Author Archives: SisyphusFalls
I have come to the conclusion that I am a terrible blogger. I know I’m a decent writer, but I just can’t seem to get this blogging consistently down.
I hope you’ll all forgive me.
I am still here and still alive, just rocketing along through my life. We have added a dog and two chickens to our little urban homestead, and I finally got my garden planted and growing beautifully. I’m composting, growing herbs, making soap, making sausage, painting, cleaning and walking.
And I’ve been doing some writing.
So I’ll bring you something soon. We can talk about kids or gardening or how many apology posts I need to make before I get better at this.
I’m just getting really good at apologizing.
And off the diving board we go!
For a while now, I have been really excited about doing things to see if I could do them myself. Why buy a can of condensed soup when you can make it at home? Why buy vegetables in the summer when you can grow your own? Even as a little girl, I was fascinated in baking and sewing and learning how things worked.
A few months ago, I decided that I was tired of spending money on shampoo when I could make it myself. I have very short hair, so I don’t use much shampoo and I’ve cut out conditioner completely. I’ve switched over to shampoo bars and making my own was difficult, exciting and liberating. I’m not dependent on the store for beauty products anymore!
This post, however, isn’t about soap making. It is about a vital ingredient in soap making, as well as an important tool when cooking Whole30 or just sampling different ingredients for your culinary adventures. I introduce beef suet!
Suet is the fat that comes from a sheep or cow, often found around the kidneys and loin area. Available at any local butcher or grocery store, it is usually cheap, plentiful and unwanted by so many people.
Then why did I want it?
When I was researching my first soap recipe, I found that palm oil was required in many of them. Not only is palm oil very hard to find around here, as well as expensive, but it is also under scrutiny for not being very sustainable and damaging to the ecosystem. I’m not a super crazy ecophile, but I do want to be a good steward of my planet as well as use up what other people might waste. A common (and ancient) substitute for palm oil? BEEF TALLOW!!
Wait, hold on. I said suet. Where did this tallow come from? The title? Tallow is just the rendered (melted down) suet. Take suet, add heat, get tallow. Easy peasy.
I am planning on a new batch of soap soon, so I stopped by West Side Market here in Cleveland and purchased some suet from Pinzone’s Meats. Eventually I hope to get some suet from my in-laws steers.
Next step was to get it home and trim it. Suet is white, semi hard and laced with a membrane that is very similar to shrink wrap.
I trimmed off any meaty bits or membrane that was loose, pulled the remaining suet into pieces and put them in my small crock pot. You could also use a heavy pan on the stove, or a Dutch oven, but I like the slow and relatively independent process of the slow cooker.
Then I covered it and stir every half hour or so until the fat is all melted and rendered. All that should be left is liquid fat and some crispy pieces of meat or other impurities that were still attached to the suet.
Using a fine mesh strainer, cheesecloth (or coffee filter) and time, I very carefully poured the liquid tallow into a baking dish lined with wax paper. I let it harden in the fridge overnight. As it cools, it becomes opaque and turns a creamy white. Depending on what your cow was fed, the color could range from gray to a golden yellow.
Then I pulled it out of the container, cut it into chunks and weighed it for my soap making. I got exactly 20 ounces of hardened tallow, so that will be good for two batches of shampoo bars! Tallow will last for quite some time on the counter, fridge or freezer. I prefer freezer because it will keep it stable almost indefinitely.
And there you have it! Another little adventure into homesteading for this crazy lady. Thanks for checking in!
Knitted together by chia seeds, butternut squash and chicken thighs, I have survived week one of Whole30! I feel great. I still have some mid-afternoon fatigue but a lot of my aches and pains are gone and my energy levels are up. Hooray for coconut milk and sweet potato at every meal! 😀
I AM NOW 70% AVOCADO.
Yesterday, I made some pumpkin and peanut butter dog treats for my canine friend Sadie and had about a half can of Trader Joe’s pumpkin left over. In an attempt to find a good use for the extra that was Whole30 approved and also delicious, I stumbled upon a recipe by Jenny on the Spot for a hot pumpkin breakfast cereal. Based on her recommendations and my own conviction to keep things as cheat-free as possible, I have adapted the recipe.
Super nutty, comforting, warm and delicious, this made for a great lunch. It would also be a perfect breakfast or afternoon snack. Enjoy!
Whole30 Pumpkin Porridge
Makes two servings
1/2 cup shredded unsweetened coconut
1/4 cup coarse almond meal
1 can of pumpkin purée (NOT PIE MIX)
1 egg, beaten
1/2 cup hydrated chia seeds
1/2 cup coconut milk
1/2 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4-1/2 tsp of Penzey’s Apple Pie Spice
Salt to taste
Handful of sliced almonds
1/2 tsp ghee
In a medium saucepan over medium heat, toast coconut and almond meal until fragrant and just starting to brown. Stir in pumpkin, coconut milk, egg, chia, applesauce. Whisk together until combined.
When mixed well, add apple pie spice and salt. Bring to a simmer and cook for 2 minutes.
Melt 1/2 tsp ghee in a pan and toast the sliced almond until brown.
Serve porridge and top with almonds and chopped apple. Add other toppings if desired. Enjoy!
A year ago I first attempted and conquered the Whole30 eating plan. Friends had tried it and I was overwhelmed with conviction. I had to make changes to my eating habits and my life.
I am an emotional and a boredom eater. I convince myself that I have earned the right to eat what I want because I’ve had a bad day or I ate better at lunch or something needs to be finished in my house. When I am depressed, I snack. When I’m tired, I snack.
In short, I love food but we are not always friends. Food is sort of that friend who convinces you that partying is the way to feeling better. And you believe it, until you’re in the bathroom all the next day cursing its name.
The Whole30 is an overhaul of eating, removing sources of potential inflammation, irritation, poor nutrition and excessive indulgence. No grains, no added sugar of any kind, no alcohol, no processed foods and additives. Good rule of thumb – if you couldn’t maybe find it in the wild, don’t eat it. It’s very similar to Paleo without the inclusion of natural sweeteners and substitute foods like carb-free pancakes. The Whole30 strives to pull you away from even imitating the foods that may have been a weakness in the past.
This time around, I had such a hard time convincing myself that I needed to do the plan. But once I was on the plan, I knew what I needed to do and how to cook and plan. And I already feel a world of difference.
So today, I am sharing a recipe I through together yesterday when I needed dinner and had pieces to put together. Just giving you a glimpse of how my next 30 days will look.
Simple Sweet Potato Soup
1 sweet potato, roasted
1 cup coconut milk
1 tsp fresh grated ginger
1 tsp sweet yellow curry powder
Salt and pepper to taste
Roast your sweet potatoes wrapped in foil at 375F for 45 minutes. Once cooled slightly, scrape into bowl. Add coconut milk and mix with an immersion blender or food processor until smooth. Add seasonings and adjust to taste. Enjoy!
For more information on the Whole30, please visit the Whole30 website. This post was not sponsored in any way.
If there is anyone out there who still remembers this blog, I think I’ve found my cure to absence. I don’t know why I didn’t think to check out a mobile app for WordPress until now, but here we are. I’m hoping this will encourage me to post regularly since I can incorporate all of my media from one place.
As I’ve been venturing through the complex system of fire escapes that constitutes my life, I’ve been starting to embrace the idea that each day is not a continuation – it is, in fact, day one. I fight bipolar, depression and anxiety. Each day is a totally different experience. I just got tired of regretting actions I’d taken the day before or things I had said and sheepishly wandering into the next day. No, I need to take responsibility for my actions, but I don’t have to wallow in shame or regret.
Every day is day one.
Come and walk with me.
Wednesday – Whole 30, Part 2
For all of you math whizzes out there, it’s week 4 but I only have two images?????
I’ve been struggling to find my motivation. Not to take the photos, but to be content to take them where it’s convenient for me. Especially when encountering such talented photographers on my supporting Facebook group, it’s an even further struggle to make this a personal challenge and growth period and not a contest. So I’ve been content to watch their development and keep working on my own. No tree blooms overnight.
I’ll post the missed weeks as I come to them, but for today I leave you with some portraits of Lily from this morning. This kid… She was pretending the heating vent was a fireplace and having breakfast with her stuffed friend Duckles. Dale Foshe, the mastermind behind the 52-week Photography Challenge, hinted that a head shot should tell the viewer who this person is in one sentence.
“An independent, spirited toddler whose beauty and mischevious nature shines even through her unpolished outward appearance.”
She’s my beauty, and I love her so very much.
Until next time, my friends!
I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s Resolutions – just like being specifically generous at Christmastime, why do we feel like one season of the turning of the world is enough to change everything? Why aren’t we striving to resolve and grow all year long?
All that to say I’ve crumbled. I resolve to complete the Dogwood 52-week photography challenge. And lose 50 pounds. And exercise regularly. And defeat the dreaded Balrog with nothing but a wooden spoon.
We’re off to a smashing start.
The assignment for week 1 is a self portrait. Typically, we’d be dredging up something featuring a perfect coif, non-squinted eyes, a favorite outfit and eighteen retakes of the same ridiculous pose. There’s a time for that.
In rethinking how I’ve looked at photography since graduation and having children and generally never being presentable for public until two in the afternoon, I wanted to start this year with honesty.
I’m trying to redefine how I look at the idea of “self-portrait”. I’ve always been a photographer who likes real, candid snapshots of life. We primp and plan to show our “best” side in a selfie, but is that really us at all?
Me cooking breakfast for my two year old after coming home from a weekend of hunting with my father-in-law. Focus on the brush to show my attempt to keep everything together even though there’s mess on the counter representing my current life perfectly – breast pump, half eaten chocolate bar, goldfish. Taken with my Canon 7D, ISO 400/f 3.5
Look forward to more soon, with a longer entry coming in hopefully shorter than an eternity!
Some nights, when the kids are both asleep and only noises in the house are the jingle of the cat’s collar and the click-smack of buttons in the dryer,
you must make teeny, tiny batches of concord grape jam.
Oh yeah, I have two kids now.
I’m back, baby! 🙂
** Friendly Disclaimer: This post is going to include some minor graphic details about the birth of our daughter Lily. For the mildly squeamish, and with consideration to my gentlemen readers in particular, I have tried to be as vague as possible without leaving out important details. Just a head’s up, but I do hope you’ll read it. It’s quite the story. **
Greetings, everyone, from the Steinway!
Current population – One husband, one wife, one cat, and one brand new human being. Yes, after a long and mysterious nine months, our little mystery baby entered the world after one of the longest days (and nights) of my life to date. The nights are still long and tiresome, but we’ve made it through the first month of parenthood and we still have a baby and we’re still surviving. Not sleeping, but surviving 🙂
After my last entry, I didn’t know what to expect from the coming week. I know what I wanted to get out of my birth experience. My doctor knew what my hopes were, and being the wonderfully considerate man that he is, he was going to do his best to help my labor and delivery be as close to my plans as he could help make them. Of course, the best laid plans of mice and doctors often get thrown off by mild preeclampsia. The entirety of this pregnancy, I have been struggling with high blood pressure. I had seen the same problem when I was still on oral contraceptives, and it had improved when I stopped them. In this case, the high blood pressure could only be *hopefully* cured by delivering the baby. A surprising number of maladies are cured this way – swelling, heartburn and of course, pregnancy.
Thursday morning, the hubby and I had our 39 week prenatal appointment. Based on the protein levels in my urine and my high blood pressure, my doctor was concerned that keeping the pregnancy going could be risky for the baby’s health and my own. I was about 2 cm dilated. We set up an appointment for some testing at the hospital later that afternoon, as well as a 24-hour urine screening. We both called work and by 2:30 in the afternoon, I was down in radiology at the hospital having a routine ultrasound to check baby’s position, vitals and fluid levels. Other than a very still, sleepy baby who was head-down and ready to meet us, the ultrasound revealed nothing of note.
Next, we went up to the maternity ward and I was hooked up to two monitors – one to monitor contractions and one for baby’s heartbeat. Every 15 minutes, the machine automatically took my blood pressure and recorded it on a printout. We watched TV and quietly waited for the test to end when one of the primary physicians from our office came in to see how we were doing. She looked at the printout and smiled widely.
“Congratulations! You’re contracting! Can you feel those? You might have a baby before you know it!”
Needless to say, I felt nothing other than the occasional kick from our kiddo. The nurses informed us that our doctor would be at the hospital soon if we wanted to wait for his opinion on the situation, so we waited. And waited. And another hour passed. Our patience was rewarded by a breathless doctor who had run up four flights of stairs to keep us from waiting longer. After reviewing my vitals and the printouts from the testing, he was thrilled with how regular and strong baby’s heartbeat was, but still concerned about my blood pressure and excited at the fact that my contractions had begun, even if I couldn’t feel them. He recommended some exercises to jump-start natural labor and gave us a few options for induction if the next day yielded no further progress and my 24-hour panel results were poor.
Fast-forward to Friday, my due date. This ended up being a very, very long day indeed. Not surprisingly, I felt no different than the day before. I was hoping for a quiet, peaceful day at home with Matt, but I was in an awful emotional state all day. I was anxious about my test results, terrified about the future, thrilled at the prospect of meeting our baby before the weekend was up and seemingly upset about every tiny thing that was going the slightest bit wrong. In the midst of all of this, the clinic processing my urine test had crossed wires with the doctor and wanted my sample as soon as possible. This would either mean waiting for the courier to come pick it up from diagnostics, which might take 4-5 hours, or driving a half hour to drop it at the hospital.Amid tears and frustration, we drove out to the lab and then stopped at Wendy’s for dinner. It was our last dinner together before we became parents. Peaceful, reflective and a little melancholy. I began to feel selfish – I was going to miss having Matt to myself, miss having the time to spend pursuing my own interests, miss being “just us”. I also began to feel anxious – what was going to happen? One day we were alone and watching TV and eating dinner together. The next time we blinked, all that could have changed. All that did change. It just took longer than I thought.
On our way out of town headed back home, I received a call from my doctor. He had gotten my results from the lab and wanted to get me to the hospital to induce labor as soon as possible. He wasn’t alarmed, but since I wasn’t getting better he wanted to be on the safe side. We would head home, get ready, and return to the hospital in two hours once room opened up in Labor and Delivery. Weekend staff is short, so we were really being squeezed in. Once home, I was suddenly overcome with a burst of thrilled excitement and stressed efficiency. I showered, finished packing my bag, posted a quick update to Facebook and finished folding my laundry. Things were suddenly happening – after waiting and preparing and worrying and imaging, we suddenly had a set deadline. We were taking home a baby this weekend, one way or another.
We arrived at the hospital and finally found registration. We checked in, and I was wheeled up to our room. Immediately, I was handed a gown and robe and settled into bed. Our doctor greeted us tiredly and briefed us on his thoughts. Since my labor was not progressing naturally, he wanted to first try inducing labor with a drug called Cytotec – while being a medication for stomach ulcers, it is also used for ripening the cervix for delivery. I trust my doctor wholeheartedly, and he encouraged me that results of using Cytotec were positive. I signed a consent form and was administered the pill. After that, it was all a matter of waiting. We got some sleep while we waited for the drug to take effect.
Two hours later, my mom and dad had arrived at the hospital and I began to feel some contractions as we chatted. It was around midnight when my doctor returned to check on my condition. Very little progress had been made, so we decided the next step was to start me on an IV drip called pitocin. Pitocin kicks the uterus into high gear and is supposed to start contractions at an intense rate. I had read some encouraging articles on women who went through labor without pain medication while using pitocin – it can be very difficult. Natural contractions build up and grow in intensity, whereas even when administered in gradually increasing amounts, pitocin can cause contractions to be very frequent and very painful very quickly. Dr. Fernaays acknowledged that he knew this wasn’t what I wanted, but that we would do our best to stick to my plan. My heart was as set as possible on natural birth and no medication, but I was starting to open myself to the alternatives – including C-Section. The thought of surgery terrified me, and I felt that after nine months of waiting and taking care of this baby, I wanted to bring it into the world with as little intervention as possible.
We took some supplies and shuffled down to the suite where I would be for the remainder of my delivery. I was hooked up to an IV of saline and pitocin on one arm, monitors across my stomach and a suffocating blood pressure cuff on the other arm. Tucked into bed, I tried to get some sleep while the cuff inflated every few minutes and the monitors beeped away next to me. I fell asleep to the sound of my baby’s heartbeat. Four hours later, we did an internal exam and there was still very little progress in my readiness for delivery. I had dilated maybe another centimeter, but I could no longer feel the contractions that had been present hours before. With some frustration and consideration of the options, the doctor stopped the pitocin drip and prepared to put me back on another round of Cytotec. That was when miracle number one happened – the monitors registered strong, frequent contractions that had not been present while I was on the IV. We all practically danced – maybe our intervention had only delayed everything and there was still hope of “sticking with plan.” My poor exhausted doctor had to leave for a while to tend to his family and his farm, but he encouraged us in his absence to do everything we could to keep labor going. We walked the halls, bounced on a birthing ball (imagine an exercise ball shaped like a giant peanut), watched TV, talked, ate a tiny portion of lunch (since I was now technically in active labor) and drank more water than I thought I had room for. This went on for a good portion of the morning and into early afternoon.
At around 3 o’clock, my nurse on rotation, Jay, did another internal exam. I was close to four centimeters dilated but still not much further along. Her opinion was that resuming pitocin would get us where we wanted to be. She confirmed with my doctor, and in his absence the medication would be given under the supervision of another doctor on call. They also had begun discussing breaking my water if contractions continued. We got back into my room and back onto the IV and resumed our sitting and talking and monitoring. Matt and I even tried playing a few hands of Rummy in the waiting time.
I want to say it was an hour later – after that many hours of no sleep and not much happening, I lost track – my dad was sleeping in a chair in the corner and we were all joking about his ability to sleep through anything. I had begun feeling mild contractions at this point, and was using deep breathing exercises to work through them. I was sitting in a rocking chair and talking with my mom when there were what felt like two sharp blows to my pelvis, like someone punching me on the inside, and my water broke. Somewhere in this commotion, Dad woke up and we filled him in on all the fun he’d missed. It was then he kissed me goodbye and made his exit – the next part of the show wasn’t really his favorite (I love you, Dad!) I had no idea that those two jabs were going to be the start of the longest (and simultaneously quickest) hours of my life.
For those who have not experienced or never will experience labor, imagine having a bad stomach or gas cramp. Then imagine someone took that pain, applied it to all of your main internal organs from the lungs down, and squeezed them in a vice. It doesn’t do the pain justice, but it’s the closest I can come by. I couldn’t anticipate how quickly the contractions would ramp up – but they did. Rather than just breathing through them halfheartedly and being able to make some conversation, I found myself needing to close my eyes, center myself and really focus on how to get through the pain. Matt did a special compression exercise by squeezing my waist to help open up the pelvic area and my mom would tell me to grasp her hands as hard as I needed and remind me to breathe.
After what felt like only minutes, the weight of all of the pain and sleepless hours began to take their toll. Each contraction would start as a small clenching and then quickly broaden, full force, and last anywhere from only a few seconds to a minute or slightly longer, and then gradually ease off. I would collapse, half-asleep, as soon as I was able to stand it. I had no concept of time passing – only that it was. I didn’t know how long I was asleep. I only heard my mom telling me to rest, and then telling me when the next contraction was coming so I could throw myself out of my chair and stand or squat or lean across my hospital bed and breath and cry out through them. I never actually cried, but I did shout out in frustration to vent my pain. I was terrified of having to get back in bed to be examined or being stuck sitting down while contracting. I didn’t want to be caught without some outlet to work through them.
After what seemed like an eternity, I felt like I couldn’t go on any more. In a delirious state of exhaustion, I only had a vague idea of who was in the room. I remember my mom bathing my head with a washcloth, being fed ice chips off a fluorescent green spoon, having my lips smeared with chap stick… It was the second closest thing to an out-of-body experience that I’ve ever had. Finally I felt the slightest inclination to start pushing. I didn’t know what that meant exactly. It’s more of an instinct than anything, but I did know it would mean we were closer to the end than we had been all day and night thus far. With some hesitation, I crawled back up into bed so my doctor could check my dilation. We were set and ready to go.
Pushing, as many mothers will describe and agree with me, is probably the best part of an un-medicated labor. After hours and hours of seemingly endless contractions and pain and fear, you are suddenly handed an outlet for all your pain and frustration. While fighting labor pains is very difficult when you’re trying to remind yourself to work with your body, pushing allows you to actively do just that. It’s finally the time to have all the parts sync up and come together to do what you’ve been trying to do all along – bring a baby out into the world.
The downside of pushing is that you are required to put all of your earthly strength into attempting to move a baby down the birth canal in the time of your contractions. It doesn’t sound like such a challenge, but when you’ve been at it for an hour and you can’t feel your legs and you know your eyes are swollen shut, you might as well have been trying to push a concrete truck through a snow storm. It was hard not to start feeling hopeless – I kept pushing past the end of the contraction and then collapsing back on the table just wanting to quit. Our doctor pulled Matt aside at one point to let him know that it’s not unusual for first-time moms to push for anywhere from an hour to three hours. I think he was worried I was going to run out of steam. It was only by the grace and strength of God that I was able to keep going. I was so weak and shaky and exhausted – I felt like only a fraction of a human being.
Two hours passed, and the doctor and nurses started suggesting alternative positions and ideas for pushing. At one point, they had me try getting on my knees and holding on to the top of my hospital bed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep that up for very long. It was just too tiring to not have the support of the table. Seeing my weariness, it was also suggested I didn’t have to push and could just work through the contractions. That idea was very quickly thrown out when the pain came rushing back. I wanted to keep this baby moving, despite my own weakness. The longer I catered to my own needs, the longer it would take for it all to be over.
By the time we got to hour number three, both my doctor and I were very tired and running out of options. I was starting to think I was at the end of my rope. Everyone kept encouraging me to push down, push the baby out, keep her moving, but I just couldn’t seem to find where I was supposed to push. Baby’s head had been sighted, but she was stuck behind my pubic bone. Every contraction, we were supposed to be almost there and I would push for my life, and then the contraction would pass and I would wither, discouraged and worn out, feeling her slip back to where she was. The dreaded conversation began – what would we do if baby wouldn’t move? The doctor informed me he was calling the surgeon in to be on hand in case we needed to use vacuum suction to help the baby along since her head was swollen and stuck. Nervously, I inquired as to the option we would have to resort to if that didn’t work. Again, we brought up C-section. At this point, all I heard was “put her back where she came from and start all over.”
Something lit in my subconscious. In my fogged, delirious mind, I just needed to meet this baby. I was not going to have done all this hard work to then have to be cut open. With the next contraction, I pushed from some new center. Excited shouts of affirmation came from the end of the bed. I was doing it right – I was conquering labor. Matt, my mom, my doctor, the new nurse who joined us for the night shift, all of them were there cheering me on, holding me, feeding me ice, telling me that they finally all meant it – we were almost there. The worst part of the whole night came when the baby’s head was finally free, but I was forced to reduce my pushing so we could preserve the perineum and keep me from tearing. Blinding, white hot pain was all I knew, and it was almost unbearable. The gentle reassurances of my doctor kept me holding back – we had discussed this in our appointments and he was doing all he could to keep my body together. At long last, he told me I could be strong again, and in a flurry of plastic sheeting and surgical instruments, out came my sweet baby, squalling up a storm. Just like that, like we’d just started, our child was out in the open and ready to be cleaned up. After nine months of mystery, we finally knew that we had a daughter. A sweet baby girl.
My eyes were so swollen that I was seeing double, but as my baby was placed on my chest, I couldn’t believe how far we had come. One day, she was just a speck on an ultrasound and a line on a pregnancy test. Now suddenly, finally, she was a fully realized and fearfully and wonderfully made little human. Now at one month old, I’m watching her sleep in her bouncy seat as I type and all I can do is marvel at how beautiful she is. The best parts of Matt and I, brought together by love and created by a wonderfully loving and almighty Heavenly Father… all in the being of this tiny little girl.
26 hours of labor, 3 hours of pushing, and no medication for pain. By far, one of the biggest accomplishments of my life. And I couldn’t have done it without my beloved husband, my amazing mother, my wonderful doctor, the nurses and the support of all our family and friends.
We are so very blessed, and what a long journey it was. This is just the beginning of our adventure together!
Thank you so much for reading and for sharing my experience with me. Keep a look out for my next entry!
Well readers, after many months of infrequent updates and poor accountability, here I am.
Oh yes, and I’m pregnant.
Oh yes, and I’m due on Friday.
For those of you just joining us now, I apologize for this mind blowing announcement. What kind of blogger posts about breakfast sandwiches but then neglects to tell her readers that she’s expecting a baby?
Frankly, it’s the work of a girl spoiled and corrupted by social networks. I fear I have very little readership outside of my personal relationships, so naturally I just assume you all know what’s going on in my life and don’t want to overwhelm you with details from too many sources.
This is horribly closed-minded and selfish of me. Even when you feel alone, it’s necessary to embrace outside readership and write to an audience who you could reach, not just the audience you’re sure you’re reaching. How can you ever expand your horizons when you’re focused on the line on your dashboard?
With that said, I hope that any readers who don’t know me and may never meet me will enjoy my work, participate in my life and accept my apology for inadvertently closing them out.
Onto my original post ;
Anticipating mommy-hood is scary. Less than five years ago, I was starting college. I had just “graduated” from being a kid living at home to being a semi-child off in the world trying to figure out what kind of adult she would be. I made mistakes, came home for the summer and got reintegrated into my family’s routine.
Less than a year and a half ago, I was a naive new bride preparing for married life. Still living at home, still eating meals with her parents, still borrowing a room in their house that was temporarily my own. That start of adulthood I’d begun in college was still blossoming. I was heading out into the great wide world with a husband and responsibilities of our own.
Suddenly, out of what feels like nowhere, I’m about to become a mom.
I’m thrilled at all the possibilities. We decided not to find out our baby’s gender, so this upcoming surprise of new life is made even more exciting by unknowing. Each day moves closer to our introduction of this new member of our family, and we have been preparing for so long. We are as ready as we think we can be and simultaneously totally in the dark. We’ve never done this before. We’re going to have to learn how.
The most difficult thing I’ve faced thus far was not any aspect of the pregnancy. Without intending to boast, I must praise the fact that I’ve been blessed with a very easy pregnancy. With the excepting of a few weeks of morning sickness, some carpal tunnel (which is buzzing my hand as I type), and sore feet, I have not suffered much with physical symptoms.
No no, my greatest adversity has been being a new mom in an old-mommy world.
I am choosing (with my fabulous husband’s support, I might add) to cloth diaper our child. Between saving money on disposables, saving space in our landfills and saving my baby’s body from the harsh chemicals and fillers of modern disposables, I am thrilled at the opportunity to continue a tradition moms have stuck to for years.
Unfortunately, many veteran mothers are close-minded and deeply rooted in cynicism. Many of the wonderful ladies I work with have openly told me I’m crazy for wanting to do anything other than the “easy” way. One woman in particular got caught up in a conversation about laundering diapers and how I was deliberating over which detergent to buy since I didn’t want to spend a lot of money on something that might not work for us.
“Oh my gosh! Just pick a friggin’ detergent. You’re freaking neurotic! Your kid is going to be neurotic!”
And God bless the gentle encouragement of near strangers.
Does wanting to make good decisions for my wallet and my baby make me neurotic? To a stranger to the concept of sustainable living and a desire to do the best one can, I could maybe start to see her point. But why do we spend so much time driving the ambitious away from ambition? Especially in parenting, every one will learn in their own way. No one knows what kind of child their kid will be until they start to raise them. Yes, women have learned the same lessons over and over, but if all that offhanded and blunt advice that is shelled out by every mother EVER was taken to heart by half the women with children out there, we wouldn’t have horrid parents and horrible kids. Everyone would be the same. There are ideals to strive for, but not everything works for everyone.
I’m also going to do everything I can to have an un-medicated delivery. I feel it’s important for my own reasons, one of which being that I really do want to experience birth for all it is. It’s not some naive earth-mother philosophy. It’s just the plain fact that God designed my body to do this, and if I can get through it without needing medication, I want to accomplish that feat. I don’t need drugs to make me succeed. I have no shame in accepting or asking for them, but I want to do my best without.
“No you won’t. You’ll ask for the drugs. Everyone does. It’s hell. Get over it.”
What is so wrong about letting me do this myself? Tell me a big, fat “I told you so” afterwards, but encourage me in my ambition. I’m not striving for complete impossible odds. I don’t want to deliver my baby while skydiving or teach my kid to change it’s own diaper. I just want to try.
All those horror stories people share are just because they’re a good story. For example, two elderly women came into work at the same time to pick up medications. One woman was impressed I was still working and commented about how I would be just fine in delivery – her labor lasted only an hour or so, and she spent most of it at a diner down the street nursing a cup of coffee.
The woman next to her gaped incredulously. After guessing that she had a completely different experience to share, she expressed her tremendous jealously and proceeded to share about her earth-shattering and horrendously long twenty or so hours of painful back labor. Side by side, these two women gave me perspectives from both camps: pure martyrdom vs easy-breezy delivery.
“She don’t mind. She’s short and skinny, but she’s strong. Her first baby come out sideways. She didn’t scream or nothing.” -Planes, Trains and Automobiles
There’s nothing wrong with telling me your worst tales of blinding pain, breached babies and last-minute c-sections. But especially from the perspective of someone who has never done this before, there is nothing worse and more discouraging than to be told that this event that I can’t prevent, that I have been anticipating and doing my own worrying about for nine long months, will be the worst hours of my life.
You’re not saving me. You’re only making things worse for everyone around you. You’ve taken the miracle of birth and put it on an episode of Jerry Springer. Let’s include some hair pulling, shall we?
As for cloth diapering and making my own baby food and carrying my baby and breastfeeding and any other “alternative, new-age” (traditional, people) methods of parenting, let me make my own decisions. Yelling at me about my apparent neuroses will do nothing to change my mind. You think that in those few minutes of you shoving your experiences from previous children down my throat that I’ll suddenly change my mind and do it your way? That the hours I’ve spent every day thinking about my baby and our budget and our beliefs will be suddenly cast aside by one person telling me I’m nuts?
While this isn’t the bouncy baby announcement I’d hoped to write, it’s something that I’ve been battling this entire pregnancy and has been on my mind as we near the close of this particular stage of life. Rather than try and tell new moms how it should be done, wait to offer advice until asked for. Just like reaching out and touching a pregnant woman’s stomach, hold back your way of doing things until the opportunity arises to assist a helpless new mom in adjusting her ways to better suit her needs and her family. Use more grace, and win more followers to your opinions.
Before you all get the wrong idea, I have been greatly blessed by the support of many veteran moms and new moms alike. My own mother has been a great cheerleader and encourager this entire pregnancy, especially in trying to support my offbeat endeavors. New moms have been some of my best friends because they’re still going through what I will be and have the fresh knowledge and experience and are able to share what works for them. I am a strong enough woman that the negativity camp will not shut me down. They can look at me later and say what they like about my successes and failures, but I will take heart in the fact that they were MY successes and MY failures, not some other mom’s.
We are winding so close to the end of this pregnancy. While I hope to share more thoughts (and particularly on a more positive note) before this little person greets the world, there is a chance I may not get around to it. If that is the case and this is the last you hear of me until after my baby is eighteen and out of the house (just kidding), I hope old moms will take it to heart and that new moms might have a hearty “amen” in response.
Otherwise, let’s plan on more words soon, shall we? We may be due on Friday, but that doesn’t mean baby is quite ready to say hello.
Pregnancy has been a fantastic and life-changing adventure, and the best is yet to come. I’ve embraced it!
From one terrified, thrilled mommy-to-be to the world,
we’re almost there!