I am pretty new to the blogosphere and I am certainly super green. I have no idea what I'm doing sometimes even. Really, I don't. But I have always loved to write. For years and years I didn't write a thing. Then in 2010, my friend died and I wrote a eulogy for him. It opened a door in my heart that had long been closed. I was able to say how deeply I loved him and in doing that, it helped. I take it out sometimes and read it when I am missing him. It still helps. It was this experience that made me want to write again. But I had no idea how. So I tabled it. Again. Then one day while chatting with some online mamas, I casually mentioned that I had been working on a blog and was trying to get brave enough to launch it. My friend Kelly was right there to cheer me on and she invited me to read her blog, Excitement on the Side. I read a few posts and was completely hooked. She was so candid. So open. So friggin funny. And her potty mouth rivaled mine (scratch that, hers is better). But trucker mouth aside, she has a nack for  beautifully putting into words experiences we have as human beings that are uncomfortable  while at the same time, cracking me up challanging herself to a day of complimenting her co-workers as she works to complete the challanges in This Book Will Change Your Life (she has promised to finish, even if it takes her twenty years). She lets you right on in to her heart, writing letters to her  rock star little girl, Emily, every year for her birthday . With Emily, her new super cool husband (MQD) and a little baby on the way, she is living a life that she fought incredibly hard for. She is real. She is unique. But she is also just like any other woman that has hit road blocks and detours on the path to finding love, peace and the comfort that comes in deciding not to be afraid  to live. I love that about her. I have learned so much from her. But it was this post about her grandpa and this one about not being a single mom anymore that touched my heart and made her so much more real to me. I don't know if I ever told her that. So seriously, go read her and get sucked into her world like I do. Find her on Facebook and give her a like. You will not be sorry. Because in addition to her story, you are sure to stumble on some amazing pictures of her dressed as a clown or showing off her shoes or ziplining. And that's awesome.

Thank you Kelly. Thank you for encouraging me to write. I am so very grateful to you for that. You are an insperation to me ,as a friend, a mom and as a collector of costuming. I hope that you know that. And if you didn't, then now you do. And now everyone else does too. xo.

Now we all know that I am a hippie. I discovered this over the summer after hippie camp. In a moment of clarity it washed over me that I had been deluding myself for years that I was not, in fact, a hippie. Turns out, I am indeed. So, you probably assume I am a cosleeper.  BUT I have a lot of non hippie friends (ie: friends who are most definitely not hippies) who co-sleep with their babes. So, um, yeah. Where am I going with this? Oh yeah, I received some emails about cosleeping after I wrote a bit about it. So I thought I'd write some more about it.

Now co-sleeping or bed sharing  is most definitely not for everyone. Some parents dig it. Some parents don't. There are babies that do better in cribs or prefer the no contact sleep. There are some babies born with velcro on their bellies (Oh hello, Miss Plum!). And every kind of baby in between. For us, it started out as survival. Plain and simple. Mr. Pants was my first baby and I had planned on having him in a basinet in the room with me for the first three months and then moving him into his own crib, in his own room. That's the way I had seen it done in many many families and it worked for them. So I didn't think about it much. But then, Mr. Pants comes along and everything I thought that I thought was blown out of the water.  

It didn't matter where he slept, he only slept for forty five minutes to an hour. Like ever. In the bassinet, in the cosleeper in the bed, in the crib for naptime, in the bouncer, stroller and even the floor. There was no difference where you put him. He had a limit. And when time was up, so was he. So he never left the cosleeper in our bed (until he outgrew it and then was just in the bed). I tried bringing the crib in our room. Then I sidecarred it. Then one day after about six or so months of trying this and that and everything else, I was all, "what am I doing? Just let it be and quit worrying about it" and the rest is history.
 
We are a cosleeping family. We have no magic sleep solutions or dillusions that we are doing things any better than anyone else. We are just doing what works for us. And it does work for us. Take Mr. Pants, a nursing baby who woke up to nurse all. night. long. or woke in a panic (for reasons that we now understand) and needed to float around in some water to calm down when nursing didn't work. Now take me, the nursing mama, who also had a full time job outside the home. Let's just say that most days I looked like a train hit me and then backed up and hit me again, then the engineer jumped out and dumped a bucket of homely all over me and made me wear yoga pants. Seriously, I was tired. So cosleeping/bedsharing saved me a bit. Half of the time I could just stay laying down and nurse him back to sleep, never getting out of bed. And that was the clincher for me. It's what we became familiar with. So when Plum arrived, we never even set up the crib. I just pulled the cosleeper out of the closet, washed it up and placed in the bed. Done and done.


People say weird things to us when it comes up like "Oh you poor thing!" Hmm, I wasn't complaining about it. You asked me how the kids slept, I told you. I'm not a poor thing, it's cool. For realz.  My personal favorite comment came from a pediatrician when Mr. Pants was about 12 months old. She asked where he slept at night and I told her. She looked at me like I was an alien and immediately turned her face away. "Well, at least he's old enough and big enough to defend himself now", she said. 

Now, if you know me at all, you will be super impressed with my self control at that point. I gave her a dismissive laugh, as if to say "Oh, you! Silly doctor!" and then said something like "he's perfectly fine and safe". But what I wanted to say was, "Who in the mother hell do you think you are doctor? Shut your stupid face!". When I told Daddy her comment he responded, "Defend himself from what? Gremlins? Dream Ninjas?". I love Daddy Pants. Sigh. But I digress. She was appalled, is the point. It was all over her face. I thought that was weird.

Growing up I had a bajillion cousins. A few of which regularly slept in the same bed as their moms and dads. Some of the best memories I have about sleep during my childhood are when my mama would snuggle in bed with me when I was scared of a storm or not feeling well. I felt safe and I felt warmth and love. Such a great feeling. I knew that if I needed to, it was ok to go get in mama's bed. And as I grew, the need got less and less and I was very happy to sleep on my own.

If I had to guess, I'd say the 100% of families have coslept. At least once. Nights when the kids come into the room afraid from a storm or a bad dream. Nights when your little one is sick and sad and needs mama or daddy to hold them. Comfort them. Have you ever thrown open the covers as an invitation to a little voice at the door at 3 am? Have you ever said, "come here, baby girl" in response to the tap on your shoulder? Then you have coslept. Bed shared, even. The only difference for us is that we do this nightly for the first few years. And we don't mind it. The day is coming when our kids want nothing to do with us (little ingrates!). So I am definitely enjoying this time when they actually want to be close. Because I have a feeling that the pulling away when I try and give them a hug before their first day of school, or the looming "Mooooooom. You're embarrassing me", is closer than I will ever be comfortable with. So tonight, I will snuggle my littles, while they are still letting me. Because everyday brings us closer to handing them the keys to the car. And oh man, I'm having heart palpatations just thinking about that.  

 

Once upon a time there was an 18 year old girl named Sarah*.

She was talented and beautiful and in love. She'd just graduated from high school and was set to marry her sweetheart. The dreamy and mysterious Henry*. She loved music and acting and kids. She was the oldest of five so she knew a thing or two about taking care of little ones. She had a dream, like many kids, that she would marry and have babies and live a life in love with her people. What she didn't see coming was the nightmare.

See Henry was living a violent and terrible childhood and Sarah thought she could save him. Save him from the pain of his father's fist and the deep wounds of his mother's biting words. Sarah thought that if she could love Henry enough, he would be ok. But he wasn't ok. And for the next five years Sarah lived in a world of unimaginable pain. A world where the man she loved, wounded her both physically and emotionally.

Out of that five years came two little boys. They were Sarah's only solace. They were her perfect babies and she loved them fiercely. It wasn't lost on Sarah though that she was raising her babies in a world of fear and pain just as Henry had lived. But it wasn't very easy to just up and leave. In 1974 there were no shelters to go to or police to call. Well sure, she could call the police but they would tell Henry to take a walk and cool down and they'd leave. Leaving her there to endure the payment for having called them in the first place. So what could she do? 

He'd tell her that he would kill her if she left him. He had a gun. She knew because he had placed it to her head before. He'd beaten her so severely before she thought she could die if he didn't stop. So what would keep him from killing her if she left him?

Not a damn thing.

So she stayed and she tried to keep him happy. Walking on thin cracked ice and trying not to fall through. Trying to obey his rules to the letter but the rules kept changing and she couldn't keep up. She watched at family gatherings as Henry's father berated, belittled and even still struck him, knowing that when they got home, she would pay for the shame that it brought him.

It was a terrifying life.

Then in the winter of 1975, pregnant with her third child, she had a moment. It was a very clear moment. She knew she had to try. To hear her tell it, the world fell away and there was a calm that washed over her. She knew that staying meant a life of violence for her and her children. She knew that eventually he would kill her and she knew what that would mean for her kids.

So she stood up. She left. She had nothing but her and her babies.  She lived in fear of Henry for quite a while. She lived off government assistance and scraped and survived. And she stayed gone. And in the summer of 1975 she gave birth to her third baby. A girl. This was especially remarkable because for years Henry had bragged that he just didn't make girls. Girls were weak. He only made boys. Yet there she was. A pink and screaming baby girl. 

Now, I know Sarah by another name. I call her mom.

Growing up, our family was never perfect but families never are. I will never forget the first time my mom told me her story. She was very brief and didn't give a lot of detail but because I was at the age where I started hearing things (read: eavesdropping) and asking questions, she had no choice but to give me a few answers. I am nothing if not persistent (read: horribly naggy til I find out what I think others are not telling me). I remember at first being a bit confused but that passed quickly and was replaced by awe. I was in awe of her. The self-esteem of young girls can be a fragile thing and at the time, mine was at an all-time low. So here was my mom telling me that she escaped this violence and kept us safe. My tween ears heard, "My mom's a badass!" 

Today as an adult and mother to my own babes, I still think that. I remember after Mr. Pants was born I called my mom. All I said was "Mom, I get it. I get it"  

Because of her bravery, I lived a life that was safe. So do Mr. Pants and Plum. And one further? Because of that clear moment when the world fell away for her and she stood up and took her life back, she gave me mine and made it possible for my babies to live in this world. Because of my mother's love, I am loving my babies. I'm starting to go down that Fate Train again, I know. But just thinking about the other side of this coin gives me shivers. Knowing that in that moment, my brave mom pointed me, yet unborn, in the direction of my loving husband and my children. What a gift. What an amazing moment. So I'd like to tell her that I love her. And that she is the bravest woman I know. And that it doesn't matter that we are imperfect. Because we are perfect for each other. I have to tell her she is amazing. I have to thank her a million more times. She stood up. And because she did, I am free too.

I love you mom.

If you or someone you know needs help. You can start here.

* Names have been changed

Let me tell you a funny little story about how I failed as a mother. It's been on my mind lately because I have been patting myself on the back too much. Every time I give myself props I think about the time I ran screaming from the house, leaving my helpless children inside. Yep. I totally did. I fell holding Mr. Pants the other day and protected him so well that only I got hurt (go me!). I overcame my fear of arachnids long enough to rescue both of my children from them several times in the last few weeks (Like really really GO ME!!). But I do not always come through for my kids. There are times when I absolutely fail. I was patting myself on the back like a snob when  I was reminded of the day I left the loves of my life to the mercy of a ferocious skunk.

It was a beautiful summer morning and both babies were sleeping in like perfect little children. I got my morning coffee and took it to the deck to enjoy the sun. Leaving the sliding glass door open a bit so I could hear if they awoke, I sat down on a lawn chair to relax a bit and get ready for the day. A few minutes in to my relaxation, I heard a rustling next to me. I look to my right and standing RIGHT. FRIGGIN. NEXT. TO. ME. was a skunk. During the day! Stumbling around like he was on some kind of walk of shame after an all-night bender, this beast was looking right at me.

So now most mamas probably would have run into the house and closed the door. Me? I ran screaming into the yard. Away from the house. FAR away from the house. As I stopped and turned I saw the little effer standing right next to the OPEN door to my house with my sleeping babies inside.

I start to yell at it. Because maybe skunks can listen to reason? "Please don't go in my house. AHHHH!!!! PLEEEEASE!!!!"

It looks at me with a wondering look. I imagine it thought that the giant biped screaming at it was pretty damn scary and hindsight tells me that perhaps a calmer, quieter approach would have been best. But that skunk was flirting with the threshold of my house as if to say "keep it up crazy lady and I WILL run into this safe house to escape you".

So I stopped and started to whisper "please don't go into the house, please don't go into the house, please don't go into the house". I imagine it was a pretty awesome sight for the neighbors (who already cannot stand us). Me in my pj's and no bra, twitching and whispering to myself while clasping my hands together in some kind of plea, stomping the ground in what probably looked like a pee dance. 

About this time is when the skunk changed the game and got brave. I'm sure he had sized me up for the wuss that I am and he decided that his best defense was to charge. So he did. Right toward me. Good grief this thing had balls. I scream and start jumping up and down. He is startled long enough to stop in his tracks (and I suspect this is when he peed out of his butt a little, you know it's pretty obvious when they do that). And he darts to the right near the bush but not far enough to create a safe and assured distance between us to allow me back in my house.

We begin a dance. A heart pounding, sweat inducing, locked eye contact, insano dance. He'd move a few feet, then me.Then him. Then me. My ingenious idea to toss a branch and get him to run was the dumbest shit I have ever done. He did not go for it and butt peed some more. I spent the next five minutes (five years?) dancing with this crazed woodland creature. Until finally he was far enough away from the house for me to make a break for it. I Chariots of Fire-ed that run. Yes I did.

Back in the house I collapse exhausted on the floor (my children come by their drama honestly). I am safe! The babies are safe! I have WON! As I regain my composure, Mr. Pants walks out from his room. I imagine what might have happened had the skunk made it into the house and he came face to face with it. "Ooh look at the pretty baby kitty!" Good Lord. Thank God that the skunk's instincts to live (and perhaps find his home after a night of wild berry eating?) were on point. Because my motherly instinct to protect my children had not had their morning coffee yet. Coming down from the trauma (let me have my drama), it occurred to me that this ferocious animal was actually the teeniest little skunky I have ever seen. If I had to guess, I'd say he was a teenager skunk at the most. Maybe four pounds total? And as the shame washed over me, I tiptoed out to the deck to retrieve my abandoned coffee.