8 years

Eight years ago I met the boy who would change my life in ways I never imagined. Eight years ago I gave birth to my sweet O.

With the haze of 8 years and myriad heartbreaks and joys, I can still see his little wrinkled red face crying, as his father stood awestruck and silent. I was still not sure if he was a boy or a girl, but I knew I loved this baby more than anyone or anything. Within 20 minutes we were nestled together in the recovery room, attempting our first breastfeeding and he latched on right away. It was the most beautiful physical experience of my life.

I hadn't given birth the way I wanted to, but I could feed my precious baby. And so I felt healed and whole, after the disappointment of an epidural and a c-section. Nothing could be wrong after that sweet baby slept in my arms for the first time.

Later that day relatives and friends came to see us and meet O. I barely remember any of that since I was so high on pain meds. But I do remember O and his daddy napping on the hospital bed, so peaceful and content. O with the little blue knit hat on his head. His father's face so full of love and contentment. I never saw anything more beautiful; that is until the moment my two sons met, almost 4 years later.

I have photos of both of these precious moments. The moments when I knew that my heart could never love any more than it did at that moment. The moments when my heart just about burst.

So when life gets difficult (which it often does) or I get angry or annoyed at either my sons or their father; I try to picture those moments. Those precious fleeting moments of pure love and joy.

No matter what else happens and how things change, the four of us are a family. The story of our family started eight years ago today. So today I celebrate more than just the birth of my oldest son, but also the birth of our family.

Mothers' issues are feminist issues

I had this post in draft for a few weeks before deciding to clean it up a bit and publish it. I realized that I didn't need to write everything I ever wanted to say about motherhood and feminism, the exclusion of many women from our motherhood and feminism discussions/causes, and all the other related issues. I could just start the conversation. And then when I went to look at #SolidarityIsForWhiteWomen to see the latest tweets, I stumbled upon this and my inner voice shouted YES! Although not specifically about motherhood, that open letter identifies (way better than I could) the problem with so many (most) white feminists: failure to check our privilege or even acknowledge it. We have to stop that shit!

Why don't feminists talk more about mothers' issues? Yes, we talk about paid sick leave and family leave, but do we talk about pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding? What about daycare and public education?We sure talk a lot about birth control, sex and abortion. But we really don't talk about all the stuff that happens once we have a baby. Where is the choice debate around birth and feeding? We talk about the choice of working or not (for those who have the luxury of choice). We don't talk much about how our socio-economic status influences our options and choices about how we birth and care for our babies. I think we should.

#solidarityisforwhitewomen pained me, not only in the sharp criticism, but because I realized that so often there's only one conversation in feminism (mainstream, anyway) and it's really about women like me: white, middle-aged, educated, relatively affluent and empowered. If we talk about women of lower socio-economic status or women of color, it is often condescendingly, or in passing.

And when I say "we" I mean my feminist friends, the regular people. I also mean the mainstream feminist organizations and media that often focus on whatever way we are all "leaning" that week or how much we get paid while we lean. Let's be honest, we suck. We are not inclusive of our sisters of color, or our sisters with limited financial resources or social capitol. We basically ignore them. Or silently judge them for not being like us. Or not so silently.

So I say, mothers unite! If we acknowledged our common and shared struggles we could actually get to the real work of feminism -- changing the fucking world for everybody! Not just privileged white ladies or people of a certain class or your kids or their kids -- EVERYBODY!

But how do we go about getting all together? What will be our priority issues? What are the solutions? I have ideas. What are yours?

Moms Rising is one organization that is working on many of the issues that concern mothers: healthy food, health care for all, paid sick leave, fair wages, etc. But as of yet, not focusing on pregnancy, birth and feeding of our babies. But I bet we could change that.

What other organizations do you know working on behalf of ALL mothers? Or are otherwise working to bring the many voices and experiences of mothers and women together for the common good. And to slay the Patriarchy.

Keep On Keeping On

Sometimes the biggest lessons are taught in the smallest ways.

My six year old rode his bike (still with training wheels) to the library and back on Saturday, for a total of about 2.5 miles. He was so proud and excited to ride in the street like a big kid. He did great until we met the first real hill on the return trip. He immediately asked for help and wanted me to push him up the hill. I couldn't push him, I was pushing his brother in the jogging stroller. But I offered to put my hand on his back, to help him from going backwards. And so he struggled up that little steep hill and over the bridge. All the while I was telling him,  'You can do it! You are doing it! You're almost there!' The smile on his face was heart-growingly awesome.

And then the next hill came. He wanted to give up, started to whine. I told him he was not allowed to stop, that he must pedal that bike up the hill one way or another. Again, I put my hand on his back and encouraged him like before. And then I remembered something I had just read - people often quit something right before they would have finished/succeeded.  The hardest part is usually the part right before we make it/finish/win. So I told him that lesson. And kept encouraging him. He didn't give up. He kept going.

And we did the same for the next hill.

As we cruised toward the driveway, I asked him if he was proud of all the hill climbing he did.

He said, "But I only climbed three."

"But you rode over 2 miles AND climbed three big hills."

"Yeah, I did." (BIG SMILE)

"I'm so proud of you for not giving up. Now you know that you can do it and next time it will be easier. Everytime will get easier. You know how mommy likes to run?  well, when I started running it was really hard to run for even 1 mile, but eventually I could run 10 miles and still be smiling when I was done. The same will happen for you, for anything you want to do. But you have to keep going. Never give up."

"Ok, Mommy. What are we going to do now?"
*******************

I share this story because I believe that instilling determination and confidence in our kids is one of the very most important things we can do for them. They have to believe they can do ANYTHING. My mom taught me that. I believed her, still do.

As we say in our house:

"The person who says I CAN'T is right, but so is the person who says I CAN."

For all the mothers who mothered me (especially my own)

I first want to apologize for the rambling nature of this post.  This is more therapy than a well-crafted piece of nonfiction.  Shit, I have no idea what I want to say.  I just know I need to get out what's inside and I'm home alone with no grown ups to talk to and sometimes the internets full of strangers is a better audience than your best friend.  If you have no idea what I'm talking about; well, don't worry about it.  But I bet a few of you do.

I have been thinking about the women in my life who have been mothers to me.  I have been so lucky to have had several women, related to me and not, take me under their care as if I was their own.  One of those women died earlier this year at the age of 84.  Fucking cancer.  Another of those wonderful spirits is fighting cancer as I type and cancer is winning.  That asshole cancer is trying to take my friend's mother. But we still need her here. She needs to play with her grandchildren.  She needs to sit in the sun.  She needs to hug her daughters.  She doesn't need to suffer.  She doesn't need to leave her husband all alone in that house.

Days like today are days when I affirm my belief in no god, because why would a god allow lovely, soulful, generous spirits to suffer so greatly.  I see no purpose to it, only cruelty. So maybe if there is a god, he's the vengeful god of the Old Testament.  But that god is an asshole, so I again opt out.

I am also thinking about these women in my life who were mothers of good friends who have shown me great love and kindness. I have been included in holiday meals, given surprise birthday parties (more than once and by more than one mother), given handmade quilts, taken to college interviews, driven all over creation, tolerated, celebrated, advised, and chastised.


When I was a child my neighbor, K., took care of me on a daily basis.  She fed me fried bologna sandwiches, bathed me, hugged me, and treated me just like her boys, sometimes better than her boys.  She was the person who told me about 'the birds and bees'.  Well, actually she confirmed the story I was told by the weird boy who ate worms and licked the bus floor (who was obviously not a reliable source).  And then one day I turned my back on K.  I became a teenager who didn't need a babysitter, who no longer played wiffle ball in her backyard. And you know, I never thanked her.  I haven't sent a Christmas card in well over a decade.  I haven't checked in when I had babies.  Nothing.  I lost touch with her boys and then we all grew up and then....well and then.

I also have these bonus mothers now, in my grown up life. They are older women, mothers themselves, who offer me counsel and encouragement.  They tell me I'm doing a great job, even when I know I'm just barely muddling through. They love my babies fiercely. These grown up relationships are so different than the relationships with my relatives and friends' mothers.  Now I am equal.  Now I am appreciative.  Now I know enough to treasure their love.

Some people aren't lucky enough to have even one real mother in their life. I have had more than a couple of shares.  Maybe the universe made up for all the fathering I didn't get. (Although I have had those bonus fathers too, someday I'm going to give them their due.) Maybe I'm just a lucky person with an amazing mom AND all this extra mothering. Maybe everyone gets these bonus moms.  Or maybe I'm one of the few who notice. I don't know.

I'm sad. I am realizing that someday I am going to have to let go of my own mother, maybe witness her suffering. (I completely cannot go there right now or I will become undone.)  I am feeling helpless that I can't help my friend; kill the cancer so my friend can keep her mother.

I want to keep all the mothers in the world.  We need them.  We have none to spare. Cancer stop taking our mothers.  You motherfucker.