Older. Wiser?

I am struggling tonight.  In the past three and a half hours since I put my son to bed, he has woken five times, and while my daughter has not stirred once since I managed to get her to sleep, the process of getting her to that point tonight was long and drawn out and full of irritation on both of our parts.  Neither of these situations is normal.  Elinor is normally very easy to put to bed: we nurse in the rocking chair, I kiss her forehead, place her in the crib (still awake), she rolls over, places thumb in mouth, and goes to sleep.  The past week has been a different story, filled with impassioned nap refusals and heart-wrenching pleas to sleep in my arms, in the rocking chair, all night long.  And while Evan has never been stellar in the sleep departme-

. . .

Pardon me.  Just back from my sixth interruption of the evening, which involved Evan coming down the hall, me scooping him up into my arms and asking, "What's going on with you tonight, babe?  Can't sleep?"  To which he responded, "I don't know what's going on, Mommy.  I can't sleep without you."  I know this is not true; he does so every night, most nights for four or five hours, occasionally for eight.  He can do it.  But not tonight.

"Which bed do you want to go to?"

"Mommy and Daddy's."

"Do you want me to bring the sound machine in there?"

"Yeah, and my water."

"Okay."

Okay.  Supplies gathered, we head to the master bedroom, where I lay him down and then take my place next to him, warm under the covers.  I should enjoy it.  He is warm and soft; he smells good.  He wants nothing more than to sleep snuggled up against me.  And yet, I feel tense.  And slightly irritated.  I am nearing the end of my husband's 48-hour work shift and I am craving some time to myself.  I feel stressed and achy and annoyed.

Who is to blame for this?  My children and their refusal to sleep?  My husband, for choosing a career as a firefighter?  No.  There is no one to blame but myself.  These are nothing more than external circumstances; they cannot make me unhappy.  The cause of my tension is my internal resistance to these external circumstances.  After all, is not the cause of all unhappiness simply the resistance to whatever life is serving up to you at the present moment?  Yes, it's true, life can serve up some unpleasant shit, but this unpleasantness is only a matter of perspective.  If we, instead, chose to "go with the flow" (while still allowing emotions to arise within us) would we still experience so much tension and stress?  Think about it.

Remove resistance to the present moment, and tension fades away.

(This is something a child does naturally, without having to analyze the shit out of their evening).

Ugh, I have so much to unlearn.

Three and a Half Years

On the morning of September 24th, 2006, I woke early, around 5 am, and headed to the bathroom for my third or fourth "potty break" since hitting the sack the previous evening.  I didn't think much of it; at nine months pregnant, I was used to frequent nocturnal trips to the toilet.  But as I did my business, I realized quickly that this time was a little different.  I'll spare you the graphic details and just say this: while in the bathroom, I was given a sign that labor may (or may not) be commencing soon.  As I headed back to bed, I tried to convince myself that it was silly to get too excited.  It's probably nothing, I told myself, go back to bed, get some rest.  I climbed under the covers and closed my eyes, took some deep breaths and tried to relax.  And then it hit me -- the first contraction.  It wasn't really what I expected.  It felt somewhat like a bad menstrual cramp, but not constant, just a brief wave of pain washing over my abdomen.  The fact that it was so mild made me wonder if I was just imagining things.  But, deep down, I knew.  This was different.  This was new.  Today was the day.

That first contraction was the beginning of a 23-hour labor that resulted in the birth of my first child and only son, Evan Samuel.  The first 10 or 11 hours were relatively easy.  We hung out at home, took a brief walk around the neighborhood, finally painted the changing table for Evan's nursery, ate In 'N' Out burgers, and brushed up on our Bradley skills as if we were cramming for a big test.

The remaining 12 hours, spent primarily at the hospital, were very, very difficult.  When I first became pregnant, I knew that I wanted to give birth unmedicated.  My mother and my mother-in-law were extremely supportive and both recommended to me that I try the Bradley Method of natural childbirth.  My mom helped me find an instructor in the area, and my mother-in-law gave me the book that she used to learn the method before giving birth to her daughter in 1986.  Armed with months of preparation and lovingly supported in that hospital room by my husband and mother, I was able to achieve my goal of an unmedicated birth.  This is something I am incredibly proud of and that I consider to be one of my greatest accomplishments in life.

After 23 hours of labor, including two full hours of pushing, I finally gave birth to my son and was able to hold him in my arms.  He was purple and wet and covered in goo, his face twisted into an awful expression of discontent.  He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I was exhausted.

I was in love.

As I looked at his little face that morning, I could sense that he was sending me a message. That, through his long, arduous journey and eventual, begrudging entrance into the world, he was making a statement, and that statement was this: I'm not gonna make things easy on you, Mom, but I will be worth it.

And how.





Evan Samuel: Three and a Half Years from Alison Silack on Vimeo.

*I should note that the music during the slideshow is "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane, a song that really spoke to me during my pregnancy.  I used to listen to it over and over while getting ready for work.  I would sing along and sort of rock back and forth and I could tell that Evan liked it.  Since then, I have considered it one of "our songs."

Small Wonder

"There's a whole apple tree in there?" he asked in wide-eyed wonder, staring down at the small brown seed that sat in the palm of my hand.  It tumbled to the floor as I prepared a snack for the two of us to share: sliced apples dipped in a mix of peanut butter and honey.  This happens often when I slice apples.  The seeds fall, I bend to pick them up, toss them in the sink.  But this time Evan was there, waiting patiently for his snack as we chatted about something, most likely monster trucks, his latest obsession.  The seed fell and he picked it up quickly, inspecting it with his curious young eyes, bright blue and big as saucers.

"Did you know," I asked, taking the seed and placing it in the palm of my hand, "if we buried this seed in the ground and gave it sunshine and water and love, it would slowly but surely grow into a great big apple tree?"  To his three-year-old mind, this was absolutely amazing; how fantastic that an entire tree could be encapsulated in a tiny seed!

"Can we do it, Mom?  Right now?  In the back yard?"  His excitement was contagious and I found myself giddy at the thought of having our very own apple tree.  Then my adult mind kicked in and I told him that it probably wouldn't survive if we just stuck it in the ground in the back yard.  A squirrel may dig it up; we may forget it's exact location.  We decided instead, that we would plant the seed in a small pot and keep it in the house where we would be able to care for it and keep it safe.  Then, when it got big enough, we would move it to the backyard.

"Or," I speculated, allowing my mind to become childish once more, "we could just leave it in the house and have a great big apple tree in our living room!"

"Cool!" he exclaimed, and then became silent, the wheels in his head quite obviously turning.

"Mom, what if we planted the seed in my hand?  What would happen then?  Would a tree grow?"  I could have just laughed, called him a silly head, suggested we eat our snack.  Or, I could have explained to him exactly what a seed needs to grow into a tree and that it would be scientifically impossible to do it in the palm of his hand.  But why would I do that?  The imagination of a three-year-old child is a truly wondrous thing; far be it from me to weigh it down with reason, to dampen it with facts.  How utterly boring.  Why not embrace the moment, try to see it through his eyes?  After all, it is becoming quite clear to me that my child can teach me far more about life than I could ever teach him.

I looked at him as he stared up at me, breathed in deeply, tried to soak in even an ounce of his innocence, his childish excitement, let it fill my heart.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful?"  The words spilled from my lips, "Then you would always have juicy, delicious apples, right at your fingertips!"

"Yeah," he said dreamily, "wouldn't that be wonderful."

Knowing You

They say the older you get,
the faster time flies,

and that the years with young children
will flash by
in an instant.

And yet it seems,
dear children,
that time has slowed considerably
since you came into my life.

Each moment (so precious)
deserves my full attention.
And my days, once so scheduled
and routine and filled with longing
for the 5 o'clock hour,

are now loose and free-flowing,
with long stretches of time spent
dancing in pajamas
or hunting for insects
or snuggling you in silence.

In retrospect, it's true,
the years have gone quickly
and I marvel at the size
of your once-tiny feet.

But the moments are
what matter
and the moments seem to...
stretch.

Thank you for sharing your eyes and your ears,
your untarnished perspective,
your sense of wonder,
your joy.

Knowing you
has allowed me
to breathe deeper

and has taken presence,
appreciation for the now,
beyond intellectual concept
to the level of daily practice.

For that, I thank you,
more than you will ever know.

Mind Over Marriage

"Do you have to argue with me about EVERY little thing??  So, yeah, there might be another way of looking at things, but you know what?  Sometimes I don't care; sometimes I just want you to LISTEN to me."  This is what Stephen said to me during a recent drive to the grocery store and it stunned me into silence.  Immediately I thought, I don't do that, then, even if I do, it's only because you so often DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE, and finally, I wasn't arguing with you; I don't even LIKE arguing.  The next thought I had effectively prevented me from giving voice to the previous three: holy shit, he's right.  Even now, in my head, I'm arguing with him.  Perhaps I should have just apologized then and there, but of course I didn't.  I remained silent for the remainder of the drive, in part because I was annoyed that he had snapped at me, but mostly because what he said was true.

I come from a family that argues a lot, that has always argued a lot.  This is not to say that I grew up in an unhappy home filled with constant yelling and screaming and fighting.  I actually had a very happy childhood and, growing up, often thought that I had the "perfect" family (I know better now, of course).  The point is, I've always been surrounded by very intelligent, very opinionated family members for whom argument could almost be considered a pastime.  While I love my family, this aspect of family life has always made me uncomfortable.  Perhaps it is because I am the middle child, always wanting to keep the peace.  Or maybe I am too insecure to speak my mind, for fear of being shot down.  Or perhaps with so many loud voices talking at once all the time I simply stopped trying to be heard.  Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter now.  What does matter is this: if I loathe constant arguing so much, why am I bringing it into my marriage?

Since that car ride, I have become painfully aware of just how often I argue with Stephen about things that just don't matter.  I've been trying to remain vigilant and feel that, more often than not now, I am able to stop myself before I start.  I hope this improvement is not all in my head.

Many of my arguments with Stephen are based on the fact that we have very different outlooks on life, very different opinions about human nature.  From the beginning of our relationship, I have been trying to impress my world view upon him, trying to turn him into a more "positive" person, a less "judgmental" person, someone who views the universe as inherently good, full of abundance and love and connectedness.  I do this out of love, yes, but at what cost?  And who am I to think I have all the answers, to think that by "knowing" him I somehow know what's best for him?  How egotistical can I be?  How judgmental.

I think that it is fairly common practice in marriage to try to "change" your spouse, or to quietly loathe certain aspects of who they are, but I think this practice is misplaced.  I chose to marry Stephen.  I made this choice because I fell in love with him but, more importantly, because I felt in my heart that he would make a good husband, father, and lifelong partner.  Four and a half years later, I no longer feel that, I know it.  For all his alleged faults, Stephen can put most husbands and fathers to shame.  He loves me like I am the only woman on Earth and cares for his children with a passion that is truly inspiring.  He supports me no matter what, puts up with my ever-changing moods, and never, EVER makes me feel judged.

All that other stuff?  That stuff about his view on life and human nature?  Well, I either need to just accept it as being a part of who he is, a part of the strange brew that is my husband, and love him regardless, or I need to leave.  And it's pretty much as simple as that.

(Don't worry, my love, I want to stay.)

I wish I could claim to have written this myself...

I happened upon a collection of Janet Holmes's poems while perusing a book store probably 7 or 8 years ago. I had never heard of her, but instantly fell in love with her writing. I consider The Love of the Flesh to be one of the most beautiful love poems I have ever read. Since I was having trouble coming up with my own words this evening, I thought I would borrow some to share. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. May your spirit be light as you indulge in the pleasures of the flesh!


The Love of the Flesh
by Janet Holmes


Reality is not limited to the tactile:
still, we touch our own faces, as if by the slide
of fingers over cheekbones, eyelids, lips,


we can check that we are not dreaming.  This is
the life of the body, the life of gesture,


tangible, a palm against the skin.
When I put my hand to your face it becomes a caress,
but here, against my own, it is disbelief
or wonder.


The questions are hard, as when medieval scholars
divvied up the body in debate
as to where the soul hung its ephemeral hat-


and those who plumped for the heart laboring its fenced-in field
shouted down those others who felt God's messages
precisely in the pit of the stomach,


while the ancients reasoned the brain, the unromantic brain,
and virtually every organ had its champion...


Their filigree of argument confounds me
just as, then,
the suddenness of love left me dazed:


for days they had to call me twice
to get a single answer - I was deaf
and breathless and stunned.  It was not
as if the world were new and beautiful.


It was, instead, as if I had unlearned
how to use my hands
and feet.  Where does the life of the body


leave off, the life of the spirit start?  When
does the mouthful of air move beyond breathing
towards magic?  We made


a spectacle of ourselves, dancing about
like clowns in huge shoes, goofy with happiness,
inarticulate in all but the lexicon
of sexual flesh;


and the soul, from its short-leased home
among the muscles, sent its respects,
or so we were told...


Even in Paradise, the light-filled spirits
long for their resurrection,
and Dante is surprised that they miss their bodies:


"Not only for themselves," he speculates,
"but for their mothers and fathers, and for the others
dear to them on earth,"


souls wistful for flesh, nostalgic
for their faraway, simple selves who walked about


and who, lifting and seeing their hands,
thought suddenly one day These touch, caress, stroke;
who found in the body a bridge beyond it


and coined the word beloved.  And thus we performed
for ourselves the seamless changing over
of element to element,


body to air, solid to spirit, magic trick
or miracle, without knowing the particular
spell or prayer or luck that made it quicken.

All in good time

I am just barely starting to fall asleep when I hear the familiar click of the door knob down the hall, followed first by the sound of electronic rain and second by the sound of small feet running quickly in the dark.  Within moments you are on the bed, making your way to the top and then the middle, where you are met with loving arms and warm covers.  We take our places seamlessly, each nestling into a semi-fetal position, face-to-face, your small warm feet resting on the tops of my thighs.  When he is not working, your father curls around your back and the three of us form a perfect little puzzle.  I do not mind that I must pull myself away from the warmth of my husband's arms and move to the cold outskirts of the king-sized bed in order to make room for you.  I do not mind that you sleep no more than 4 or 5 hours in your own bed before joining us in ours.  Nor do I mind the occasional knocking of heads, the accidental meetings between foot and eye socket, the mid-sleep slaps across the face.  These small inconveniences are more than made up for by the sound of your breath, the smell of your hair, the soft warmth of your skin, and the glimpses into your dreams I am afforded by having you near enough to hear you talk in your sleep.  Why, just the other night, you actually smiled and giggled while sound asleep and I nearly cried, the sound was so lovely and unexpected.

I've heard the admonitions, the concerns that "he will never be able to sleep on his own," the recommendations for getting you to sleep in your own bed in order to "foster your independence."  I simply cannot listen.  We hurry through so many things in this life as it is.  Must I rush this along as well?  I refuse.  These moments with you are too precious, fleeting; I will not wish them away.  So, join us in sleep, my son, for as long as you feel the need; we are here.  And when you are ready to leave, we will let go willingly, knowing that the time is right.

Oh, The Joys of Womanhood...

If there's one thing I can count on in life, it's PMS's uncanny ability to turn me into an overly-defensive, depressive, lazy, bloated, zit-faced blob of self-loathing.  Every time, without fail.  Add to that a week of never ending rain, an insanely active, slightly deranged 3-year-old, and a screeching, whining, teething one-year-old and you've got me ready to run out the door at the slightest suggestion of a babysitter, without looking back and probably in my pajamas, since that seems to be what I live in these days.  And isn't it such a cruel fact of parenthood that when you aren't on your game and are feeling grumpy or impatient or like you just want to be ALONE, kids never fail to mirror that shit right back on you.  Mom's grumpy?  Well, look out, 'cause little Mr. Three Years Old can do grumpy too and when he does grumpy it is raw and uninhibited and full of screaming and kicking and heart-piercing exclamations like, "I don't love you, Mom!"  Because, hell, he's three and that's how he rolls.  And since I'M the adult, I'M the one who has to be all mature and go meditate or something to get my shit together and turn the mood of the whole damn house around.  And WHY is that so hard to do sometimes, WHY??

I hate the helpless feeling that PMS gives me.  It takes me by surprise every single time, even though you'd think I'd be used to it by now, and there is nothing that really seems to make it better.  Exercise helps.  A little.  But only for a short period of time and I think it has more to do with the fact that I'm alone than it does with endorphins.  Why do women have to put up with this shit?  I've had my two kids; I'm done.  Isn't there some form I can fill out, sign and date at the bottom, that will magically make Aunt Flo hit the road permanently and take those damn hormone fluctuations with her?

Seriously, someone should invent that.

The Cleanse, Day Twelve

Wow, Day 12?  Really??  It's amazing how quickly you can adapt to a new routine if you simply allow yourself to.  I'm nearly two-thirds of the way through this thing and, I have to say, it isn't the slightest bit difficult anymore.  This new way of eating that was so foreign at first, that had me scattered and anxious and grumpy and in pain for the first few days is now just my normal everyday routine.  I am spending FAR more time in the kitchen and at the grocery store and meal-planning than I used to, but it doesn't even feel like work anymore.  I'm actually sort of enjoying it, embracing my newly-discovered domesticity.  I find the food intensely satisfying, continue to have tons of energy, and am sleeping better than I have in years.  Honestly, YEARS.  I hardly remember EVER sleeping this well.  It really is fantastic.

So, do I miss ANYTHING from my old way of life?  Yes.  I miss gluten.  I miss my whole-grain breads, pastas, and pancakes.  The gluten-free versions made with brown rice are alright, but they don't have the rich, nutty flavor and hearty texture I so love.  I look forward to eating those again.

I miss the TASTE of coffee, but not the caffeine.  Herbal tea is nice in the afternoon or evening, but it just doesn't hit the spot for me in the morning like a mug of hot black coffee.  I'm seeing decaf in my future.

Every once in a while, I REALLY miss chocolate, particularly dark chocolate.  Oddly enough, I have found that just smelling it gives me enough sensory pleasure to satisfy the craving.  Of course, nothing compares to smelling and then actually TASTING dark chocolate, and when these three weeks are up, I will do just that.  And when I do, I will do it very, very slowly.  And probably with my eyes closed.

The Cleanse, Day Seven

I have now completed one-third of the Quantum Wellness Cleanse.  The following are some observations I have made over the course of the week:

1)  I can differentiate between true hunger and craving.  The craving always has an emotional element to it that I wasn't always aware of.  Now that I am unable to fulfill my cravings, I am forced to deal with the underlying emotion.  Whether it is stress or irritation or boredom or anxiety, I am forced to acknowledge it.

2)  I can tell when my body is ready for sleep, which is usually around 9:30 or 10:00.  Pre-cleanse, I always felt like I had to eek out as much "adult" time as possible in the evenings, rarely going to bed before 11 pm and often much later.  With children that wake me during the night and that NEVER sleep past 7 am, I simply wasn't getting enough sleep.  Now, I get enough sleep AND the sleep is of a higher quality.  I wake up feeling rested.  Even at 6 am.

3)  My skin is clearer and brighter.  At first, I thought I was probably just imagining it, but then my husband mentioned it out of the blue when I wasn't wearing any makeup and that just about made my day.

4)  I have WAY more energy and my moods are more even-keeled.  My patience with the children has been restored ten-fold and I *think* I am being nicer to my husband, but you'd probably have to ask him to know for sure.

5)  I find it interesting that the things I used to help me "cope" with life, i.e. coffee to wake me up in the morning, alcohol to help me relax in the evening, were actually making my life harder to deal with.  They may have, at some point, been a temporary fix, but it always became this vicious cycle of my body suffering because of these substances and then craving them to make me feel better again.

6)  I am not a fan of vegan cheese.  The texture is icky and it smells weird.  If I'm gonna eat cheese, I want it to be the real thing.  If I can't eat the real thing, then I'd rather eat something else entirely.

7)  I have lost 4 pounds.  This means I weigh one pound less than I did when I married Stephen 4+ years ago.  Now, anyone who knows me well knows that my body is NOT what it was on my wedding day.  This makes two things very clear to me: 1) the number on the scale don't mean diddly, and 2) it's time to hit the gym, yo.