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Contents
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4 Editor’s Note
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Cultural Views from the Motherworld Special Ed Mom Marcy Neth
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Aim Here Tenley French
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Department of Insult to Injury Christiana Thomas
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Thoughts and Perspectives Hanging in My Closet Kim Spencer
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On the Defense Cindy Strandvold
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The Blessing Bowl Heather Schichtel
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Fiction A Glowing Pregnant Woman Stefanie Freele Naked Truth
Cover Photo by Sara Baird of Mama Baird Photography
Forgotten Abra Houchin
We are in search of covor photos, interior photos, visual art and written submissions (essays, short fiction, poetry, shreds). Please email all submissions to submit@getbornmag.com and include a title and bio with written submissions and a caption and title (optional) along with your name and location with photos. We want to hear from you!
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Shreds & Comments: letters@getbornmag.com Advertising: advertise@getbornmag.com
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Dispatches from Mars My Second Year of Firsts Stephen Koenig
Photos & Submissions Wanted!!
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Finding Spirit
Honest mother lit.: submit@getbornmag.com. Title your piece and include a short bio at the end. get born reserves the right to edit any submissions for quality and clarity. The opinions expressed in articles and advertisements are the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher or other contributors.
Somewhere Between Life and Death Heather Janssen 24 Poetry Father’s Day Abra Houchin
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SANDBOX STORIES
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tickled
You Rock
I was just tickled to see the cover of this new issue. It is striking and pushing the envelope. I sent it home with a neighbor and am dying to get it back so I can read it.
Thanks for helping me and my friends to feel a little better about our mothering skills. You rock!
Ashley Kasprzak Loveland, Colorado
Annee Ingala Portland, Oregon
I received a copy of the new and local get born magazine in my goodie bag when I did the Walk, Waddle, and Run this past month. I read it on a flight with my daughter asleep in one arm and the magazine in the other. It was so refreshing. I have had a rough two years and am so glad to hear that others have too (misery loves company I guess). There was a great story in the recent issue about a mom who was unable to breastfeed. I recommend it to anyone who had that same predicament. Nicole Stephan Denver, Colorado
Keep It Up!
Send your ideas, kudos, gripes, etc. to editor@getbornmag.com
And that fact doesn't mean you don't love your kids. Keep it up!
Eve Sheldon, mother of one and aunt of one
Cathryn Miller Fort Collins, Colorado 2
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Illustration by Amy Hayman
We love your letters! We want to know what you think about get born and how we can serve you better.
My sister Hannah and I bought a geranium for my Mom last summer, and it was really suffering. We were driving in the car discussing how my Mom just doesn't have a green thumb for indoor plants; my nephew Elijah was in the backseat. Hannah, a Master Gardener, said to me, "I think Mom's plants suffer because she doesn't really water them well, she just kind of pisses on them [meaning she just sprinkles them with water instead of dousing them]." A few minutes later, Elijah piped up from the backseat, "I think the problem is that Mimi's plant doesn't like pissing on, and she needs to buy the kind that does like to be pissed on." We laughed so hard we cried, much to Elijah's consternation.
OMG! You rock! It takes guts to go there on such a "hallowed" topic. I can't tell you how many times I was bashed for my own brutal honesty, but I think other moms need to know that sometimes, motherhood just flat out sucks. Period.
Expectations
Summer, 2008
of nine, and I’ve got stage four breast I never expected to get breast cancer. Thirty-four, four girls under the age it, I’ve found that there seem to be a of midst the In hell. to all cancer. My expectations for my life have been shot lot of floating expectations for someone diagnosed with cancer. some very clear expectations from some In mid-May, when my diagnosis first became public, there seemed to be was intended to make me wise and situation this that anding that I “handle” cancer graciously, with the underst idyllic day with my family, gushed arly particul a about posted had I blog a serene. One person, responding to d in the blessed state of my life, that I had so much to be thankful for; that I should be extraordinarily delighte cancer. I’m mad as hell and terribly for grateful all being so surrounded by friends and family. I was, and am, not at frightened by what’s ahead. diagnosis. Many well-meaning people Nonetheless, meaningless platitudes piled heavy in the initial shock of the like, “Everything will be fine.” My stupid, ng can’t help themselves, and scared to say anything at all, say somethi nce?” But I think it and politely omniscie of gift the you gave and social etiquette bans me from saying, “Who died energy behind as I spend needed badly my of more and more leaving close the door or hang up the phone, mental space churning and burning. many—friends who stop by and On the other hand, I’ve received some profoundly meaningful support from need be; meals delivered with if silent me, for here be just to willing are don’t need me to visit with them but we might need as we weather this thought for the kids and what they’d like; neighbors offering absolutely anything storm. the struggle I’ve had making Strangely, walking through the hazy confusion and terror of cancer has mirrored they’re nothing alike in nature— my way through the confusing, conflicted world of motherhood. Of course the other has been the source of and back, cancer and motherhood—one stalks me, breathing death down my tions from others as to how I ought expecta outside with laden tremendous growth and life. Both, however, come to “handle” them. my stubborn refusal to talk about my Many of the same people offering platitudes had been disappointed by They found my frank dialogue about . honesty bracing than experiences with motherhood with anything other away from their expectations, moved I more the odd, it found I tact. in motherhood to be offensive and lacking me. Since I found my way to self along that just because I became a mother meant I was supposed to stop being ruts, washboards and potholes. I wasn’t with t the path of motherhood, it was a twisty, winding road, often wrough often swearing, with no holds brashly, it did I ng. motheri in a neat-and-tidy sort of woman as I found my place g that I really loathed being admittin mind didn’t I and rage, with issues my barred. I was brutally honest about of people’s expectations as to how a needed so constantly. I used the word “fuck” a lot. So I failed to meet a lot I found a sisterhood of friends and though, e, former good girl “ought” to approach motherhood. In the meantim being a seamless, dreamy transition, ood motherh of tions expecta readers of get born who didn’t share these same ood. but who, too, were fighting and slashing their way into passionate motherh s desire for news or offers of And it’s similar with getting cancer. I feel pressure to graciously manage people’ I sometimes get the sense ally. emotion spent ly absolute and help, in spite of the fact that I’m often depressed I have these niggling riately. approp me g changin not it’s that cancer, the from that I’m not learning all I ought to supremely wise become won’t I “right,” self-doubts fringing the edges of my consciousness—if I don’t do cancer I’ll “do it” that road, cancer -filled pothole or transformed. I’m deciding, in fits and starts, stumbling along this in the ditch stuck get I when that found I’ve right. be will decide however I damn well please, and whichever way I and head my scratch mud, the in stand I When road. wrong the choose of external expectations, I nearly always haze the through see and squint d I can ask what’s best for my family, for me, eventually the answer comes, provide of core ic authent the way own our finding isn’t and fog of fear and expectations. At the risk of being saccharin, that control us and then fighting against our struggle as mothers? As women, even? Through identifying the fears to be more fully ourselves, no matter grace and courage the have will we us, expectations that compete to define a little more. the challenge. Yes, each time we insist on becoming ourselves, we get born
Photo by “beemore” - istockphoto.com
Special Ed Mom marcy Neth
Every day, all the other parents drop their kids off near school, and the kids run to their
classroom doors. Every day I herd my slightly late brood through the front door to drop off my seven year old. We arrive slightly late because otherwise the internal doors are still locked inside the school, and if we come across a locked door, my son will run or scream. We can’t go in the regular classroom door because for a few months out of the year geese live on the lawn of the school, and the geese will also make him run or scream. But on a good day there is no running or screaming and I just look like a mom taking special privilege–walking through the school late, not getting a tardy notice, taking our time when all the other kids are rushing. I’m not supposed to care what others think, but of course I do. My son looks like all the other second graders. Maybe a little goofier, because his personal hygiene is often neglected. I keep him clean and make sure he wears clean clothes, but I don’t make a fuss about his hair or the fact that he’s wearing his shirt inside out. If it’s more
comfortable that way, then he’s less likely to cause a ruckus. Besides, he’s a little boy. Some days I wish he looked more like the special education student he is. Sometimes, briefly, I wish he was in a wheel chair or obviously mentally disabled. A visible disability is immediately accepted, if not understood. Some days, maybe most days, I wish he were more like the other normal second graders. I wish he automatically followed directions and didn’t try to bite or strangle the other students if they got too close. I wish I could check on him in the boys’ bathroom and not find him either standing on the toilet paper dispenser trying to escape through the ceiling tiles, or having a conversation with that same toilet paper dispenser. A special ed parent is not supposed to wish her child were more normal. She is supposed to love all the quirks wholeheartedly and blog about the joy of a child screaming at her for driving a different way to the store than usual. Would I trade his deep knowledge of sea invertebrates for a
Then I go home and make cookies with the little kids and hope that my oldest son is holding things together at school. I wish I could say that leaving him at school made me a little less tense during the day, but it doesn’t. I live in fear of the phone call from the school that the day just isn’t going well, or that someone else got hurt. There are times I wish I could just keep him at home, but school is a necessity for those of us who can’t afford individual therapies. Speech therapy and occupational therapy are included in the school’s plan for my son. He sees a psychologist and a social worker and has loving relationships with the special ed teachers who squish him with therapy pillows when he gets too frazzled. So I keep bringing him and worrying about him and wondering if I’m wrecking him in the long run. I just don’t know. Every day I must wait until I can gather up my son and bring him back under my wing. Only once we are all safe at home can I let go of the tension of the day. No more waiting for phone calls. No more worry. Just home.
little sassy backtalk and a bunch of friends hanging around playing video games? Maybe sometimes. Does it make me a bad mother to admit it? Maybe sometimes. So I walk him in to school late and ignore the other parents staring. After I get him down from the toilet paper dispenser and into class, I stop by the special ed office to chat. I have found that chatting with the staff makes them think I’m an attentive and concerned mom. They think I know all about my son’s condition and do all kinds of research. I don’t dissuade them of this. Let them imagine it’s true. When I read listservs and blogs, I know how much I don’t do. Other moms seem to be able to institute behavior programs, write books, become experts who can tell their doctors what’s what, appear on Oprah, learn enough to be precise and absolutely sure. And still find time to blog about it. My day is made up of knitting, making cookies and a lot of hanging out. I’ve read a couple of books, but I really know nothing. I wish I were as sure as those other moms. They are all so CERTAIN. I can tell you that I am pretty sure vaccines did not cause my son’s condition. Nor did drinking during pregnancy. Nor did the drugs I was given when the pregnancy was induced. Sometimes I think I should have had the beer I craved so much when I was pregnant with him. Maybe not drinking beer caused his brain to not work quite right.
❀ Marcy Neth lives in Aurora with a husband, three children, an empty garden and lots of yarn. She can be contacted at mcneth@gmail.com.
What’s to love at
Adults with the same problem as my son have berated me for thinking that my son’s brain doesn’t work quite right. Well, I never said mine did either.
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I get a lot of unsolicited advice from total strangers about the best way to raise him. Some people have told me to leave him alone and not require him to attend school or even learn at home. Others have suggested extreme behavior therapies and special diets. One woman once suggested that since children learn best from example, he has developed all his peculiarities from watching me. If that were true, I would have bitten her.
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So every day I chat with the special ed staff about the morning, whether or not I think my son will try to run today. Whether he’ll do the work or need to spend the whole day away from his regular classroom. I don’t know everything I probably should about his condition, but I try to be an expert on HIM. I let the teachers know if he didn’t sleep or what his new obsession is. Every little bit helps in the long run, and I maintain the veneer of knowledgeable mother.
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Aim Here
Tenley French
When my second daughter was born, I left my job and transitioned into full-time mothering. I quickly realized that “staying home” for me meant that I was on a constant quest to not stay home. When confined for too long within the increasingly shrinking walls of my home alongside two small, aspiring musicians/hairdressers/gymnasts/divas with high-pitched voices and perpetually sticky hands, I’d capitalize on any means of escape. But, there are only so many friends, parks, pools, sing-alongs and local public readings you can visit during the week. Thus, my shopping affair with Aim-It was born. It is almost always open, doesn't require an appointment, and eats up at least two hours of an otherwise dull and homely day. It gets me out of my house AND my pajamas.
Many young children pretend they go to school...or work...or maybe even church.
Illustration by “chuwy” - istockphoto.com
When my daughter was small, she went shopping. And she wouldn’t go just anywhere. In fact, she only patronized a single store. You know the one: a bulls-eye marks the spot. Let’s just call it “Aim-It.” So, armed with an entire castle full of Weeble figurines and a few miscellaneous musical instruments, Denae would throw a canvas bag over one shoulder, take a firm hold of her doll stroller, and announce that she was “going to Aim-It” as she disappeared into the guest room off our garage.
Having two small children also means I don’t shop for anything anywhere, anytime, anyhow where containing them isn’t an option. Narrow isles are out. I can’t shop and schlep two toddlers around without a cart. In Aim-It, I routinely ignore the pictorial advice about children not riding in the container portion of the cart. The one time I was scolded by an employee for allowing my older daughter to ride happily in the play pen…err I mean shopping basket, I sized up her teenaged clothes and obvious lack of experience, smiled, thanked her for her concern and swept away down the wide, oh-so-easy-to-out-pace-annoyingsales-clerks aisle.
As she transitioned from toddler-hood into the mighty threes, Denae started combining her fictional trips to Aim-It with a little play teaching on the side or some make believe swim lessons (both of which necessitated multiple wardrobe changes, of course). I presumed that her central focus on Aim-It was waning, but it was merely accompanied by a different fixation that was more about the destination–and the available goods–than the journey. In addition to the shopping ritual, Denae started assuming that almost everything we own was from Aim-It. The books her Grammy brought from Missouri. Our car. The expensive child-sized bike my husband carefully selected from the local, bicycling specialty store. Denae’s loyalty to Aim-It started to embarrass me… no doubt because her behavior struck a little too close to home.
In justifying my dates with Aim-It, I could make the excuse that having two children necessitates an endless demand of errands to purchase diapers or wipes or soap or Tylenol. If that were the case, Aim-It would serve a dual purpose – get us out of the house and accomplish a household disposables replenishment mission. However, the truth is that I usually don't “need” the items I end up purchasing at Aim-It. I simply find the faint whisperings of “buy me” and “look at my low price and shiny façade” impossible to resist. Yep. I'm just another sitting duck at which their corporate marketers successfully take aim. I first was captured by the $1 bins that greeted me upon first entering the store. But, I was soon scared away by the appearance of lip gloss...for a dollar. What's in that stuff ? Do I want it on my lips?! I find it easy to ignore not only the dollar trap, but also the toy isles (I'm with two children, you must remember), and the automotive/otherwise maleoriented sections; however, the rest of the store holds a dangerously seductive appeal. It lures me into the black 6
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Cultural Views from the Motherworld www.getbornmag.com
hole of guilt-ridden consumerism. On any given Aim-It trip, even if I make it past the beauty products, electronics, house wares, shoes and children's clothing aisles without impulse purchases, I run into the women's sport and casual clothing. When did Aim-It clothes become so....cool? Can't try on that bathing suit with the kids hanging off me? No problem, I'll be back the next week to exchange the items that don't fit.
Aim-It significantly different? I truly don't know. A bit of research could probably help my moral conundrum, but I'm scared to uncover the depths of my hypocrisy. If my dilemma could be represented by a scale, the evidence toward boycotting Aim-It may now reach a tipping point. But, that is without considering the weight of motherhood. To counter-balance the scale, I add the isolation of staying at home, the absence of outing obstacles (such as making an appointment or reliance on a friend), and the enjoyment of a joint mission with both of my daughters. Alright, so we all ultimately have different shopping objectives, but at least we’re spending time together. The heaviest factor in support of my trips to Aim-It is the sense of accomplishment – however hypocritical, unnecessary or objectionable it may feel when compared to the idyllically green, American made and edifying alternatives that always loom overhead but out of reach – amid an otherwise cognitively dull and unstimulating day. A trip to Aim-It is not a chapter of Hemingway, but it beats another round of Gingerbread Baby.
Once I started acknowledging my unhealthy relationship with Aim-It, I tried to curb my shopping habits. I still went on a weekly basis, but I wandered the aisles and challenged myself to not buy anything unless it was on my list. This helped cure the destructive pattern of impulse buying (“These pink snow boots are so cute...and only $15!”) followed by buyer's remorse (“Denae won't even wear these damn boots and they’re already falling apart...what a waste of money”). However, even after I curbed my spending, additional moral objections to my purchasing started materializing. My compulsive Aim-It behavior offends my green ideals. First off, it's not the closest “necessity” store to my house. I probably drive by two or three local stores and even a big-box gorilla or two on my way there. Secondly, what do they have against bringing your own canvas bags? Grocery stores all seem to be on board with this trend, but Aim-It employees fight me every time. I practically have to re-bag all the items myself and return the plastic pile-up to get them to keep their bags. Finally, and most disconcerting for a mother such as myself, is the manufacturing standards upheld by the Aim-It toy buyers. I was on a mission last Christmas to find stocking stuffers that weren't made in China. It could not be done. My three prerequisites – American made, small, and at least somewhat fun were too much for Aim-It. But what do I expect from such cheap prices, right?
While I'm monitoring the scale of where to aim my weekly errands, I'll keep my eye out for alternative destinations. But, I’ll also take solace in the positive outcomes that help me survive another day under the employment of two small children. In the meantime, we are out of toilet-bowl cleaner, kitty litter and I need a humorous but inoffensive birthday card for my Dad. Where else can I find all three items, have a mental map of both bathroom locations and shop for some new yoga capris? You know where to find me.
❀ Tenley lives and stays at home with her 2.5 children in Fort Collins. With a masters in toxicology and ample laboratory experience, she’s well-suited for the continual process of wiping and hand-washing that her current job requires. She grew up in Texas and defected to Colorado with her groom ten years ago. She found a lovely, white sun dress that perfectly accommodates her growing belly while shopping at Aim-It last week.
Aim-It is also... I almost hate to say it... so big box. How many locally owned stores with superior customer service are going out of business trying to compete with the corporate chains? The merchandise seems trendier, and the parking lot feels safer; however, I have no knowledge of how the corporation conducts itself. I've seen the The High Cost of Low Price movie, but boycotting that particular store (let’s call it All-Cart) is hardly much of a sacrifice for me. The nightmare of the parking lot is only the first deterrent. My friend aptly described an All-Cart shopping experience as “soul sucking.” Something in the air, he claimed, snatches away little pieces of your soul as you navigate through the merchandise. So, I take pleasure in passing up the world's largest public corporation. But is
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My husband and I live very close to the Santa Ynez Valley in sunny Christiana Thomas Southern California. And for the first time in our lives, we have the tremendous pleasure of driving about an hour to visit wineries and spending part of our weekend sampling the local wares and enjoying the amazing natural beauty. We are having some of the best, most happy weekends of our entire married lives.
Department of Insult to Injury
Of course, we also have a two year old. Typically this fact is no hindrance to our plans. I’ll set Nell and myself up outside on the patio, where she can explore the grounds, and Sam will play waiter, trucking in and out of the tasting rooms with our samples. Not that this system is perfectly bucolic – I will have to stop Nell from destroying the flower beds or pitching herself head first into fountains – but for the most part, it works out pretty well and is even better when we travel with a couple with their own kid. On a recent trip to one of our favorite wineries, however, we ran into a nasty snag. I had set myself up in the garden area (where nobody else was sitting) and started to play with Nell when the server came out and told me that no children were allowed where wine tasting was going on. I looked around. There was a table in the corner set up with about a dozen glasses, zero wine bottles, and no customers or servers to be seen. So I asked where, exactly, was the wine tasting that I couldn’t be near? He gestured to the empty table. Not satisfied, I followed him back inside the tasting room. When did all this happen, I demanded to know? My husband and I had been coming to this winery for some time, and we never had a problem before. The server said something about how they had to institute the no-children rule after a particularly bad food and wine pairing party. Apparently new parents were getting drunk off their asses, placing sleeping infants in car seats precariously on wine barrels. Then, forgetting all about their precious tots, they continued clawing one another for more samples of the most recent vintages of pinot. Of course, none of this rang true to me. I’ve never seen parents be so overtly neglectful of their own infants regardless of how good the party was, and particularly not those that have the sort of disposable income to afford $150/ ticket wine pairing evenings in Santa Ynez. The server must have sensed my incredulity because he started buttressing his arguments with suggestions that all other wineries were having similar problems, and it was just a matter of time before the no-kids rule was valley-wide. He’s wrong, thank goodness. Most of the other places still vary from sort-of kid friendly to actively providing juice boxes and crayons. But there are now four of the 15 or so that we normally visit that we will not be able to return to. And, of course, I’m pissed about it. I’m pissed because I hate the places that are marketed to me as kid-friendly. I hate the My Gym, as I don’t fit in with the other moms (always moms) and Photo by Mark Evans - istockphoto.com
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November 30, 2008
Hanging in My Closet Kim spencer
I am not dressed appropriately for this session with our therapist. Coming straight
Illustration from istockphoto.com
Thoughts & Perspectives
from work, I feel constrained sitting on his couch in my buttoned up blouse and snug pants. Self-consciously, I notice my khakis straining against my thighs, my blouse constricting across my chest. If only I dressed for this pivotal hour with my hot pink tiger striped suit securely fitted beneath my work clothes. I could pull back my blouse, buttons popping, scattering across the coffee table to reveal my hidden identity–confident super working mom capable of thwarting parental mistakes in a single therapist session. My nine-year-old daughter is sitting beside me, her bottom sucked into the corner of the couch, holding onto a puffy pillow for support as if it were a life saving cushion tossed out of a burning plane at sea. She has so many questions, worries, accusations, and personal doubt. I wonder, can children succumb to adult insecurities like they do bad habits such as knuckle cracking or throat clearing? Have I exposed too many of my own anxieties in my parenting? Has she become like me? Secretly, I wish I could slide into my childhood Wonder Woman underwear and transform into a mother skilled at meeting all of her daughter’s unspoken needs. A mother incapable of mistakes; a mother who would spot the self doubt, guilt, and accusations a mile away, all the while expressing parental devotion with unbreakable love. My Lasso of Truth would provide a ring of protective fire to aid her in tackling the world of high expectations, classroom bullies, endless peer pressure, and lengthy homework assignments. Right now, while speaking to the therapist, she pairs the word “mother” with the word “unfair”. Instead of feeling angry or annoyed as I often do when I am accused of being mean after demanding a clean bedroom or an empty dishwasher, I find myself wondering instead if she is wearing the silky Wonder Woman underwear I wore as a kid. Last time my mother visited, she brought them in her suitcase along with other childhood artifacts. I was both in awe that my mother would preserve these items and somewhat saddened that my childhood could be contained in a suitcase. Spilling out onto my adult living-room carpet were musty pink ballet tutus, crusty ballet shoes, dress-up hats and gloves, my brownie uniform and beanie, a pioneer dress complete with bonnet, a white virginal confirmation dress, and my silky Wonder Woman underwear. My kids sprung at the open suitcase like old ladies at a rummage sale. Wearing that incredible underwear, my daughter zoomed through the living room, self alluring and confident on an imagined mission.
“Motherhood has a very humanizing effect. Everything gets reduced to essentials.” Meryl Streep
myself wearing a super suit underneath my regular everyday teacher clothes. At job interviews, I could wear the snake skin, and at open house night, I’d wear the leopard print. The skintight leotard would snap tautly into place, making me agile, alert, and indestructible. In my everyday hot pink tiger stripe suit, I would be satisfyingly ready for anything: early morning staff meetings, parent-teacher conferences, principal observations, and unmotivated students.
I can only speculate at how Wonder Woman felt in her durable suit of red, blue, and gold; invulnerable to all weaponry with her indestructible bracelets deflecting attacks from her enemies. I wonder, can that unyielding confidence and impenetrable strength really be packaged in an outfit, and how do we know which one to choose? My silent reverie is interrupted by the therapist asking me questions: When do I spend time alone with my daughter? How much time? How would I describe my communication style? I answer, defensive about being exposed as a toobusy mother, of having not enough time to really be with my child beyond car rides to practices and school. Grasping a cushion to my lap, my vision of Wonder Woman crumbles. A villain, it seems, has entered the room releasing reality to run amok, and tossing loose buttons my way.
Smiling at my strong, identity-searching daughter next to me, I decide to lead her to my closet doors, allow her to peer through the super suits hanging there. She’ll touch the smooth fabric and admire the patterns, designs, elasticity, and resilience of each, while I guide her in selecting the one that will help her tackle her villains of self doubt, worry and confusion.
Sitting on that couch, I realize two truths in my life. First, I will make mistakes in raising my children. And that’s okay. I have to recognize those mistakes honestly and with compassion, and then with the energy of a superhero forge ahead through life truthfully admitting, “My super suit is in the wash!” any day I need to. Second, I have a super suit hanging in our closet to pull out and put on when I need to feel strong, smart, brave, and beautiful. I imagine
We stand, and I thank the therapist. Hand in hand, my daughter and I move toward reality and I help her slip into the silky garment of her choice.
❀ Kim Hodgkinson-Spencer is a mother of two, wife of 16 years, and teacher in Fort Collins, Colorado. Someday she really hopes to slide into a Wonder Woman suit of her own.
On the Defense Cindy strandvold
I'm a stay at home mom. So there. Deal with it. Sorry, I admit I tend to get a little defensive
that look off your face. It's not like I sit around eating bon bons and watching daytime TV! Just because I don't get paid, doesn't mean my job isn't important!" I hate the LOOK. I also hate another question people often ask. "And what is your degree in?" I know people who feel inferior because they didn't go to college. That's not my problem. I went to college, all right. Even graduated with honors. I just hate to admit it. I could lie and say my degree is in Aerospace Engineering or Pediatric Neurosurgery. But if I tell the truth I have to answer General Home Economics. I cringe when I say it. Usually I try to mumble the General Home Economics part and quickly add, "with a minor in Human Development
about my choices in life. It's just that I get so tired of meeting new people and answering the inevitable question. "And what do you do?" Those five words are all it takes to send me into a tail-spin of inferiority and self-doubt. Given the reaction my answer often gets, you can hardly blame me. "Oh really? Isn't that nice," they say. And then I get the LOOK. I'm sure you know what I mean. The raised eyebrow. The little smirk. The eyes scanning the room for someone more interesting to talk to. I've heard all the snappy comebacks. Like the one that says, "I'm raising the next generation to change the world. And what do you do?" But I never have the guts to say anything like that. Instead, I smile politely, wanting to shriek, "Wipe 12
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Thoughts and Perspectives www.getbornmag.com
“I looked on child rearing not only as a work of love and duty but as a profession that was fully as interesting and challenging as any honorable profession in the world and one that demanded the best I could bring to it." -- Rose Kennedy
and Family Studies." Not that it helps.
This is where I usually mutter something about not working in a "real" job. But this time I got mad instead. Why on earth was I allowing some punk college kid to make me feel inferior? So what if I'm a stay at home mom with a four year college degree in General Home Economics? I'm also a highly creative, multi-talented, intelligent woman. I happen to like me. And I wouldn't be who I am if it weren't for all my experiences in forty-two years worth of livingeven the embarrassing ones.
It wasn't that I was particularly looking to hone my homemaking skills. My degree only required one cooking and one sewing class-and offered a little of everything else. That was its attraction. Every time I took an interest survey, I scored high across the board. I couldn't imagine picking just one thing to do for the rest of my life. So at the time, taking a general approach seemed like a good idea. During my four years of college, I received a broad education in subjects ranging from Creative Writing and Spanish to Statistics and Anatomy. I have no regrets on that score. What I learned has stood me in good stead for many years. See, even now I'm defending myself. It's the name. General Home Economics sounds so lame, and like the fact I played the accordion as a kid, it's embarrassing to talk about.
In that split second I decide it's high time to suck it up and start valuing those experiences instead of trying to pretend they never happened. Am I working in my field? Absolutely.
Not long ago, a chirpy young man on the other end of the phone announced he was calling on behalf of the Alumni Association of my alma mater. Would I take a few minutes to update my records?
"I'm a stay at home mom." Long pause.
Great. I know exactly what's coming, and it's not the monetary solicitation I dread. I frown at the phone, debating hanging up. From experience, I know if I refuse to answer the questions now, they'll just call back another day. Might as well get it over with. Steeling myself, I reluctantly agree.
My shoulders shake in silent laughter. I don't bother to clarify that my kids are now 16 and 13. I figure that bit of information might send him over the edge. And no, I didn't make a donation, although maybe I should have. After all, thanks to his phone call I found something I'd been missing for a long time. My self-respect.
He confirms my contact information after the canned spiel touting the College of Applied Human Sciences. (When I was there it was the College of Home Economics. I wonder how long ago they changed that?) Then we move on to the tricky stuff. "I see your degree was in . . ." The chirpy voice pauses in disbelief. ". . . General Home Economics?"
Cindy Strandvold lives in a 111-year-old house with her husband, two kids and three cats. She prefers chocolate chip cookies to bonbons. She has no time for television thanks to her passion for working on the children's book she aims to get published someday.
I chirp back, "Why, yes, I am!" "Excellent." I picture him checking the proper square on his survey. "And what is it you do?"
"I see," he murmurs. I suppose there's no little box for this response. He stammers something about young children.
â?€
"Right," I answer stoically. Then I think, if they can change the name, why can't I? Why couldn't I have a degree in General Applied Human Sciences? It's vague enough to not sound too dorky. "And are you working in your field?" the caller asks next. Hmm. Good question. Exactly what kind of career did my degree prepare me for anyway? I'm not even a very good cook. The familiar defensiveness kicks in. My face feels hot. 13
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The Blessing Bowl Heather Schichtel
brats for our bbq, I felt a sense of peace overcome me. Our daughter was still here, kicking at her toys on the floor. Our marriage was still intact despite all of those times I was tempted to take off in the Malibu for Mexico. All of those things were worth a celebration. To honor Samatha’s first year, I had asked people to bring a trinket, a stone, a poem, something that brought them peace or felt good to them. I went upstairs in search of a vessel for her well wishes and found an antique of my great-grandma’s. It was a simple bowl, the color of sand. The bowl was hearty, solid and held the test of time, just like my great-grandmother. Photo by Amy Hayman
July 14, 2007: numerically it’s a very good day.
07-14-2007, fourteen is divisible by seven and two times seven equals fourteen. In my crazy world this is a sign of good luck. I’ve been doing this often; searching for random connections to the rest of the universe and my own small signs that put my mind at ease. I can no longer pass a penny on the ground without picking it up. I am now a big believer of birthday wishes, shooting stars and crazy good luck symbols. On July 14, 2007, we were celebrating my daughter’s first birthday. I was searching the world for a sign that the next year would be better than the last. Samantha’s birthday has been the cause of anxiety for me. I am thrilled that we are celebrating a year of her life but saddened at how hard this year has been. We have spent 61 days in the hospital, two flight for life helicopter rides, numerous 911 calls and late night trips in the ambulance. Well, Samantha rode in the helicopter. We
had to follow in our Malibu station wagon, dodging traffic and cursing at slow drivers as we rushed to keep up with the chopper. Helicopters go faster than cars, especially in rush hour traffic. How do you celebrate this year? I knew how I didn’t want to celebrate. I didn’t want kids her age running around as a reminder of where she should be in her development, playing with her toys as we watched on and hoped Samantha didn’t have another seizure. This may sound bitter, but I’m the mom and I knew what I was able to handle. No toddling toddlers. We did need to celebrate. But to celebrate, have a party and pretend like nothing happened this year didn’t seem right either. Samantha had been through hell and back in her first year of life. We needed to appreciate that. We invited our family. I frosted 20 white cupcakes Saturday morning; my husband ate four before the party started. As I prepared chicken and 17
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I ventured outside to my garden to find my contribution to the blessing bowl. I am continually impressed with my garden. My watering schedule is inconsistent, and I forget to weed for weeks; yet I am still rewarded with beautiful zucchinis or luscious tomatoes. Many times I have set my fragile daughter on the soft dirt of my hearty garden hoping something might soak up. Grow, thrive, baby girl, take an example from the zucchinis. I found a rock that was smooth all over except for one small side which was jagged and coarse. Perfect– Samantha had a bumpy beginning but the rest of her life will be smooth. I also snipped a bloom from the lily I planted the summer my husband and I were married. I was done. I went about getting ready for our guests and smiled to myself as a Natalie Merchant song came on: With love, with patience and with faith, she’ll make her way. She’ll make her way, hey, hey, hey.
“That’s you baby girl,” I said, dancing to my daughter on the floor. She happily jabbered back. I put Samantha down for her nap promising a wonderful evening all about her if she just slept for a couple hours. Amazingly, she closed her eyes and drifted off. Flowers showed up from my brother and sister-in-law in St. Louis. I clipped off a sprig of daisies and put them in the bowl. Samantha woke up at precisely 4:00, when the party was going to start. She’s on so many anti-seizure meds that fully waking her up can take an hour. Yet today she was lucid and playing in her crib. I put her in a blue dress with yellow daisies. I’d been saving that dress for a year and a half, waiting for her to be big enough. The blue brought out her red hair. I placed her tiny tortoise-shell glasses on her nose. She was absolutely the most precious thing on earth. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, filed in and kissed Samantha. Wine bottles were uncorked, hummus and brie were laid out on the table. The mood was festive as everyone toasted to Samantha. As the evening progressed and dinner plates were cleared away, it was time for our blessing bowl ‘ceremony’. Samantha was still awake, babbling to her Grandma and seizure free. I brought out my great-grandmother’s bowl and set it in front of our family. I thought of what a long haul it’s been for everyone; the sleepless nights, the worried phone calls, the private tears cried away from the hospital. I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. I reached into the bowl and pulled out my blessings for Samantha, the lily from our wedding, the rock from
the garden. I also pulled out the daisy from her aunt and uncle. I passed the bowl onto my grandmother. She pulled out a silver bell with a handle in the shape of an angel. My step-mom, Cynde pulled out a perfect sand dollar. “I chose a sand dollar because it comes from the ocean. The surface can be calm or stormy but we never really see what is going on below. This reminds me of Samantha; we don’t really know what’s going on underneath the surface. But there is a beautiful world full of life.” My aunt pulled out a small silver heart. “I have carried this heart with me for twenty years. It has brought me good luck all of these years.” My sister-in-law Poling went next. She brought a prayer for health and longevity from a Buddhist temple in Hong Kong. Poling passed the bowl to her daughters who made tiny paper balls with good luck symbols in Chinese characters. My mother had also chosen shells. “The ocean” my mom said, “is a constant source of life. It harbors so many mysteries that we aren’t aware of.”
bible to be pressed. The bible was my Grandfather’s who passed away over a decade ago. Its black leather cover holds family trees, obituaries and birth announcements. As I thumbed through the pages I found a red rose, perfectly pressed between the passages. I don’t know the origin but I put it in the bowl. It was my grandfather’s wish, his blessing for Samantha. I continued to roam through the sleepy house and found myself on the couch with a glass of wine. I sighed, happy to have a quiet moment to myself. We have asked so much from our families, friends and people we don’t know. They have spent countless hours in the hospital, brought meals, coffees, contacted other family members and held and loved Samantha. How do you give that back? Words can’t express such love and empathy. Gratitude. I am grateful that I could wander through the house looking for parts and pieces of our life to put in the bowl. Grateful for my daughter’s pink cheeks, for every breath she takes, for a seizure free birthday, that neither my husband nor I decided to take the Malibu to Mexico and leave this life behind.
My dad went last. He had a small stuffed dog dressed in a karate uniform. When you pressed the dog’s stomach it yelled out “HY YA!”. It reminded him of how Samantha fought the doctors and nurses in the hospital.
Someday I will repay the world for their acts of kindness to our family. I will make meals for someone else. I will send their family good wishes for good health and visit the hospital with coffee and fresh brownies. Right now I can only reflect on the joy of the night be grateful.
The night came to an end and we said good bye to our families. I got my rowdy daughter to sleep. My husband went to bed. I wandered through the house remembering the night. I took the lily and the daisy out of the bowl and placed them in the big family
❀ Heather Schichtel is a free-lance writer, parent advocate and full time mom to her daughter Samantha. You can follow their story at www.samsmom-heathers.blogspot. com or contact Heather directly at heather. schichtel@google.com
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Thoughts and Perspectives www.getbornmag.com
A Glowing Pregnant Woman Stefanie Freele
naps, carefully so the Speed Stick didn’t get near her nose; everything smelled wrong these days. “One sec.” The mirror displayed newly forming acne and bloodshot eyes. She washed her face again and then decided he deserved better than that. She took off her clothes and started one head of the many-fauceted shower. “Can I join you? Or are you too big for me to fit?” His after work smell and garlic breath would nauseate her, but how long could she avoid him? “I don’t even show yet.” She looked out the bathroom door and let one full breast peek out. Illustration by Amy Hayman
“You’re showing something all right.” She braced herself for the pending onslaught to her senses as he ran his hands down her sides, unknotted his tie, removed his shoes and clothes, and stood naked. Her pre-pregnancy brain acknowledged his muscles and flat stomach, but still despite every intention, she scrambled for the toilet and heaved white cottage cheese into the bowl, leaving her bewildered naked husband shrinking, as he covered his manhood and eased out the door.
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Slumping at the kitchen table with her shorts unbuttoned and the fan several inches from her face, she muttered. “I’m not built for this kind of thing anymore.” She picked at the cottage cheese and iced tea, the only two things palatable these days, and inched her chair sideways, away from the view of the bed. She tossed her robe over the answering machine to cover the blinking light, full of cheerful congratulation messages from church members.
Stefanie is a writer on the west coast where she lives with her best buddy - her 1.5 year old son - and his dad. You can view more of her work at www.stefaniefreele.com
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Her husband would be home soon, eager to see her, tired from work, and no doubt full of new baby names he thought of during the day. She had no dinner to present, no projects completed, nothing to show for her day, again, and yet he’d be in a good mood, as always.
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The bed lay unmade as she’d slunk back in it three times today. The dishes of half-tried beans and untouched tuna attracted ants in the kitchen. The floor hadn’t been cleaned in a week. The dogs flopped slovenly on the deck, given up on human attention. Books, all earmarked in the first-trimester queasiness sections, lay strewn about the house. One now appeared within her sight, on the kitchen table. She pushed away her bowl until it hit the book and flopped off the table.
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She belched and supported her aching head with her arm. The fatigue behind her eyes, impossible as all she seemed to do was sleep, urged her back to the pillow.
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“In here.” She put on more deodorant to cover remnants from sweaty
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Thoughts and Perspectives www.getbornmag.com
“Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own."
Photo by Sara Baird of Mama Baird Photography
- Marguerite Kelly and Elia Parsons
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Naked Truth
Forgotten
abra houchin
I’m sorry, where was I? Oh, I have forgotten where my family ends and I begin. I resisted the merge when my oldest was born. I meted out hours like a prison guard. This many for work. This many for baby. This many for me. This many for caring. But my son demanded more than his fair share–and at odd hours. Choosing against his needs in order to maintain my sense of order shattered my sense of integrity. I entered a depression so deep that I was unable to care for myself, let alone care for him. One dark night in the kitchen, curled in the fetal position in the corner and crying so hard I threw up, I had a conversion. I changed my mind and chose him, instead. From that moment on, I tenderly fed him, clothed him, and cleaned him. On a good day, I might have even loved him. I didn’t stop to eat. I didn’t stop to have a desire, an independent thought, or personality without diapers and binkies, lunch sacks and sippies. I was so successful, I can now no longer even remember before. Strange. This was exactly why I resisted the merge in the first place. And now six years and two more babies later, I have traded one kind of depression for another. In this world of morning preschool and afternoon kindergarten, driving a minivan, and lugging a toddler, the very most I do is survive. The only thing I feel is the urge to flee. And shame. Surely I missed something in my move from career woman to mother. Why didn’t I get this right? I'm beginning to suspect that once the kids go to bed, I cease to exist, only dreamed back into life a few hours later by the intensity of their needs. My husband is downstairs on the couch, buzzed on beer that he keeps on tap in his kegorator, blitzed out to his favorite music. He has an identity—he listens to music; he has a kegorator. I’m used up—I lay in bed, exhausted, contemplating the consistency of poop. My husband reads existential literature and meditates on the Tao of Abundance in order to develop his higher being. I have a higher being. I mean, I think I have a higher being. If I were to demand some time to myself, they would all understand. It wouldn’t take long— just long enough to remember. But then the idea of being alone for any length of time slowly settles in my gut, a sickening green pulsating horror. I am wandering aimlessly, half-clothed and freezing on the median of I-25. No one notices. My particles drift apart. I look down to see the grass through my bare feet. In the gust of wind from a semi, I let go completely and am gone. Last night I lay awake, as I so often do these days, gazing at the midnight moon. Finally acknowledging this pain as ancient as Adam and Eve, I got up and wrote the note with black marker on a piece of bright yellow construction paper: “I’m leaving, but I’m coming back. I’ve gone to find something I lost. Took the truck. Left the car seats.” But I just couldn’t tape it to the door. ❀ This piece, born from memories of a dark time, represents a fleeting feeling that still returns every now and then. Currently, however, Abra is navigating motherhood with more moments of peace and genuine love than moments of depression and panic and is mostly, almost always, but occasionally not, glad to be a mother.
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Fatherʼs Day
Dispatches from Mars
Abra Houchin
There’s a bronze statue of Mrs. Mallard and her ducklings in Boston’s Central Park. That night you touched my knee under the table with fingers soft as feathers, and now we make way for our own ducklings— those beautiful featherhaired birds with sharp, tenacious beaks. Fly away to explore your own river, my love. I know all about raising babies. But when you’re ready, I’ll walk through traffic to meet you back at that island in Boston’s Central Park where there are always peanuts.
Photos by the author
My Second Year of Firsts stepheN KoeNiG
They say that practice makes perfect. What they don't tell you is that there is no practice in parenthood. It's showtime
from day one. Sure, you get better each time you change a diaper on a kid in a public place. You get better at spelling words out loud to your spouse so the kids don't understand. You get better at singing rounds, making grilled cheese sandwiches and better at convincing your child that Caillou is a TV show designed only for children who are destined to wet the bed until they're in their mid-teens. Yeah you get better, but it's only during the game. There is no practice. So how do you know if you're actually becoming a "better" parent? Eight weeks ago we had our second child - another boy and a bruiser at over 9 lbs. We didn't know the gender of the baby until he showed up. After the initial elation wore off a little and my brain started to function in its usual sub-par capacity, I began to think about raising the second son. This was going to be easy, right? Hell, I already had a two-year-old son who didn't seem to be screwed up, yet. How hard can it be? Doesn't successfully raising a son to the age of two kind of count as practice? Evidently not. Thus began what I am calling my "Second Year of Firsts." Here are just some of the firsts I've now experienced for the second time and whether I'm "better" the second time around: Second first night without any sleep. Better? Hell no. Second first installation of the infant car seat. Better? Crap no. Second first time seeing one of my children with a freshly circumcised boy part. Better? Oh my god no. Second first time covincing my lovely wife that just because she couldn't drink alcohol didn't mean that I had to cut back. Better? What do you think? 22
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So my oldest son is almost two and a half, and I'm still no better at handling many of the first firsts. A few examples: First time I yell at my son because he "crashed" the Lego castle I'd just built. (It was really cool) First time I told my son we don't have any more juice boxes because I want the last one (those things are good.) First time I told my son that if he doesn't go to bed his mother is never coming home (can you say backfire?) First time I let my wife take a photo of me in the bathtub with my son (I'm screwed.) So when does a father get better at this gig? Does teaching your son how to hold a hammer, work the remote control, or wipe his hands on his shirt count as quality fatherhood chops? What about making chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast? Changing both kids using only one wipe? I can burp the baby with either hand! Come on! So having two sons isn't the cakewalk I thought it would be and, yeah, I've had a few missteps here and there. But I have to say, there have been some pretty wonderful firsts in the last eight weeks, too: First time I called my wife from work and asked about "the boys" and they were both napping. First time I took my boys to a Fort Collins Foxes baseball game and saw my eldest son light up when he was given baseball cards. of them up. But every once in a while, just like in a game, you throw a hail mary and it falls into friendly hands. It'll happen one day. Luckily, I've got Joe Montana for a wife and she throws touchdowns every time. Time to go practice.
First time I saw my son fall down, scrape his knee, and then say "I'm okay, Dad." First time my son helped push the lawn mower, and bag the grass, and dump the bag out again. First time my son, unprompted, retrieved a beer from the fridge and brought it to me. There will be tough moments, I have no doubt. And I'll screw many
✑ Stephen Koenig loves pork and strong beer and lives with his wife, two boys, one dog, and three cats in Fort Collins (anybody want a free cat?). His work can be found in get born.
Rahle was playing in the backyard in just his t-shirt when the neighbor boys decided to come over. After a few minutes, I realized he wasn't wearing pants and brought his shorts out to him so that no one said anything derogatory to him about it. I heard the neighbor kids (about 7 and 4 years old) and Miles choosing teams for a game they were making up. The older one and Miles joined forces, and Buck, the 4 year old, was left without a partner. They rounded the corner of the shed, where I'd just pulled Rahle's pants up, and Miles said "Buck, Rahle's got his pants on. Now he can be on your team." Since when did partial nudity exclude anyone from a team? ~ Keri March-King, mother of two sons
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Dispatch From Mars www.getbornmag.com
Finding Spirit
Photo by Sara Baird of Mama Baird Photography
“Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired.” ~ Mother Theresa
Somewhere Between Life & Death Heather Janssen
As mothers raising our children in a relatively catastrophe-free environment—global
wars, hurricanes and tsunamis notwithstanding—our overall sense of safety, particularly on our children’s behalf, is not regularly threatened in the Western world. Most of the women I know do not routinely experience the harsh life that our foremothers considered routine and expected, nor can we understand what it is like to mother in extremes—poverty, fear of genocide or displacement, daily hardship completely foreign to us—in short, women who mother in chaos with a capital “C.” Most of us don’t have to go out back to slaughter a chicken for tonight’s dinner, or worry that our husbands won’t return from work, ravaged either by a hostile government or a wild animal. We rarely fear for our children’s lives, and even more seldom do we fear for our own. Usually when I compare my life to the lives of these enduring women, those generations before me or those mothering half a world or even a county away, I plummet into a guilt-ridden coma over my gross lack of moral fiber and overall wimpiness. Still, I think observing these differences initiates a relevant discussion. Our foremothers’ lives had clear demarcations between life and death. I wonder sometimes if my current experience as a mother, lacking in such clear cut, life and death definition, sometimes falters for true meaning. I can’t generally point to any “good” reason why I’m feeling angry, depressed, lonely, rejected or unmotivated. The wildcat didn’t just kill all my chickens nor have I lost an infant to smallpox or malaria. Therefore, I own no real justification for my feelings, so I stuff them or shame myself into deeper malaise. Learning to mother well and live fully without these defined life and death scenarios has been a quest of mine since I had my first daughter. Unlike the developmental milestones the books describe for our babies—baby should look at only
black and white for a time, followed by the primary colors, then move on to greater cognition, progressing from concrete to abstract—no such milestones exist for mothers. While we’ve made important decisions of about the realms of right and wrong, whether to marry or not, whether to stay home or work outside or from home, these decisions are not life-ordeath. Mothering in the absence of the Big Decisions—whether or not to move to a new cave so the wild animals don’t find our offspring, or if the dump really is the only place where our children may possibly escape death by malnutrition—make the myriad of small decisions crippling. At least they did to me: if the possibility of my children surviving was already a given, then the only (ha! the only—as if!) way I could really screw up as a mother was…..everything else. So the decisions mount, varying only by our children’s stages: cry it out or not, spank or don’t spank, private schools or not, organic or sacrifice her health, swear or don’t swear, impose a curfew or not, forbid associations with certain friends or not, require college attendance or not, control the wedding or not, comment on her weight or let her be. By their ubiquitous nature, these lesser decisions become monumental in their scope, regardless of their hazy relevance. And become no less consuming or overwhelming because of their irrelevance. So I find myself mothering tentatively in the middle margin between life and death. I stumble, often unseeing, through the amorphous status of the living, not sure whether or not I’m doing “it” right or wrong, whatever “it” is. Often, I surround myself with like-minded individuals to provide sufficient justification for my perpetual doubt, and I see many other mothers doing the same. Unlike the child development I’ve read about I’m less
than adjusted to the variance of colors. Often I’m more comfortable with the extremes that land me soundly in one ideological camp or the other, whether it be my mode of discipline or how strongly I feel about being a feminist. These clear principles are often a barrier to make me feel safer, and give me the comfort of familiarity. They fail, however, to take into account the human component standing behind every principle. As the child of fundamentalist missionaries, I lived nearly a decade of my adult life firmly entrenched in a clearly defined world, where even the smallest decisions were made based on unambiguous criteria. One particular parenting class my friends raved about when I was first pregnant was a video series featuring an entire segment on the morality of wheeling one’s shopping cart back into the store–not just to the cart corral, but into the store–in order to model correct moral behavior to the children. This sort of absurd application of ethical living ran rampant in my world. I think it was so popular because it eliminated inevitable uncertainty about small decisions. There were no doubts as to right and wrong, and therefore no questions. It was a safety….of sorts. My husband and I opted not to take the class (his wisdom back then, not mine) but mothering threw me for a loop anyway. My desperate fear that every decision I made was critical trapped me, rendering me insecure, skittish and paranoid. Too much was dependent upon my implementation of a mostly undefined formula in just the right way. I failed bitterly—how could I not?—so many times that I began to have serious issues with rage. The force of such extreme emotion burned off the fog in my head, and I began to make attempts at living more contentedly, less fearfully, in the less rigid realm between life and death. I sense that modeling the good, solid, 25
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and somewhat fluid ethics of living for my daughters by implementing the invaluable skill of critical thinking tempered with compassion and good self-care, is inherently more important than teaching them to follow an arbitrary formula. For me this has meant letting myself off the hook about the thousands of decisions I feel pressured to make to be a “good” mother: like whether or not to get my kids in soccer or gymnastics or allowing them to see and experience my annoyance at endless interruptions or to intervene in their lives at school or to micromanage their relationship with their dad or my mom. Recently, I’ve had to squarely face whether or not I could practice what I so passionately preach. Diagnosed with stage four breast cancer, I, all of a sudden, find myself entertaining painful, life-and-death sorts of questions. Will I be around for the girls’ prom? Or graduation? The first broken heart? How will my daughter’s lives be impacted while living in the shadow of cancer? What will become of their childhoods? How will we cope with this? Can I wear a shirt that says, “Stage Four, I’m not your whore?” in front of my kids? My own tragic, unexpected, really shitty battle for life is, unfortunately, not terribly unique: I have one friend who has lived with her daughter’s chronic immune system disorder since she was born four years ago. I’ve recently met another woman diagnosed with breast cancer at the tender age of 27. More women than I ever imagined struggle to mother and live in the tenuous space between life and death, faced every moment with a choice for fear or faith, perseverance or despair, and the infinity of small choices for each in between. At the risk of minimizing these real struggles that can be charted on graphs and discussed in concrete
medical terms, I find that, even in cancer’s terrible shadow, I still confront the same struggles, though my perspective and their context have been deeply shaken. The minutiae of daily decisions continue to plague me. Dealing with other mothers and their issues as they intersect with mine still get me going all snarkylike, making me defensively justify my own existence and choices. I still struggle with maintaining an authentic self, complete with all of its beautiful conflictedness and nuance. Because I’ve long been a passionate advocate for mothers to have the freedom of truth without “shoulds,” I talk to other mothers….a lot. In fact, one of my daughter’s lines in her Father’s Day poem to her dad read “Nature you will leave alone/ And barely ever talk on the phone.” In these conversations—live, email and over the phone, I hear a consistent thread of guilt: “I don’t know why I’m unhappy—I have a great life, and I should be so fulfilled.” Now I find friends somewhat reticent to “bother me” with their “petty problems” in light of my gigantic, big-ass “issue.” But I know something: I know that life doesn’t stop for me because it stops for someone else. I also know that one woman’s loneliness or frustration at being stuck at home with whiny kids (or at dealing with a hardto-reach teenager or an emotionally distant grown child), doesn’t smart any less for knowing that another woman down the street is clinging whiteknuckled to the life she wonders if she complained about one time too many.
true; life jars us out of the numbing fog and forces us, blinking, into the blinding light. Anytime, anytime I engage the life-or-death tension— whether it be brutal candor about my secrets or my prejudices, my doubts, fears, faults, perceived superiorities, or by offering a listening ear that provides a safe space for a sister to do the same—I beat back the darkness of death by mediocrity a little more. I have to believe that by continuing to engage this struggle, I will keep winning the fight, not only against the visible and the deadly—cancer—but also against the creeping, equally devastating erosion of intention and being present for my life. ❀ Heather Janssen publishes and edits this magazine in between chemo treatments and playing “doctor” with her daughters. Various healing treatments administered by her daughters have included the fetching of milk and the phone, in addition to earnest and heartfelt prayers offered. Both modalitites feed her belly and her soul and are most likely the first line defenses in kicking cancer’s ass.
So I struggle to mother and live well in the margins between life and death, to somehow shake myself out of my routine-induced coma and into a meaningful existence where I am here, really listening, really being, rather than just muddling through. Sometimes, it’s 26
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Finding Spirit www.getbornmag.com
Continued from page 8
can’t really afford membership anyway. The water park is an expensive, overcrowded nightmare. Kids’ music concerts, I’m beginning to suspect, are actively designed to promote adult-onset retardation. Dinners out become stressful explorations of toddler management, all for the pleasure of serving Nell some “ethnic” version of bread and cheese meals (cheese pizza, cheese quesadilla, the cheese sandwich I have to bring along when we go for sushi) and barely tasting my own. And frankly, this crap is not what I signed up for when I decided to have a kid. It’s not that I’m not willing to do kid stuff. We’ll go to the tide pools some afternoons, where Nell can stare at and poke starfish for hours. I don’t share her intense fascination for starfish, and so I stare vapidly out at the surfers while she pokes away. At the park, I’d really rather not have to push her endlessly in the swing or spot her while climbing the ladder, but I do it because I get that it’s important. I sort of hope that these joint activities make up for the total lack of Wiggles concerts and Chuck-E Cheese in her young life, but I don’t really know that they do. Here's what I really object to - I fundamentally object to the notion that the best way to raise kids to become decent participants in civil adult society is to completely insulate them from adult activities. The "kid-friendly" options available to me all are basically glorified rubber rooms, decked out with the latest gadgets designed to entice little hands and minds into hours of safe and exciting play. And that's great. But just as I wouldn't teach my kid to go down stairs safely by never letting her near stairs until the age of five, nor do I feel it's adequate to teach her how to navigate the world by never letting her near real adult situations. I will continue taking Nell to the "kid" places because some pandering to her needs is just good fun. But I certainly don't want anyone telling me that I'm not allowed to take her to my favorite places also. Because to be a truly present parent, I need the getting away from home, the happy unstructured outdoor time with Nell, the exploration of food and drink that actually tastes good. And, if I’m honest, I really need the wine too. ❀ Christiana Thomas currently works at the Ojai Music Festival as Patron Services Manager and general busybody. At home, she is mother to one (so far). She spends her spare time drinking, reading, becoming outraged, and breathing - slowly when she can remember to do so.
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sandbox stories The Creative Musings of Children
tHe FloWeR
by liam hoFFmaN (aGe 4)
Once there was a flower… then a poem came after it.
WHAt’S tHAt SMell? by abbey (aGe 7)
One day a kid named Junior smelled something gross. He asked his friend “What is that horrible smell?”
ASHleY ANd tHe SeedS!
His friend replied, “Oh, that’s your mother cooking.”
by michaela Welch (aGe 8) There once was a little girl named Ashley. She planted a rose bush but one little problem was going on. It didn’t grow a rose bush. She watered them and fed them some flower food and they still didn’t grow. She said “I have had enough of this rose bush! I am just going to leave them here and let them die!” The next day, Ashley saw that the rose bush had grown all by itself. She went to bed that night but when she woke up the rose bush had gotten even bigger! “I think these rose seeds must be magic!” Each day the rose bush grew bigger and bigger. Ashley lived happily ever after with her rose bush! The End.
your imagination w o ! gr
Sandbox Stories Theater Company is dedicated to giving children a place to develop their creative voice through writing and theater. We accept original stories and poems written by children in the 1st-6th grade to be adapted for stage and radio performances. All shows are performed by talented professional adult actors and musicians that live and work throughout Colorado. Thanks to get born magazine, Sandbox Stories writers also have a place to see their work published. If you would like to see your child’s story in get born, hear it live on the radio or performed on stage, please visit sandboxstories. org or email kcassis@sandboxstories.org for more information.
get born magazine P.O. Box 1141 Fort Collins, CO. 80522