I give in
I used to laugh, reading other mama blogger’s posts because at a certain point they all seemed to dwell on the topic of either boobs or poop, both of which were things I was sure I would NEVER HAVE THE NEED OR DESIRE TO WRITE ABOUT. Oooh, how wrong I was. And I can tell this is only the beginning, isn’t it? The beginning of all things baby that I am going to say, “I am sure I’ll NEVER do that,” about, and then do just the opposite when confronted with the actual situation.
But seriously people, the stuff of new-mamaness is apparently all about boobs and poop. Ooh ye non-mamas out there beware, lest ye be fooled into believing that parenthood involves things like woodland hikes, profound thoughts, family naps and the joys of tasting watermelon for the first time–because really, in the end of it all, EVERYTHING WILL COME BACK TO BOOBS OR POOP.
Now that I’ve succumbed to this rather depressing fact, I am thrilled to report my boob is back to it’s previous non-painful state. Something has regrettably been re-wired in me however, and now I am compelled to tell you about the fact that Bean has been doing this whole “I’m going to save my poop up–and not poop for two weeks, and then christen you with my miraculous pooping volcano” routine lately, and it’s getting really old.
Round about the time he turned 4.5 months he basically quit pooping on a regular basis, without any prior notice and no apparent discomfort. Of course, everything we read everywhere said that IT’S PERFECTLY OKAY NOT TO POOP FOR FOURTEEN DAYS–if you’re a breastfeeding baby that is. But seriously, how can that really be okay? But our DR. (who is the greatest lady to ever wear a white coat, and whose thinking falls in line with ours when it comes to the whole wait to immunize bit, and the try natural remedies before going for the drugs routine) seemed less than concerned. And it’s not all bad. Going without poopy diapers is never really bad, is it?
But a new side affect of the whole poop boycott seems to be THE STINKIEST GAS IN THE WORLD. Bean’s bottom SMELLS LIKE POOP, even when there is no poop, so I’m not sure how much of an improvement the whole no-poop thing is really is. And oooh, when he actually gets around to pooping, it’s no longer just a pretty diaper full (did I really just say pretty and diaper in the same sentence??) It is an eruption. It is POOP GATE. It is the scandalous, never ending, “oh my god he just pooped for five minutes straight” kind of poop that seems to occur uncannily when I’m the only one around and DH is off running errands, naive and clean and unmarred by our baby’s incredible pooping hiney.
If there is a patron saint for new mamas somewhere out there, please tell her to address the whole poop thing for me, would you? Let her know that I’m groveling in shame for ever assuming I’d be able to avoid writing obsessively about poop–but that I’d really like to get on with things now.
Mommy?! | Comments (4)Finding my place
We went for a short hike yesterday along a river through the wetlands and a mixed-wood forest. The ground felt springy and damp from the previous day’s rain, padded with needles from pines and spruces. Mushrooms, lined the trail, among the punky rotting trunks of fallen logs. Cattails grew thickly in the bogs, and the in the fields Purple Loosestrife and Queen Anne’s Lace and Goldenrod.
It was Bean’s first time in the Sherpani backpack we got for him. And his eyes were wide as DH moved along the trail under low hanging branches, past bright berried bushes, and overgrown thickets of ferns. We want him to grow up with the deep love for the outdoors that we share. We want him to grow up feeling like he belongs to the earth: that he is a part of it, not separate from the wildness of the beaver or the dragonfly.
Walking in the woods always fills me with a certain reverence. Watching mallards move across murky pond water, or fawns picking their way silently like shadows amongst the trunks of trees helps me to find my place again. Lines from Mary Oliver’s poem rise up in my mind, like the bubble trails left by beavers.
As I walk along behind DH and Bean, noticing the muddy path, the sweet air, the zing of mayflies and the deep washboard croak of the bullfrog, it is easier to remember to be gentle with myself. The dappled sunlight and smooth water make it easier to locate stillness in my being. To suck in big gulps of air and feel grateful.
I’ve been contemplating gratitude lately. Contemplating what it means to live with an awareness for the immense gift of life, despite the turmoil of it. Gratitude for good food and health and joy—but also gratitude for loss and complication and confusion. I’ve been working on the piece about my father again, and was astounded last night to realize that I’ve written probably six or seven different drafts and nearly twenty single spaced pages. I am trying now to gather them up, and turn them into something that speaks to others, that gives in it’s telling something more than a story of grief.
