Parenting

Oh, where to begin?

I have been going through so much- our family has been growing in leaps and emotional bounds...

All the small things, the things with which I pass my time- the house plan browsing, the recipe hunting ( too many things to link to, so I can't pick just one. Sorry.) the constant reading I have been doing lately-

But there are a few big things, such as Tristan's first birthday (!). On Wednesday, our son will be a full year in existence, and what a delight he has been! I find myself saying constantly "He's such a good boy." He is behaving as a child who is thoroughly assured of love. I am amazed at his growing personality- how cheerful he is, and how serious.

When he was six months old, he started crawling, and the world was wide and exciting. There was little interest in sitting still those days. Now, my son is walking, and he has started choosing to show me affection, to reach out and be touched, to be loved in a tangible way, and his choosing is what delights me most. I know that by seeking to sit in my lap, he is looking for affirmation himself, but I cannot help being thrilled because he knows that he can get it.

What great satisfaction in being the kind of person others go to for love and affirmation- to be a person who is so safe. I am not yet this safe in all my relationships (ask my husband) but I am growing in that direction.

Some of my reading has led me to a resource that describes healthy parenting as a "one-way valve" where resources flow from the parent to the child, but not the other way around. I have come to thoroughly agree with this. I can affirm my son, but I must never look to my son for affirmation. At least not directly, and certainly not as a goal in our interactions. My son will love me, but I must never depend on his love- for he is small, and he is very vulnerable.

The healthy flow chart of love- from God to me, from God to my husband. From my husband to me, and me to my husband, and then from us to our son (and possible future children). Just as God does not depend on my love to be who He is, so I must not depend on my child's love for me.

This is in no way saying that my son's love for me is unwelcome or unwanted- but I am saying that I must not lean on my son's love for me. Do you understand the difference? I am starting to.

Recently, my husband and I discussed a passage in a book that read "Whenever I hear a client say that they 'love being a parent' I get suspicious and start looking for clues that they are using their children to meet their own needs."

While Kevin said he disagreed, I had to admit something that had caused me some source of black shame-

I do not love being a parent.

Hear me out- I love being Tristan's mother, and I love Tristan, and I love my family. But being a parent is the very reason I stopped my schooling, stopped working, and live a somewhat rigorously scheduled existence that has very little to do with my own gratification. I do not write that way I used to.

Oh, the hours spent at coffee houses, journaling, writing poems and drinking coffee! Spending money on frivolities! The road trips, the nights out at parties, at clubs, the life that then seemed a bit solitary now seems utterly hedonistic!

So when I am asked if I love being a parent, I am liable to say yes, but the truth is a little more complicated. Do I love sacrificing everything for the first three years of my son's life, focusing my energy on others?

No. Yes. No- er...Am I a masochist? No. Am I a human being, selfish mostly? Yes.
But am I also a mother? A principled woman who believes strongly in causes bigger than me? Yes. Do I believe that while I may never get a return on my investment into my son, it is still worthwhile?

Yes.

All this ferocious rhetoric to justify the simple thought that I am not such a fan of self-sacrifice. But you see, to be a mother in this culture is to be riddled with guilt, any way you turn. How can I say that I do not want to live for my children? ( inner guilt brigade gasps at even uttering such a statement.) Ah, but I can. I can say that I refuse to live for my children. I can say it and accept it as a healthy statement.

Because, let's be honest, a one year old sure ain't a conversationalist. He cannot sustain me, and I will never ask him to. I look forward to my husband's arrival home like a thirsty woman leans towards a glass of water. I eagerly await my emails from friends, my rare and oh-so-thrilling girl's nights out, when I am not a mommy.

Here is the main lesson I want to really learn, to suck the marrow from its bones: I and my children are seperate beings at very different stages of development, and as such, we will not be friends for a very long time. I have been entrusted with this one young life, and I am not here to be his friend. I am here to be his mother, to train him up, to direct him, to lovingly tend him, and to teach him how to be on his own. I will respect him as a seperate person, even as that personhood is growing, even as he is not sure who he is.

This, I am coming ot understand, is a healthy place to be. I will not be consumed by my role as mother- I would rather be consumed by my role as human being. Complex, maturing, growing, encouraging. Supported and loved by husband and friends, so that I can then support and encourage my son with all my needs already met. We should never burden our children with our needs, or our desires, or our longing for companionship. My children are not here for me.

My children are not here for me.

Free at last, free at last, I thank God I'm free at last.

Projects

I am clearing up today, running around, bending, heaving, shoving...yes, just some lite cleaning. I'm preparing for a visit by Kevin's mother and grandparents, just trying to get some last minute decor done.
When people visit, it gives me great motivation to clean up. And to finish those decorating projects I've just lacked the energy to do without a deadline.

Other than that, life has been ticking along with regularity. I have always been one who revels in the comfort of a routine, like cats roll in the sun.

Kevin and I recently celebrated our two year anniversary of marriage, by meandering around on Elmwood and picking up our gifts for one another, and going out for Mexican. A vastly better Mexican experience this time than last time- but I think that might be another post. I should start a resteraunt review series. I should review a whole bunch of things, like movies and recipes. Oh well.

But, of all the things I'd love to talk about, there is one for sure I'd like to throw out, test the waters, run up the flagpole see who salutes it...Whatever metaphor you want.

Of late, I have been thinking over the concept of generational sin. I was raised with the idea that generational sin was some kind of poorly defined largely mystical sense of sins in your family that seem to run in your blood. In my family, it was always lust. People just couldn't seem to keep their pants on, despite the hurt they did to themselves. (Interestingly, no one committed adultery that I know of. Considering how easily they told me about bed-hopping, I doubt they'd leave out wife-stealing.) This idea was that in my blood was a ferocious predilection towards lust.

I have come to decide that this is not true. The article listed above does justify me in this. You know what I think generational sin REALLY is? I think Philip Larkin said it best.

This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.



Whike I thoroughly disagree with the last two lines, I think the man had a better concept of generational sin than most pastors today.

So the question is, how to two very damaged people raise a child without their particular brand of damage?

I think I know- do you?

home decor, on a dental floss budget

So, of late, I have been performing my own version of self-help reading, which is to say I have been going to the library and getting out gardening and decorating books. And cook books, which hopefully each of these topics will get it's own post.

As you all know, we are a young couple with little money (mostly used for living on) and a budding little toddler. We are both pretty fresh out of college, and have the furniture to reflect that. Oh, the joys of Ikea and the metal frame futon. Our art is mostly posters stabbed through at the corners by multiple years of thumbtacks. Everything else is either loaned to us or bought at discount stores. When we are actually able to purchase our own furniture, it will probably come from Wal-mart. Not saying this is necessarily bad or intolerable....

It's just that when you take out books by Better Homes and Gardens, also known as We have crap loads of money and time to decorate our homes and gardens....Well, if you followed the link, you get the idea. I love the sample rooms they show you to give you ideas, like this bedroom, for instance. Or these living rooms.

Honestly, when your home looks like this, is it so hard to make it look good? Frankly, I want a decor book that's the equivalent of starting with a toad and turning it into Kate Moss. Show me that book, and I'll buy that sucker, not just take it out of the library!

So I decided to start getting things together for your basic Section 8 decorating plan. I'm learning basic principles, and trying to implement them. I went to Goodwill, and made some serious finds for picture frames, (because you cannot paint your apartment, thank you.) And I'm going to post on making your own canvas art. I heart Jo-Ann's fabrics!! Target is also my friend.

Here's to being poorer than dirt and struggling to be stylish. "Fashion for all" let's not forget.

a few photos

lots going on, lots of daily life. Will be updating very soon- be ready for terminal cuteness on my son's part.

a home of our own...but for now, an apartment

Stephen King, in On Writing, talks about his periods of feverish work and then months of nothing...and I instantly felt justified. I, too, go through feast and famine of words, and of motivation to put those words to something.

For now, let us be content with an update on our little family status.
We have finally made good on all our applications to apartments, and have our very own little basement home. There in the picture, if you follow the line of the sidewalk you can see our dark little window at the bottom floor of the house. That's us.
It's section 8 since we are not making enough money to rent without assistance, and I mention this only to say that I was very nervous about what I might find here. I have lived in apartments my whole life- and assisted housing for the largest part of that chunk of time. My mother worked very hard to make sure our Brooklyn apartment had none of the usual roaches and mice, and I am very proud ot say that she succeeded. Occasionally a mouse would find it's way into our home, but my cat took care of them very kindly.

Ferdie, the orange tabby that loved me more loyally than most cat-non-enthusiasts would believe, would capture the mouse in his mouth, and sit at my mother's bedside, mewling with his mouth full. The mouse was still alive, and would remain so. When mom had gotten a tupperware to house the mouse, Ferdie would release it gently for re-capture. He was very proud of his ability to provide for us, even if we didn't eat his generous gifts.

There are many humurous tales of mice and my cat, and hamsters, and my cat, but for now, let's focus on our little apartment.

We have southern light, and Kevin and I are thrilled. The living room has sun all day long, and we wasted no time in getting herbs to grow on our windowsill. In seeing the place for the first time, I was surprised by the light, the clean bright light. In that moment, we both knew it would work out just fine.

Tristan adjusted brilliantly to his room (sleeping alone for the first time in his eight months of life.) and he started sleeping through the night without a hitch. The first morning that happened, I woke up startled and ready to check on the baby. All was well- It was six am, and I had slept for eight uninterrupted hours!!!! Praise GOD!!!!

And so, we have been living out from under the protective umbrella of living in my mother's house. It was very scary, at first, but after a month or so, we have enough money for living, I'm still sleeping well through the night, the baby is cheerful and exuberant, Kevin is working hard, and so am I... We cook dinner together and feed the baby, we drink wine sometimes while we watch a movie or talk, we ride through everyday sometimes without noticing the details in the scenery. We are learning, and that is a great luxury.

lentil stew, an outline

So two days ago I ran out of grocery funds and found myself face to face with my pantry, no clear idea of what to make in my head.

I had a bucket full of lentils, though, and my fridge was thankfully stocked with aromatics for the base of a soup( onions, carrots, celery two random red peppers). I had some frozen sausage, tucked away in my freezer, and since my husband was running errands, I asked him to pick up some greens for two dollars a bunch.

I love peasant food. I absolutely love the ingenuity, the creativity and the pride with which the Old World poor made their food. Give me a whole chicken, some vegetables, any dairy product, and a crusty bread, and I promise you a hearty feast. Every culture has that ingredient that they worked with the most.

I found a recipe for lentils sausage and greens stew, and improvised. It helps that I own several cookbooks, as well as an internet connection.

Here's some basics I figured out: Any grain paired with some kind of animal fat equals filling goodness. The fat pairs with the texture of the fiber provided by the grain, flavors it, and sort of lubricates it. The stew recipe called for bacon and sausage, a double dose of pork flavor.

The second lesson? Hot and sweet works well in this. I had leftover baked sweet potato pieces, red peppers, and jalapeno peppers. Along with the carrots from the maripois and the onions, this created a sweet and spicy partner for the pork fat.

The layers of flavor I found in this impromptu dish blew me away.

To make:

• 1 lb of lentils, pre-soaked ( at least two hours, four is best)
• 2 medium onions, chopped
• 2 medium carrots, chopped
• 2 stalks celery ( I substituted 1 red bell pepper)
• 1 package of Baby Bella mushrooms, sliced thick
• 1 large sweet potato, baked and chopped (optional)
• 1 Tbsp Cumin
• 1 Tbsp Paprika
• enough salt to cause a heart attack.
• 4 cups of water ( I only had one can of broth, so I added water.)
  
• 1 15oz can chicken broth
• 1 cup white wine (cooking wine)
• 2 cups rice, pre-cooked.
• 1 lb of sausage (Italian, mild)
• 5 pieces of smoked bacon
• 1 bunch Swiss Chard
  
• olive oil

Broil sausages to desired doneness.
Meanwhile, slowly cook the bacon to render the fat, remove from pan, add onions, carrots, celery/ red pepper, and mushrooms. Add at least two teaspoons of salt. ( This helps them let go of their liquids and break down. Saute till tender. Add water, white wine and broth, bring to a boil. Add lentils, sweet potato, bacon, and half the sausages, cut into slices. ( I add only half now so that the soup will absorb the flavor, but these pieces of sausage lose some of their texture, so I save the other half for the meaty texture and brighter flavor) Cook for 10-20 minutes, depending on preferred texture of lentils. I like them soft, but still discernible, so I cooked for 20 minutes.
Once 20 minutes have passed, add cleaned Swiss Chard and the rest of the sausage. Cook until Chard is wilted, about ten minutes more.

Can be served with crusty bread, or rice, or alone. In these economic times (when both rice and bread ar emore expensive due to poor prioritizing...nevermind. The rice or bread helps spread the wealth, so to speak.)

This makes enough to feed a small army for a few days. In my house, that means the leftovers feed us for three or four dinners.

As the earth remembers, so do I.

Warming weather is always exciting, thrilling in a way only the Northerners can understand. There is something tremendously special about the four season cycle- life death, rebirth, etc, etc. As Yul Brenner said, "Et ssssetera, et ssettera..." I really can't get those crisp T's across by typing, can I?

So, as the day creeps towards the sixties, I stand on my porch and look out on what is still a winter landscape- grey and brown and twiggy. No new leaves to soften the lines. But still, the air is redolent with moisture, wiht the smell of earth warming. Our creek is flooded, and this thaw may stay, or not. I know Buffalo well enough to know that this is only a glimpse of the spring that is to come. We may yet go into freezing temperatures, since we are in the beginning of February.

But still, the warm weather sings to us, doesn't it? The grey overcast is pregnant with wet.

Every spring my mind echoes the earth in its thaw. I am reminded of every spring since I can remember- being a teenager in Eldred, walking up to our modular buildings where we had drama. I recall my springs at UB, walking in the moist air smiling at the geese that flock the sidewalks and fields. The spongy feel of damp earth loosening, the promise in the air. For me, it is the spring and fall that are the most evocative.

My past rises again in the spring, and in the fall I feel the ancientness of the dying- the harvest that was celebrated by every culture since the beginning of time, and the last desperate dancing done around bonfires. The impending darkness compels us to frenetic motion. These are our human impulses, the body that we live in responding to the world wihtout our permission.

I think of my husband and my friends who experience S.A.D (seasonal affective disorder) and I think that I kind of envy them. I don't quite get into a funk in winter- I do not experience the sense of my body wanting to hibernate- and in this way I feel that my body is not so well-tuned to the earth. I do not see this as a "disorder" since I see this as an ancient way to be. I do feel bad for my friends, because we live in a culture that turns its back on the earth. Just the fact that we call it a disorder points out how far we are from our environment.

I do not long to hibernate- I long to migrate. In November, when the winds blow cold and bitter, and the leaves have left the trees bony and bare, I struggle not to follow the geese that fill the sky. I will be driving in my car, and a V of geese break from the tree line, and I feel my arms longing to turn the wheel to follow them, to simply drive in their wake, and meet them in their new summer lands. The fall excites me, and the spring saddens me. How strange. My husband feels more alive when the spring comes, and I waken to all my old seasons that stood frozen in me while the snow kept the flowers quiet.

By the summer I am bold and full in my skin, but in the spring I am as raw and tender as the shoots that emerge from the cold earth.

I think of the Industrial Age, when we turned our eyes from the sun and to the clock. When we moved from the land to the city, and our culture left the virtues of the farm behind. I dream of returning to a life that lets us obey our internal seasons. To rejoice in them, if not obey. For now, it is a disorder. How sad.