question. It's getting a little tiring.

Even though Annika was still laughing and shouting "Wee, wee!" I asked her if she was ready to get down.

"Baby, do you want to slide?!" I asked her all excited.

"Nooo, SWING!" was the answer I got.

I just wanted to get away from the woman, who had noted that she was in fact, the little girl's grandmother.

Like I cared.

Either she noticed my lack of interest, or she understood that she had made a mistake. After a few minutes she said, "The reason I asked you if you were her mother is because you run into a lot of nannies here too."

"Oh," was my response.

That is true. It's the only park where I see nannies.

To me, the nannies stick out as nannies. They gather together with strollers and bottles and chat with each other while the children play within a safe distance. There is a distance in their interactions with the children in their care. They lack the tenderness that you see between mothers and their children. Maybe that's something only mothers notice.

I finally got Annika off the swing under the guise that we needed to change her diaper and offered her a snack.

Anyone who is not the mother of a Bi-racial child might not really get my point here. I even hesitated to write this because I'm not even quite sure I get it, but somehow I felt this experience was an important one to share.

That feeling - that dull, soft spot that has turned so quickly from irritation to lack of interest in engaging someone who would be even slightly insensitive to our familial difference - is very new to me.

I've never been one to turn away from a debate, a fight, a dialogue. I am always the one searching for knowledge and enlightenment. My curiosity peaks at the slightest hint of something new or out of the ordinary.

But this stuff, this is not new. Not in this country.

White people who are in denial about the state of the racial divide. White people who think that because we desegregated schools, and affirmative action placed Black workers further up the ladder, and the fact that we have a Black president makes it all better, makes it all okay, makes it all -- equal.

That soft, dull feeling that I can't even begin to describe as an ache, because it doesn't ache. It is more like a tumor. That is what I imagine dark-skinned people feel every time they interact with insensitive White people. People who think that a Band-Aid makes the wound disappear.

I spent nine years living in Detroit. I cannot even begin to tell you the hatred and vitriol that divides the metropolis. It is in ingrained so deeply that most people, Blacks and Whites, don't even see it as a color issue anymore.

I spent a lot of time chatting with my Black friends in Detroit. The ones who cared enough to attempt to enlighten me, about how it feels for your feelings to be swept aside as easily as, "Oh sorry, it was an honest mistake."

But I didn't really get it until now. Or, I should say, I am feeling it. Maybe I will never really get it. But I feel something that I definitely never felt before.

It's only been two years, of slip ups and insensitive questions about the maternal bond I share with a child who is not the same color as me.

And already, I have no desire to interact with someone who can't or won't even admit the possibility - until she has hard evidence - that she might be my daughter.

If I can get to this point in two years it makes me wonder how many years this country will pay dearly for the past mistakes we made. It makes me wonder how many generations it will take to slough off the ingrained anger and indifference, on both sides.

The First Sense to go is Fashion: or What the Hell are Jorts?

I fully admit that my fashion sense has been slipping away gradually for the last several years. I really don't care. 

But lately I've been wondering if I'm one of those people. That person who people look at and go, hasn't she seen a fashion magazine in the last decade?

Or does she go out in PUBLIC, like, ever?

Doesn't she know that (insert fashion faux pas here) is just LAUGHABLE?

I thought I was just blending into the crowd.

Well, the truth is, I haven't looked at a fashion magazine in like 10 years. I may have bought one once or twice. If I did I probably became quickly irritated with myself for wasting $4 - then took the quiz to find out if my boyfriend is REALLY that in to me - and then tossed it in the trash.

Thinking about how I look to other people reminds me of a woman I used to see around at parties during my early 20s who was still feathering her hair and wearing blue eye shadow. She wasn't even old enough to be leftover from the 1970s. I don't know what her deal was.

I don't think I'm that bad. But the truth is, I don't even know what 90s fashion looks like. So how am I supposed to know if I'm still wearing it? I mean, okay. I LIVED in the 90s. It was the height of my fashion sense years. But I dressed alternative. Yes, that's what we called it.

I wore baggy jeans and vintage tops and big shoes with buckles on them. Or baggy jeans and tight shirts with big chunky heels. I wore a lot of black. (This was after the hair bow and denim years. Don't judge, it was the 80s.)

I know I'm not still dressing like that, although, I would totally love for that stuff to come back in style. Maybe I should just start dressing that way again and make a real fashion statement.

My basic dress consists of jeans, shorts, jean shorts, flip flops, tank tops, blouses, a couple of skirts (that I never wear anymore). Ummm. Hmmmm. Yeah, that's about it.

These days I mostly hang out with other 30-and 40-something moms. Most of them seem to have it a little more together when it comes to looking cute. They wear skirts sometimes and they seem to know what kind of shoes are cool. I only recently heard about Keens. I mean, I've seen them before, but I didn't know what they were called. The clothes in my regular rotation are definitely not from this season. I shop at thrift stores.

In  case you are wondering, the impetus for this fashion angst is from a conversation I had on Twitter with an IRL friend in her 20s and a cute dresser.

Here it is:

punc_rock: yesterday i tried on a pair of jorts. and i liked it.
marthawood: @punc_rock what are jorts?
punc_rock: @marthawood jean shorts. usually used toward people stuck in 90's clothes, recently reclaimed by the hipsters that wear ironic 90's outfits
marthawood: @punc_rock interesting. Did not know that jean shorts were considered uncool. Am wearing some now. Also wondering if I look .....
marthawood:@punc_rock ... To 20-somethings the same way ppl w/ feathered hair looked to me in the 90s.
punc_rock: @marthawood haha, well keep them on, now you are a hipster! voila, just like that. :P jk.  

Yeah.

Well, I know I am not a hipster. Nor do I want to be. I'm too old. I really don't want to be like that 40-something woman who worked in the office at my high school and wore huge hair bows and denim skirts to go along with her bleached, permed hair. She looked ridiculous. Okay, we ALL looked ridiculous, but at least the rest of us had an excuse. We were kids. We didn't know any better. 

I took a picture the day I had that conversation with my friend.  

That's what I was wearing. 


Then I start to wonder if my shorts are too short. What kind of shorts am I supposed to wear that aren't denim. What kind of shoes would make me look cooler.

Aaargh, I need some new clothes! But then I think how ridiculous that is. To go out and get a new wardrobe. The majority of my social interaction is playgroups at parks, outside, with toddlers who expect you to pick them up even if they are soaking wet, have food on their hands, holding a wet sippy cup....

And I wonder, just why I would bother.

Hell, maybe I'll just go get some cutoff jorts and call it a day.

Wait a second. Maybe my problem is not my clothes, but the fact that I never hang out in the adult world. 
 

What scares me about the Better Homes and Gardens commandment debacle

Late last week Better Homes and Gardens blogger Heather W. posted The 10 commandments of dining with little kids. If you clicked that link, you will have noticed that the headline now reads 9 commandments.

They changed it. Quietly. Over the weekend when online activity is generally decreased.

Is it just me, or doesn't it bug anyone else that this magazine didn't acknowledge that the content was changed until the original version was being smeared all over the internet?

The editor's note that is now in place on the post was placed on top of the post on Monday, May 24. The article was posted on Wednesday, May 19.

I don't know when they changed the post, but I read it around 9 a.m. Monday morning after seeing in on Twitter, and that editor's note wasn't there. It was just the post, with the changed headline and the missing commandment.

A brief synopsis of what happened.

Some blogger who apparently doesn't like hanging out in restaurants where children are shrieking, throwing food on the floor, and running rampant wrote some dumb list for parents giving them the commandments for how to behave in restaurants.

What BHG took out was this commandment:

"THOU SHALT NOT BREAST FEED AT THE TABLE
Yes, I have seen table-side breast feeding at a four-star restaurant. If at all possible, take it to the ladies room. (Note: most upscale restaurants have really nice restrooms!)"

Unfortunately for BHG, enough people had already noticed the offensive proposition and copied it and pasted it all over a bunch of other sites, a Facebook page calling for a boycott was set up. BHG's very own FB page was littered with angry comments.

The magazine even posted a heartfelt apology.

So, on to what bugs me the most about this.

I don't give a shit that they have ignorant, uneducated and inconsiderate bloggers working for them. I don't even mind that they scapegoated her out, saying that nobody else had read the post before it went on the website. I don't believe that. I worked for a small community newspaper and my university newspaper and nothing got posted in print or online without at least one other person looking at it.

The magazine says that the post was "not vetted by our editors." What a load of horseshit.

But what really bugs me the most is that they did not post ANYTHING remotely close to an apology or a retraction. They simply removed the offensive part of the article and went about their business as if it never happened.

Until they got called out by thousands of pissed off moms.

A lot of people are saying that BHG has acted honorably and ethically by apologizing and removing the offending content.

That is SO WRONG.

It is highly highly unethical for a media outlet to ignore a mistake, and change content without reflecting that somewhere in the piece.

One example of an ethical media outlet, is the New York Times. Whenever they change something, typically a factual error, it is always noted.

In this time period, when online information is transmitted so quickly and easily, it is important to support media outlets that are honorable, ethical and honest. They must own up to mistakes. They must respect the sanctity of the transmission of information.

I know that some editorialized blog post on kids in restaurants is not exactly Watergate. But if the line gets blurred, there, where does it end?

Drlogging

So, even though I am still a tiny ass little fish in the big blogging sea, somebody likes me and I got an award!

Yippeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Before I write anymore I should tell you. I'm drunk.

Yep.

Well, good and buzzed anyway. I did it on purpose.

See, one of the potential requirements of accepting this award was that I get drunk. Ok, it was only ONE option, but as anyone who knows me IRL, you would know that I would have picked that one.

Here are the rules:

ONE: Get really excited that you got the coolest award EVER!

Yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

TWO: Choose one of the following options for accepting the OMB award:

a. Get really drunk and blog for 15 minutes straight or for as long as you can focus. I can totally do this. One, I'm from Texas. Two, I have a journalism degree. I was drunk when I wrote about Bush getting elected for the second time. Yeah, I know. What Democrat wasn't completely wasted drunk that night?

b. Write about your most embarrassing moment. Most embarrassing moment? Well, they would likely involve me being drunk, so why not just go for the purity of getting drunk and blogging at the same time?

c. Write a "Soundtrack of Your Childhood" post. Really? Now that would be embarrassing.

d. Make your next blog a 'vlog'/video blog. I thought about doing this, and naming is DRVlogging, but my Flip camera is low on batteries and to be honest I'm not sure how to recharge it. Yep, I'm old. Fuck YOU.

e. Take a picture of yourself first thing in the morning before you do anything else [hair, makeup, etc.] and post it. That's just stupid, what is this, the 1980s? Sorry if this offends anyone. In case you weren't paying attention, I'M DRUNK! And, for some reason I can't turn off the bold font. Screw you. I'm DRUNK!

 

 THREE: Pass the award on to at least 3, but preferrably more, awesome bloggers like yourself. Don't forget to tell them!

This is the hardest one because I have so many to pick from! 

Ok, since I'm drunk I'm going to be a sap and give the first award right back to the person who gave it to me because even though I've never met her in person, I think we'd totally be buddies. I LOVE YOU MAN!

1. Soy Mami Y Mas. I have no fucking clue what the name of her blog means, but she's open, honest, sweet and dedicated. I also think she has balls. I like women with balls.

2. MamaTrue: This is my IRL friend Sonya. She's going through a divorce right now and blogging about it as honestly and as respectfully as one can share their innermost thoughts and feelings with people who don't know her.

3. Late Enough. Late Enough is my newest favorite read. She's a mom, an ex-Marlboro Light smoker, a SAHM, with a doctor hubby and from reading her about page, I'm guessing she's gone through some sort of spiritual metamorphosis, which is very cool in my book. She's also funny. I'd wax more on this, but remember, I'M DRUNK.

Anyhoo, so on to the more important part of this post, (which I can tell you has gone on quite longer than 15 fucking minutes), the part where I blog drunk.

 

I'm one of those people who sway between super funny and super serious, or just pissed off when I'm drunk. DO NOT, AND I REPEAT, DO NOT LET ME DRINK TEQUILA IF I AM PMSING. 

Okay, now that I've gotten that very important PSA out of the way, I'm going to get all serious and shit on you because I don't have an audience to moonwalk in front of and I'm not pmsing.

I have often wondered what exactly my relationship with alcohol is. I grew up in a very Christian-like family. My maternal grandfather was a Church of Christ preacher. My maternal grandmother would have been a preacher if the CHURCH wasn't so fucking sexist. (My words, not hers, she's probably rolling over in her grave right now.) 

I spent most of my childhood wondering if I was on the path to eternal salvation and making deals with G-O-D. I often daydreamed about dying just for a minute so that I could ask God if I was on the right path, if I was going to the right church, if I was for sure going to make it to heaven. 

Then I went to a Christian university.

It didn't take long for me to start drinking.

Yeah.

Getting drunk for me back then was like, well, holy shit, I can take a fucking break from all this worry and guilt and shit. Who the fuck wouldn't want that?

Then I did a lot of shit that I may or may not share with the blogosphere at some future date, then boom, I'm married. To a guy who is total straight edge. So, I spent several years not drinking, much.

Then we got divorced.

That's when I realized I may or may not have a grown up alcohol problem.

Before I could just blame it on college life.

But now, here I was in my late 20s, nearing my 30s and most of my best memories involved me getting drunk, peeing in public, running from cops, or women who were mad that I had snatched flowers off of their lawns, smoking to cover my breath in front of cops and passed out pictures of me in front of bonfires, or getting into beds with my friends who were sleeping naked. 

I spent a lot of years drinking. Which is my point. I stopped basically because I had a kid.

I don't have a hard time not drinking. But once I start, I don't want to stop.

My paternal grandfather was, according to my mother, a big time alcoholic. When I was in my late teens the current train of thought was that alcoholism skips a generation.

Today, science has "proven" that there is an addiction gene.

I don't know if I buy any of this. I used to drink because it numbed my pain and my guilt and my anger and it helped me feel connected to people because when I was sober I was so busy hiding behind my shell.

Now that I have a child I have less pain and guilt and anger because she brings me joy and I don't have time for self-centered angst. I feel more connected to the world because I have a child who has forced me to get with the program.

I wonder if this whole addiction thing is real. I wonder if bad parenting is part of the equation. I wonder if I will pass on my problems to my daughter or if my experiences will help me decipher her teen angst and worry and maybe I will be able to pass on enough wisdom that she won't feel the need to drink and do drugs and party like I did.

I just wonder.

I sway back and forth between worrying that my problems will be a hurdle or a stepping stone for my daughter.

I could go on and on about this, but that would involve more thinking and to be quite honest with you, I just want to go to the store and get some tacos and cheetos and then pass out.

So, in case you are thinking that this post is way to cohesive and there are not enough spelling errors, remember, I'm a Texan and a journalist at heart. Being drunk has never impeded me from getting done what I need to do. 

Ok, I'm going to go eat some fuckking tacos now. Laterzioooooooooooooooooooo

P.S. 15 minutes? Try 2.5 hours.

So, what color am I? Scroll to the end to find out

The other day Toyin asked Annika what color her hair was, she responded, (to my surprise) "Brown!"

To me, her hair looks black. To Toyin, it looks brown.

Her hair, just like her identity, will look to each side of the cultural equation, more like the other one.

I realized recently that I have already made a mistake about the race discussion.

I have been waiting for Annika to get older, or to see if she brings it up, instead of doing what I knew subconsciously what I should have done. I should have already started talking to her about it.

It's not so bad. I mean, her language skills are still developing. As with many topics that are hard to discuss, I kept thinking I'd wait for her to notice that her skin color is different from mine. I mean, she's only 2. It seems to be so obvious to other people, I guess I didn't think she'd take long to notice.

But to her, we are normal. To other people, we are not, at least, not most people. Even our friends, who like us and don't care that we are a blend of colors, it is still a noticeable difference.

I have been asked plenty of times now if Annika is adopted. Some people with less couth just say things like, "Is that your daughter?"

Then the other day a little girl asked me flat out, "Why is your skin different colors?" as she watched me nursing Annika. Wow. I was totally unprepared for such a guileless question.

It was the most refreshing exchange I've had with another person on the topic since Annika was born. I mean, this kid did not assume anything. She had no judgments. Her only agenda was to get her question answered. It was so simple. So wonderful.

I told her that it was because Annika's daddy has darker skin than mine and so she was a mixture of our skin colors. Even after I said that, I fumbled more, trying to come up with something a little more.... profound, maybe? I don't know what I was searching for.

Her mom jumped in and explained, saying something like, "You know how my hair and your dad's hair are different colors and yours a mixture of ours? It's the same thing."

The little girl seemed satisfied with that.

I was grateful for the additional explanation. But even more grateful for the question.

It made me realize that even with all my reading and thinking on the subject I still don't know exactly what I'll say when Annika starts asking questions. It made me realize that maybe I'm not quite as comfortable with the topic as I thought I was.

So, I decided to test the waters.

Yesterday as I sat with Annika on the couch, I held our arms together. I pointed at her arm.

"What color is your arm Annika?" I asked her.

"Brown!" She said with a proud grin.

I pointed at my arm.

"What color is Mommy's arm?"

She looked confused and then looked up at my face for guidance.

I could understand her confusion. I mean, really, what color is my skin?

In all reality, it is just a much lighter shade of brown. But I was pointing out to her that our skin color was different. She understood that much.

I said, "They're not the same color are they?" I said.

She nodded, no.

"So what color is Mommy's arm?" I asked again, curious what she would say.

"Grey!"

Heh, heh. Well, I guess that's close enough.

Apparently being a douche makes Anderson Cooper an expert on racism

As a former journalist I defend the media whenever I get the chance. Sure, it has its problems, but it's a tough job.

HOWEVER, sometimes, the media gets involved in things they have no business being involved in.

Like talking to children.  

About racism.

Monday night CNN aired the first part of a series called, "Doll Study Research," on AC360.The topic was that Anderson Cooper and his team performed a "study" about how Black and White children see race.

I like how they named their study after a famous actual research study that actually used dolls.

I'm no scientist, nor am I child psychologist, but I thought the clips were way more telling about the producers of the show adults asking the questions, than the children. Additionally, the way these children answered was more a reflection of our society than the actual kids' feelings or beliefs.

One thing I've learned in the past few years is that how you talk to children makes a huge difference in the answers you get.

In the clip labeled "show me the dumb child" they asked the kids a bunch of questions about which kids were smart, dumb, nice, mean, ugly, good-looking, good and bad. The younger set of children was questioned in the wrong way. Children that young are looking to please. The older kids were way more articulate.

If you give a kid a set of pictures and tell him/her to pick out the ugly one, the child is not going to say, "Oh, none of them are ugly." They are assuming that there is an ugly one, so the way I see it, unless a child has been talked to about this topic, they are going to pick the one they think you want them to.

I really liked what this dad had to say about his daughter's answers. His daughter said that all the children were equal. Her response was well-thought out and knowledgeable. Then her dad noted that this is what he had taught her. Hello! Let's teach our kids how to think about racism instead of waiting for Anderson Cooper to tell us what they think.

In the headline, this mom was portrayed as a mother who is shocked by her daughter's "white bias" as this so-called study claims to have found. But if you watch and listen, her answers are pretty savvy. She knows her daughter isn't a racist. She understands exactly what the book NurtureShock tells us, that children pick out people who look similarly to themselves and their parents as being better than others.

These children aren't racist. Nor do they have a condition called "white bias." They are just kids. Who got asked a bunch of stupid questions.

As an aside, I have to add that I think it's great (sarcasm) how CNN has found a new label to give kids.

I hope my child never gets "white bias." But just in case she does, I hope the pharmaceutical companies are working on a pill for that.

Happy BirthMothersDay

True to form, I am late in posting this, by one day (or two depending on how you see it).

I realized around 11:30 p.m. Sunday night that I didn't mention Mother's Day on my blog. Where I mostly write about being a mom and most of my readers are moms.

Yeah. I figured that the wooden tits should say it all.

But in case it wasn't enough:

Happy belated Mother's Day to you all!



Really though, when you read this, you'll understand why I sort of forgot it was Mother's Day.

A. I've never been good at remembering holidays. Growing up, we knew it must be some sort of holiday if there was one of those gross lard-based grocery store cakes sitting on the dining room table.

My family goes through the motions when it comes to holidays, but that's about it.
 

Birthdays were about the same. Because of the mostly bad or non-existent birthday memories, I'm determined to make sure Annika always has a good birthday celebration.

And B. Yesterday was her actual birthday, but Toyin and I took her to Port Aransas for the weekend to play in the sand and splash in the salt water.

We had a blast.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, Annika's birthday will always take precedence over Mother's Day.

And that is just fine with me.

The Dolly Parton Tree

On our way to Port Aransas this weekend we stopped in the tiny town of McCoy, Texas. We stopped so I could use the facilities at a little barbecue joint where a guy was settin' outside actually cooking the meat on a grill. The owner of the place was super friendly and made sure to tell us all about the tree to the side of the restaurant.

"That's a Dolly Parton tree you know," she said to us, pointing to the magnificent 200-year-old tree on the side of the restaurant. I cannot for the life of me remember the name of the place, but if you get off at the exit for McCoy and head east you'll come up on it after about two miles. You can't miss it. It's the first sign of civilization. It's sexy, huh?

The hum of the road brings out the philosopher in me

Last night as we drove south on Highway 37 toward Port Aransas, we passed by what Toyin and I guessed was an oil refinery. It stretched for several miles and was lit up like a small city. The individual lights burned brightly like Christmas lights on a tree, glowing with serenity. The steam pumped out across the sky forming a soft burnt cloud-like smog across the city. It was -- dare I say it and offend my environmental sense -- quite beautiful.

It was like a small city within itself. It hummed with a sense of a tiny, organized ecosystem within a ragingly disorganized and painfully expansive system.

Ever since the oil spill along the coast, I only saw the negative impact of the oil pumping along the coast. Because of the oil spill, ocean life has been damaged, food sources have been lost, livelihoods are threatened, entertainment and vacation spots will be ruined. There is much to be lost because of this oil spill. It is sad. It is painful for our world. I get that.

But as we drove in the darkness while Annika slept, the sight of the oil refinery struck me with wonder and knowledge. It is its own tiny point of light and a movement of evolution in itself. Oil provides a way of life. It is a natural resource that we use to power things that are necessary for daily life in this century. I don't know about you, but I like lights and motor vehicles.

Maybe it was the darkness and the hum of the road that lends itself to seeing beauty in the openness of the unknown ahead of us. Maybe it was the silence of the sleeping child that one learns to enjoy to its fullest because you never know how long it will last. Maybe it was the beauty of the lights against the velvety sky. Maybe it was the smell of the ocean or the anticipation of vacation.
 
I'm not a religious woman, but I did grow up "in" the Church of Christ, as we put it. Three times a week for 18 years of my life I worshiped the Lord. I am very familiar with the teaching of Christ.

When we drove past that oil refinery all of these thoughts roiled through my head and I murmured, "One things dies so another may live." It was all very metaphoric. 


Today we spent the morning at the beach and once again I was struck by another ecosystem inside a larger one. The smaller ecosystem inside water that pools in between the beach and the edge of the rolling tide. It is a miniature system that is formed of the same things that forms the ocean, but it is more closely connected, more intense. It is the dregs of the ocean that are moving closer together to make their own tiny society of kelp, seaweed, gravel, shells, tiny fish and salt water.

Watching these newer, smaller ecosystems at work, the way they take what is there and mold something new that resembles its maker is like watching a child grow and become.

Become what? Just become. Become who they will be. Become the essence of you, your genetics, your childhood environment, your talents and your failings. For better or worse, they are our oil spills and our miniature oceanic ecosystems, taking what the world gives them and reworking it.

I wish I had some pictures for you but alas, I did not take pictures of either one. And, I forgot my cable for the camera. But hang tight because I'm going to try to find one tonight and instead of oil refineries and tiny pools of fish I have some pictures of a tree with tits! God I love Texas.

Mother's Day remembrances and a review

Mother's Day is just around the corner and thinking about it, I am reminded of a wonderful little bundle of joy I was given last year. No, not Annika. That was two years ago. Yep, she was born the day before Mother's Day. It was definitely the best Mother's Day gift I have ever gotten and every year she will continue to be the best Mother's Day gift.

I have already sworn that I will never one of those moms that hints around for gifts and instead I will use Mother's Day to remind myself that the best gift my child can give me is her presence (pun intended).

However, I am lucky in that, Toyin, even though he certainly doesn't have to, still buys me presents occasionally.

Last year, on my second official Mother's Day, Toyin gave me an iPod Touch for Mother's Day and it was hands down the best gift he has ever given me, other than Annika. And he, unlike previous men in my life, gives really good gifts.

The year before, a couple of months after Annika was born, he split the cost of a new laptop for me. The first year we dated, he took me to a bed and breakfast for my birthday and bought me a digital recorder, which would come in handy for my job as a newspaper reporter. He's bought me clothes, fancy dinners, and gadgets in the six years we've known each other. But even so, the iPod was the best thing he could have ever bought me and I'll tell you why. Even though it wasn't the most expensive gift he ever bought me, unlike those other gifts, this one saved my sanity.

At the time, Annika was working on about the fifth month of what looked like a never-ending life being attached to my breast for sleeping. And 1-year-olds sleep a lot! We're talking, like 14 hours a day I was strapped down next to her while she slept.

In the first months she did this too, but I could pop her on my breast on my Boppy nursing pillow and once she fell asleep, I'd turn on a TV show or read the news on my laptop.

But as she got bigger and more aware of the world around her, the noises from the laptop irritated her. At night, for a while, I could leave the light on and I'd read books. During naps, I did the same, but a person can only read so much, plus it's exhausting on the fingers and arms trying to hold a book up with one arm for an hour or two while flipping pages with the same hand because your infant is sleeping on top of the other arm.

So for several months, off and on I'd lie there, bored, staring at the ceiling, thinking about e-mails I wanted to respond to, news I wanted to read, things I'd like to write about, videos I could be watching, funny Facebook statuses came and went through my head that never got posted.

Twitter remained elusive. I'd hear about news events and be surprised, even though they had been all over every major news station in the world. Even though a lot of those moments were good extra time for sleeping and lots of good bonding with Annika also happened during that time, it was tiring and lonely, lying there while my child slept next to me with my breast in her mouth and all I could do was lie there, unfulfilled, bored and not tired.

So when Toyin bought me the iPod Touch, it changed my life.

I still use it even though it has gotten way easier to sneak out of bed after she falls asleep. Naps are still hard to sneak away, so I use it during those. But the iPod has actually made it easier for me to stay in bed longer with Annika at night and has given us even more cuddle time. Surprisingly, this little gadget has made it so that I am not longing to get up and often, after Annika falls asleep, I will get on my iPod for about an hour and then I turn it off and roll over for more snuggles as I drift into la-la land.

This little gadget isn't perfect by any means. Even though I've had it for less than a year, many of the apps I want need the upgraded version, so they don't work. And for some reason YouTube videos stop playing after we've watched them several times. Occasionally, the wireless gets hung up and I have to reset my modem.

Another problem that I didn't originally foresee is that now Annika fights me for the use of it. On the one hand, it's a nice toy for her because I have some cool toddler apps that she really likes. She has learned her shapes using the iPod and her eye hand coordination is remarkable for a less-than-2-year-old, in my opinion.

But she has gotten to the stage where she will demand the use of it. "Have it!" She tells me when I am using it to check my e-mail, or, she will demand to watch a "boo do" (video).

But all in all, the iPod Touch has been a lifesaver for me. I have often thought that it's something no attached mama should be without.

So if your husband or significant other has asked you what you want for Mother's Day, tell him or her that you want an iPod Touch, or hell, make it an iPad. It might come in handy during the heavy flow days. (Pun intended.)

The two-year mark makes me feel like a giddy school girl

I don't know what it is. This two year mark coming up on being a mother is somehow similar to how I felt when I moved from junior high (now called middle school -- yes I'm old) to high school.

It may not seem like much of an accomplishment on the outside. To the cool kids of the world I probably still look like an awkward, unkempt 12-and-a-1/2-year-old wearing purple eyeshadow and a bulky watch that does not go with my ruffly graduation dress.

But on the inside I feel like I am a new woman. I've figured out how to shave my legs without bleeding and the possibilities with boys are endless!

In all reality, I feel like I have passed the first big test and the first major hump of being an attached parent.

If parenting is brain surgery, attachment parenting is neuroscience. It's not just looking at what is there, it is looking at what could be there and trying to make sure that good things happen and bad things don't.

I'm not trying to debate the differences between mainstream parenting vs attachment parenting. But let's face it. The reason many people choose not to do certain things like, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, avoid sleep training and wear babies is because, it is fucking inconvenient. It's physically and mentally challenging. And it lasts longer. It's hard on your back and neck.

It's also emotionally tiring because in some cases people not only have the regular challenges of parenting, but they also have to defend their choices (or feel like they have to) to judgmental family members and/or friends and sometimes even their partners.

We will be celebrating Annika's second birthday one week from today. Last year, on her first birthday I remember feeling some sort of milestone, but she was still a baby. She wasn't really walking yet, taking little steps here and there. She was still babbling. She still nursed for most of her nutrition. She still needed me 150 percent of the time. She was still a baby.

But this year, man oh man, the second year has flown by. My neck is still hurting from the whiplash of this year. Or, hmm, maybe that's from the pretzel-like positions I've been sleeping in for the past two years.

This year on her birthday she is not only walking, but running. Man that kid is gonna be track star. She is talking in complete sentences. She can count to 17, if you don't count 14, 15, and 16. She knows about 12 percent of the ABC's depending on the day. She sings. She laughs at jokes. She defies me. She tests my patience. She forces me to grow as a human being. She makes me examine myself and see where my strengths and my weaknesses are. Oh, the weaknesses!

So yeah, the two-year mark is not just a milestone for me. It feels like I've been running and running around the track and I finally got to the first hurdle. And I made it over.

So come on y'all and give me some high fives! Next up, the slutty phase. Can someone please teach me how to put on lip liner?

New site: redirecting my redirection

Being semi-new to the blogging scene, I made an amateur move last week when I didn't announce anything and simply redirected all my traffic to my new site. I am hoping that I haven't lost any of my readers. I know I have probably confused a few.


So, anyway, I'm a big girl now! I have a real dot com. Visit me at www.momsoap.com.

Cheers!

And so the toddler years begin

I've been thinking about learning how to brew some sort of booze at home. Not because I think it would be fun. Honestly, I have some negative images of people who enjoy home brewing alcohol, based on some questionable characters in my past life.

But, really, I'm thinking about doing it because I have a feeling I'm going to need a large glass of something alcoholic at the end of each day for the next few (16 or 17?) years and I want to make sure it's always available, even if it isn't fully fermented.

It's been one of those days.

Annika purposely dumped her lunch on the ground at the park; soaked through her shorts, threw toys all over the house, over and over again throughout the day; refused to eat her dinner unless she was holding the dish or standing up; dumped food on the floor, purposely and accidentally; stood in the bathtub screaming, tried to climb out before I had washed her, dumped water on the floor; and then ran around like a wild woman tossing books on the floor and alternately crying and laughing until I took her to bed an hour earlier than she usually goes to bed.

And today wasn't even what I would classify as a bad day.

We had fun at library story time this morning. She actually slept long enough this morning so that I could have a luxurious shower and make my coffee before she woke up.

She was adorable and charming. She said, "I luff you," for the first time. Granted, she was just repeating what I said to her, but still, she said it as we stood over the stove making soap.

I was actually able to make the soap, start a scoby, chat with a friend on the phone and make homemade french fries that are sitting cold and barely touched in the refrigerator because she suddenly decided that she preferred peas over french fries.

By 7 p.m. I was exhausted. It reminded me of when I was a kid and my mom used to say, "You have to go to bed because I'M tired."

I always thought it was unfair, especially when she said it and didn't actually go to bed, but sat up reading or knitting, doing things that looked like work to me and I couldn't understand why she needed me to be in bed for her to do them. (Yes, I used to sneak out of bed and sit in the darkened hallway, checking to make sure that it really was necessary for me to be in bed.)

So yeah. The toddler years have begun in full force.

I have a feeling I'm going to really regret complaining about feeling forced to take naps with her.

Here's hoping that first memory is a good one

On Sunday morning as Annika and I rolled out of bed, I went in to the living room, put on a video and said to her, "Mommy is going to lie back down for a few minutes. Okay?" I swear I never do that, but I was really tired on Sunday. Honest. I really don't.

As I flopped back into my bed she ran in and was like, "No Mommy. Gep up."

As I lay there looking at her demanding my attention, something occurred to me. She might actually remember this. Oh shit. I better gep up.

Up until recently I have been operating under the assumption that I am still in my grace period for parental fuck ups because, well, she ain't gonna remember, so if I do something wrong I can still plead the fifth during her therapy sessions after her first traumatic relationship where her therapist starts pointing out the parallels between our relationship and why she lets men treat her like shit.

I'm really looking forward to that.

But yeah. She really remembers shit now and I have no idea when her first long-term memory might kick in.

My first memory is one of me wearing my Cookie Monster pajamas and chasing after my brother to bring him his lunch at the bus stop. My mom says that I wore those jammies when I was about 2. She was surprised that I remembered them.

So, really, do I want Annika's first memory to be of me telling her to go watch TV while I sleep? I can see it now. She's going to be blogging about her childhood and I will be all like, "I swear to all the gods in all the universes, I only did that ONCE!"

I vaguely remember reading somewhere that language and memory go hand in hand. And if that is accurate, then I suppose she really might remember a lot of what's happening right now. She's really speaking in full sentences now, even though a lot of them are not distinguishable to most people.

So I guess my grace period is up. I wonder if that means I'm eligible for health insurance now.

Being single-ish means more than the fact that I'm not getting laid

Being a co-parent instead of the traditional single mom and dad with established visitation means that in some ways, you have to function like a marriage.

Since Toyin and I decided to go the co-parenting route, this means three things. One, I often refer to myself as single-ish when I'm talking to other parents because I don't like the stereotypical image of saying I'm a single mom. Two, I have to consult Toyin on things like when to take Annika to the doctor and how often she brushes her teeth. And three, I still don't have time to date. The latter has more to do with the fact that I'm still breastfeeding and co-sleeping and I have other things to do when I am without Annika, but that doesn't mean I won't make an effort to blame Toyin for it.

Anyhoo, last week Annika was sick and when she gets sick, the dys in our dysfunction flares up and man, does it itch like crazy! 

We tend to disagree on how to treat illness. I tend to take the more laid back attitude of, "Well, we'll see if the rash goes away on its own. If it starts dripping puss, then we can try rubbing some raw garlic on it and if that doesn't work I'll take her to the doctor."

Toyin on the other hand, well, I'll just put it this way. I've taken her to the doctor twice for one cold because he was determined that she was going to die if we didn't inject her with something that ended in dryl or drine and had lots of ingredients that I can't pronounce.

So, yeah. Last week she was sick. She wasn't dripping puss or running a fever, but she was highly uncomfortable.

What was wrong with her is irrelevant, and I'm going to be vague about it because I think this particular problem crosses the line into her privacy and what could potentially embarrass her.

But I thought I had it under control and instead of asking Toyin for advice, I gave him a list of items I needed from the store and assumed he would show up with them.

Instead of getting all of the items on my list, he got two out of the seven items and then some stuff that was actually counterproductive (in my opinion).

I was all, "WTF Dude! Are you fucking kidding me? Don't you have a cell phone? Check in next time."

And he was all, "I don't need to check in with you. I have a mind and I can think for myself. Quit being a beotch!"

Okay, okay, he didn't actually use the B word, but I could see it hovering in his mind. When you get to a certain age, you can almost feel the B word and the C word inside the head of a man. They don't actually have to say it. They just think it and all your lady parts stand at attention ready to retaliate.

Then over the weekend Toyin and I got into a discussion about education, as in, what Annika's education will look like as she is growing up.

Once again, I got all huffy with him and I ended our discussion with, "I can't talk about this right now."

Oh christ. Did those words just come out of my mouth? I am for sure turning into my mother. I just hope I don't forget how to check my voicemail and start doing crossword puzzles.

Since I learned that I was pregnant, I formed a pact with myself that I would not impose the exact same negativity on my child that my parents did with me and my siblings.

My parents fought insanely my entire childhood. Even when they weren't having major blowouts, the bickering was constant.

That was something I never considered as a possible problem. Toyin and I weren't getting married. Sure, we argued sometimes but except for the time when we were an actual couple, the fights were rare. For the most part, we got along.

Then we moved in together and spent the first 18 months as parents under one roof.

Yeah.

I'd say that 80 percent of the time, it was at least, okay. There were some blowouts. It got nasty a few times. I chalked it up to normalcy. I mean, even loving couples argue. Passion often inspires heated moments between anyone and even though Toyin and I aren't passionate about each other anymore, we're still passionate and very, very opinionated people.

But after last week I realized something, our lives will be entwined for a long time. (I know, you're going, really Martha, you JUST realized this?) Somehow I thought that once we moved into separate homes things would change and I would get to start making all the decisions without consulting him. Ever. Okay, no I didn't really think that, but somehow I thought it would get easier. And it has, mostly. We are definitely getting along better again. But even though we aren't married, our lives function that way on some level. We will always have to make decisions for Annika as parents. And boy howdy, the big ones haven't even started yet.

So far, we've done alright. Our biggest decisions have usually started with me going, "I want to try some kooky new age crazy hippie thing." Then he looks at me like I've lost my damn mind. Then I explain and explain and eventually wear him down.

Just kidding. Okay, not really. But most of the time we make rational decisions based on what's best for Annika. And I think we'll do just fine. I'm just looking for a way to do it with less "discussing." And by discussing I mean arguing and bickering.

So, how do people do it? How do you make decisions without arguing? I am not a big fan of compromise, especially on big decisions. I mean, that just seems like you have to take to really fine ideas and then water one or both of them down so that nobody is happy.

If one person wins all the time, the other person is never happy. And really, in situations like this, nobody really wins because family members shouldn't have to compromise themselves to make the other person happy. It's probably one of the main reasons people get surprised with divorce papers. One person was happy and the other person was silently stewing.

So, that's the end. Normally I would try to think of something funny to sign off with but Toyin is due back with Annika. So, go rub some garlic on it and we'll see if it stops itching.

Helping her get her way

It's a common parenting adage to say things like, "You have to teach them that they can't always have their way."

I say poo poo on this idea. I prefer to teach my daughter that she can get her way. Instead of being the bad guy and making up arbitrary lessons to knock her down, I'd like to help her learn when it is appropriate to insist on her own way, and when it is appropriate to step aside, or share, or let someone else have a turn.


I like this idea because I think in the long run, while it may not always make for a well-behaved child, it will make for a more empathic person who knows how to stand up for herself. And that's my goal, to raise a happy, functioning adult, not to have a kid who knows how to mind her P's and Q's, although, that would certainly be a nice bonus.

Yesterday I was stuck on the couch watching a video on an endless loop for about an hour and a half because Annika was exhausted and she fell asleep while nursing, catching me unawares, because she'd already had a nap.


It was late afternoon and she kept asking to nurse. I nursed her in bed for a while, but she seemed bored. So we got up. I thought her stomach was hurting her and I had her lie down on the couch and I covered her up with a blanket, which she seemed to like. But after a couple of rounds of this, she asked me to nurse again.

At first I said, "Oh no, we're done nursing for now. Would you like some water?"

"No!" she emphatically stated.

"Nuse!"

"No, you can have some water or some food. Do you want some yogurt?" I offered.

"Nuse! Nuse!" she cried. Her body stiffened up and she started to cry.

I reached out for her to hug her. She turned away.

I watched her for a minute.

All the different parenting voices shouted at me.

"You have to stand firm. When tell a child no, you have to mean it. Be consistent."

"But she really seems to need to nurse."

I gave in and nursed her. I've been doing that a lot lately, giving in. Letting her "have her way," whatever that means. I don't understand why parents think that if you let a kid win an argument or give in to a demand that is somehow bad parenting. Personally, I think that's a good way to teach a kid that they will never get what they want.

I was so glad I did give in yesterday, because she was on the verge of a major tummy ache, one that lasted all day today. We spent the whole day on the couch, sleeping and nursing. She barely ate. But she nursed a ton. She was having terrible pains throughout the day. When one would come on, I'd rush to her side, or hold her tight if I was already there. And by the end of the day, she started yelling for me, "Mommy!" And reach out to me. She didn't need me to be there. But she wanted me to be next to her.

I like that. I like helping my daughter. I like seeing the proof that she knows she can count on me.

And yes. I like helping her "get her way." I hope she always gets what she wants in life.

I learned the hard way that night weaning does not ensure sleeping through the night

I've given up on night weaning.

This may come as a shock to any of you who have been following my night nursing travails. From what I've written I'm sure that it seems as if night weaning was a relative success and we were now sleeping through the night.

This was true on some level, but I've come to realize that many children simply do not sleep through the night for the first few years of life, no matter WHAT the parents do. My daughter is one of those children.

We had gotten to a point where she stopped crying and asking to nurse. This happened in a relatively short time. I thought that was all it would take. All it should take. Every mom I talked to told me that their kids started sleeping through the night once they night weaned. And if they woke up, they went back to sleep easily with cuddles and/or a drink of water.

Apparently I was talking to all the wrong moms. Or, maybe I was just hearing what I wanted to hear.

But I'm here to tell you, if you think that night weaning solves all your sleep woes, it ain't so.

Say it isn't so!

Let me say it again.

Some of us simply have to accept the hard truth that it takes longer for our wee ones to sleep through the night without any major intervention from us.

A brief synopsis of our night weaning:

In December I broke down and decided to night wean. It went well. The first night was pretty bad. The second night wasn't quite as bad. And the third night she slept for most of the night. This continued, with brief night wakings for about a week until Annika got a cold.

Then she awoke begging to nurse and because of her dry mouth and stuffy nose, along with a spotty fever, I didn't have the heart to tell her no when she asked to nurse in the middle of the night.

We continued night nursing until some time in February when I decided that the worst of sick season was over so we needed to get back on track.

This time didn't go so well.

I don't remember how long it took, but it was several weeks of off and on crying and asking to nurse.

Then she stopped asking to nurse. But in March I realized after a few weeks of continuous waking that Annika was not going to just magically sleep through the night.

She'd wake up and then lie there, tossing and turning and whispering, "nuse," for about an hour. Then eventually drift off.

But I stayed awake.

I realized that if I wasn't getting any better sleep, there was really no reason to force her to lie there for an hour trying to fall back asleep when I could just nurse her and she'd fall right back to sleep.

The good part in all of this is: A couple of weeks ago is when I started night nursing again. Since then her language has had what I consider to be a second explosion.

The first one happened around 16 months when she started saying her words really clearly.

Now, at 23 months she's saying tons of phrases. She was saying random phrases before, but these new phrases are in the proper context.

She tells me, in reference to an object, to "Set it down, Mommy." "Call Daddy." "Go for a walk."

She's also started screaming "Stop!" when I comb her hair.

So, yeah. Night weaning has not solved my sleep problems. Annika clearly needs nursing to help her as she struggles through her developmental phases. Maybe she's needs it more than other kids. That's okay with me. I like knowing that she leans on me. I hope that she always does. I want her to know that I'll always be there for her.

And the cool thing is, I am learning how to deal. These first two years of being a parent have made me tougher than I ever imagined I could be or ever would be.

I thought I had done a lot of hard things in my life. I got married and moved across the world to another country.

I got divorced.

I lived in Detroit. Alone. For several years.

I've done numerous other things here that were hard and scary that I'm not going to mention.

But let me tell you, none of that stuff has anything on being a parent. It's toughest, scariest, rockiest road I've ever traveled. And night nursing was just the beginning.

Dropping in to my life through yoga

I want my life to feel like ashtanga yoga.

About a month ago, I started a yoga class at my friend, Rhonda's, new studio. I went to a couple of classes and then life got in the way, illness, lateness, and our trip to Michigan, so I missed class for a few weeks.

At Yoga Sunya, they teach ashtanga vinyasa yoga, which is characterized by focusing on a dynamic connecting postures. The movement between each posture is just as important as the posture itself.

I went to class on Saturday. I have done some stretching here and there in the past month since my last class, but I haven't done a full hour's worth or even more than a few minutes of yoga at home. But about halfway through the class, my body took over. It was easy. I just did the same thing over and over again. And soon it was easy. It felt good.

I don't mean that it felt good physically, even though, it did feel good physically.

More importantly, it felt good mentally.

At one point, it didn't feel good physically. Briefly I thought I might pass out because I was underneath the heat vent and I got my first glimpse into what menopause might feel like. 

So I moved away from the vent. I continued on. And it was easy. It felt good. I liked it and I want to do it more and more. Instead of stopping, which, part of me wanted to do, after my short stint with fake raging hormones, I continued. And it was easy.

After class I sat down with Steven, Rhonda's husband, and my instructor. We chatted for about an hour because I'm writing a freelance article about their new studio.

He shared how he learned about yoga. He gave me a brief yoga history lesson. And he talked about how his practice affects his life.

When he started doing yoga, he thought it was just another form of exercise. Something to help keep him in shape. After some time, his understanding of yoga morphed. He began to see the connection between his daily practice and his mental state.

After only a few classes, I have begun to see the connection. And now, I'm looking forward to continuing on with it so I can see more long term effects.

The first few classes I took with Steven, I grunted and stretched. He adjusted almost every pose I did. I tried really hard to pay attention to my breath. Inhale, stretch. Exhale, stretch. Oh, crap, I inhaled before I was done with the exhale pose. "Hurry, hurry," my mind said. "Catch up."

I started out like that during this class. Then something happened. I don't know what it was. Somehow, my body took over.

I didn't have any great realization. The only thing I did differently this time was tell myself not to worry.

I told myself to stop thinking that everyone else in the class was noticing how bad I was at this. I chose to tell myself, "It is okay if you aren't as fast or as smooth as the other students. Nobody is judging you. Nobody else cares if you stop or if you do a wrong move." I paid attention to my breath. I did the moves. I stopped over thinking every little thing. I got behind a couple of times and instead of skipping the in-between movement, I just followed my breath. Instead of staying behind, I caught up. Pretty soon I was feeling stronger and more powerful than I had only a few minutes before. I was flowing.

During our interview, I told Steven how my body just took over during class.

When I told Steven this, he smiled and said, "You dropped in."

I didn't ask him to explain because I thought I knew what he meant. Maybe he meant something else, but I interpreted it to mean that I let go of what I was thinking.

I let my body drop into the flow of the movement. I stopped trying to control my body with my mind.

I want my life to look like that.

Whenever I attempt something new, I know what I want to do. But I find myself constantly worrying that it's not good enough. Or somebody will tell me that I'm doing it wrong. Or that I can't do it. Or that I won't be fast enough. I won't be good enough.

But the truth is, I'm the only one telling myself that stuff.

Well, no, that's not true. I didn't completely make it up. My parents told me that stuff during my childhood. I was expected to get A's in school because "You're smart." If had questions, I was told, "Don't be stupid." I wasn't given choices. I was limited on food and television. I wasn't allowed certain activities because of religious beliefs. I was forced to go to church, which gave me a neurotic fear and unhealthy obsession with my afterlife.

I didn't like sports so I always got picked last because I wasn't fast enough, even though in eighth grade I almost beat the fastest girl in track during a fun run. I would have at least tied with her, but when we rounded a corner, out of sight from the teachers, she pushed me off the road. I was slowed down just enough so that she beat me, but I hauled ass right behind her even so. Bitch.

There have been many moments in my life where I had small realizations that I was fast enough and smart enough. But I always talked myself out of that awareness. I told myself it was a fluke. Somebody else wasn't feeling good. I caught a break.

I'm not going to do that to myself anymore.

After my class and interview with Steven, I decided to start doing what came naturally. I decided to listen to what I want. Not because I'm feeling particularly selfish, but because it will help me practice doing what I want in life. 

I went to lunch at Mr. Natural, a local vegetarian restaurant. I'm not a vegetarian, but I have been craving vegetarian food lately. I ate there with a friend last week and the entire week afterward I kept thinking about the milanesa patties with green chile sauce, nopalitos, gorditas and their freshly made corn tortillas. So I went and ate there. I didn't think to myself how I really shouldn't be eating out, or tell myself that I needed to get home and do some work. 

When I got home, what I really wanted to do was watch a TV show and drink a beer. So I did. While I was sitting there, I noticed that what I really wanted to do was organize a space in my living room that has been badly out of whack since I moved in. It's been four months.

It is finally clean. The clutter is gone.

Over the past several months I've been working on organizing my thoughts toward what I want and what I want my life to look like. I've been telling myself that if I just work toward those goals, they will come.

I do believe that is true, but what I've realized that may not work for me because my mind is constantly fighting with me about what I should do.

I am constantly trying to remind myself what I need to do.

But this doesn't work for me because then my needs and my wants start to conflict and I do whatever I need to do in order to avoid the conflict.

Now, though, what I need to do is to stop. Listen to my breath. Watch my inner thoughts and let them flit away. Let the actions arise effortlessly.

I want my life to look like yoga. That is what I want.

Spring: a time for renewing my nursing vows

I think people should make resolutions not once a year, but for every season.

I've always been a big believer in resolutions, even though I don't always stick to them, they are good reminders of things that I want. And in the end, if I want it badly enough and resolve it often enough, I usually do it. Eventually. Most of the time. Sometimes. Okay, maybe not ever. But sometimes, I do. Really.

To that end, my spring resolution is a renewal of my original intent to continue nursing Annika until she is ready to wean on her own. I'm even contemplating going back to night nursing since night weaning hasn't been the cure-all for my sleep ailments that I thought it would.

About a month ago, I began contemplating weaning.

I was sick of the constant clutching at my clothes and rolling around in my arms to position herself at my breast when I was holding her. I was frustrated because Annika would turn up her nose at food, but then two seconds later request to nurse.

So I decided to turn to my trusty mothering books for some answers.

I've been reading, How Weaning Happens, and Mothering Your Nursing Toddler. These books have helped me to realize that most of what I've been feeling is completely normal. Feeling frustrated because she prefers to nurse instead of eat regular food. Worrying that she's not getting enough nutrition. Annoyed because every time we are about to go somewhere she wants to stop and nurse. More annoyed because she wants to nurse before she gets strapped into the car seat after a trip somewhere, even when I tell her we can nurse as soon as we get home. Frustrated because nursing has become physically irritating.

But in reading these books, I have realized that some of my frustration is possibly some of the cause of additional nursing. I had wondered if that might be the case. Nursing to Annika represents not just nutrition, but closeness to me. It is a big part of her support system. Suckling helps her ease her stress during heavy developmental periods. When I tell her no, or blow her off with distractions, it represents rejection to her, thereby adding to her stress.

It's not like I didn't already know that stuff. I did. But it was hard to see it through my gritted teeth and clenched hands during the nursing sessions that were little more than light sucking most of the time. I'd look down at her and say, "You're not even really nursing!" I began to wonder just what it was exactly that she was getting out of it.

It made it even harder to be at playgroups with other kids her age and their moms saying, "Oh yeah, we've completely weaned. It didn't seem to bother little so-and-so in the slightest." Or, "Oh, yeah, she sleeps through the night, no problem."

It seemed to me like most of the other moms I knew in real life didn't have the same issues surrounding nursing that I did.

I felt alone in my struggle and questioning myself about how much she really needed to nurse and was I just creating bad habits.

But these books, and additionally some online friends have rallied around me in support, telling me I'm not the only one. She will eventually grow out of it. And yes, she really does need it. Even though all the stupid parenting experts say she doesn't.

Where did my little girl go?

For the longest time, I thought Annika would be a baby forever.

Of course, that's ridiculous. I knew that logically. But there was something in my brain that couldn't let go of the image of us as mother and baby forever. The idea that she would grow up seemed so far off in my mind that I just concentrated on her as a baby and read books on babies and thought baby thoughts.

Then over the past couple of months, I realized with a horror that she is almost 2!

Two freakin' years old! Where did these past two years go? It seemed like only a few months ago I was still pregnant and then giving birth, cuddling my sweet, soft, newborn.

It's a little early for this post, I realize, since her birthday is not for another month and a half (May 10 if you want to send gifts, LOL). But for some reason, this seemed like the appropriate time to write about it. Maybe it's because I've realized that my memory is never going to be the same again and since I'm thinking about it, I should do it now. There is something about becoming older and having failing body parts that makes you start to really live in the moment. :)

But anyway, Annika has been developing rapidly as of late.

She has start saying, "Cool," and "Cause," as pat responses. She tries to work remotes and she actually succeeds more often than I expect.

She has recently started to bargain with me, which trips me out.

She has gotten picky about what she wears and when she likes her outfit, she pulls at her shirt and says, "Annika cute."

She knows all her colors. She can count to 10 and is beginning to recognize most of the numbers in random spots. She likes to sing the alphabet, although she can still only get up to ABCD, then H, by herself. She also knows XYZ.

She has favorite foods already. She loves cashews and cantaloupe and chocolate. She refuses to eat vegetables even though during her first year she gobbled them down voraciously much to our (and everyone we told) surprise. She requests pizza occasionally.

She's such a, a, a, dare I say it? A KID! Oh my god. And it just happened overnight.