The Family Bed

If you've been reading "regularly," and I use that term loosely, considering that I loosely post things here, you may have guessed that by now, we've moved.

We have, and are *almost* settled into our new little place in Bloomington, Indiana.  There are, of course, the little bits of things that still need sorting and put away, but they are becoming fewer and fewer.  Phew! (er)

When we moved, we pared down our things (you wouldn't have guessed it if you had helped us move), trying to streamline the amount of STUFF we owned, and trying to guess what we would need in the new house.  There was quite a bit moved along to new people, including our beloved bed.  We bought it when we had been married only a year and were moving out of our teeny-weeny apartment (in which you had to walk through the closet to get to the bathroom) (and which also came with its own bed - looking back on that - ick!) and into new digs, in which we needed our very own bed.  That comfy thing lasted us from IKEA through the rainy three-plus-hour drive home tied atop our little Kia Rio Cinco and for almost eight years (including two pregnant ones for me)!  You know it's comfy if a pregnant lady can sleep on it.  But, I digress.  The most comfortable bed in the world is now living at my in-laws (where we can visit it any time we want) and we bit the bullet and bought the ultimate: a king-size bed.

For a family of four living on a graduate student budget (read: enough actual income to pay the monthly rent and the rest loans/grants/family support), the king size bed was a big bullet to bite.  But we knew that with more space - including a room especially for the girls - we would need it.  Why?  Because, even though their Gramp built them a beautiful bunk bed - which, dad, if you're reading this, they love dearly and we WILL use it, I promise - our girls sleep with us.

Still.

They have since they were born - first Olivia, wrapped up like a baby burrito on her little crib mattress (on the floor) next to our mattress (on the floor).  I remember those first few nights, me rarely sleeping as she lay alone on her little bed, wondering if she was cold, if she was breathing, if she was lonely.  I know I was lonely, and, little by little, I moved her into our bed.

Nathan and I had made a conscious choice that we would be co-sleeping.  That's the official term for parents and children sleeping in the same room.  Some people buy special beds for their babies (we had one with Elsie - a co-sleeper from Arm's Reach) that can be attached right next to the big bed like a sidecar.  Others put the crib in the room of the parents, or, as we had, put their big mattress on the floor abutting a little mattress for the baby.  After a while, we found that the best way for us was to all be in the same bed - the family bed.

I loved the thrill of it - first of all, I had a big row with my mama about it, so I felt a little rush of adrenaline, knowing I was being disobedient.  But I also felt connected to mamas the world over who sleep with their babies in whatever bed they have - futons, straw mats, Serta sleepers, a blanket on the floor - whatever.  I remember nursing Olivia to sleep in our little place on Newgard Avenue, and drifting off, thinking that mamas the world over were nursing their babies at the same time - that I was participating in a timeless rite - a cultural tradition of the human experience.


By now, at least for some of you, I know that there must be alarm bells and whistles going off in your heads.  "No! No!" you might be thinking, "You'll roll over on the baby!  The baby will fall on the floor!  The baby will suffocate!  That's what cribs are for!"  Don't worry - these aren't new thoughts - all of these worries came through my head, too.  And, if you know me, you know that I'm a worrier, so all options needed to be examined before I could relax.  Of course, we had to be informed - one doesn't plop a baby in an adult bed and expect everything to work out beautifully.  We read bazillions of articles, we asked people who had co-slept, we looked at the statistics (a good article can be found here), heard arguments on both sides, and then - well, we did whatever we wanted.

The truth (at least for our family) is, bed-sharing was the easiest and best way for everyone to get enough sleep.  I couldn't imagine having to make up every two or three hours for those first few months (and during every growth spurt after that) to get up out of bed, walk into another room, take my crying baby out of her crib, nurse her, put her back in her crib, walk back to my own bed and try to go back to sleep.  No, thank you.  I took the straightest route from A to B, I suppose, and put that baby in my bed and let her nurse at her leisure (and my rest).

That, and the fact that we didn't have another room in which to put the baby.

A friend of mine (and Olivia's doula) related it to me in this way: when you sleep, you don't roll off the bed onto the floor - you are aware of where the edge is.  Now just imagine that you have a tiny little person next to you - how much MORE aware of her would you be than the edge of the bed, with your mama (or papa) spidey-senses all a-twitter?

Bedsharing got us through some nasty times - Olivia and her "colic," which turned out to be what I like to call womb-nostalgia*, my post-partum depression, as well as the usual kid illnesses (which can be harder for the parents than the baby sometimes, what with all the worrying).  It also got us through two one-bedroom apartments.

And now, here I am, up early after a well-rested sleep (mostly).  Olivia is curled up next to me with her teddy bear (Olivia Bear, of course), and Elsie is clinging to her daddy's armpits on the other side of the bed.  We all fit, too, in this big ol' bed.

I know my children won't always sleep with us.  I fear and relish that fact.  I look forward to the time when no one is kicking me in the face (that's why Elsie's next to Nathan) or rolling over on top of me (ha!  The tables have turned!).  The time when my husband sleeps next to me and not two people over.  But we are both aware that these are precious days.  Too soon will these little souls venture out into their own room and the wide wide world.  Then I will look back to these sweet snuggle times - when a sleeping Elsie reaches her chubby hand to find mine.  When Olivia - who is growing more and more into an independent big girl - wakes in the morning light, rolls over and says, "Mama, I'm glad we snuggled."






*womb-nostalgia is a very silly term for the very serious way that many babies miss the womb - some doctors call it colic, but Dr. Harvey Karp describes it as "the missing fourth trimester."  Bedsharing helped, but the real hole-in-one was wrapping the baby up like a little burrito, taking her into the bathroom, turning off the lights, turning on the shower and standing in the middle of the floor (not in the shower), holding her on her tummy, and swinging her side-to-side.  Worked every time.

Some Links on Co-Sleeping (for those of you who like to read more things):


"Cosleeping:  Real Men Sleep with Their Kids" - Mothering Magazine
"Sleep Environment Safety Checklist" (for both family beds and cribs) - Mothering Magazine
"The Latest Research on Co-Sleeping" - Ask Dr. Sears
"Seven Benefits to Sleeping with Your Baby" - Dr. William Sears
"Five Benefits to Cosleeping Past Infancy" - Natural Parent Network
"Fun with Analogies" - PhD in Parenting (this one's a little crass)

My Secret Love

So, we're moving.  Out of state.  In two days.

At the end of June, we cleared out our place of four+ years (a one-bedroom apartment in Evanston) and stuck all of our stuff into a 10' x 15' storage space.  We then took those few things that we would need over the summer (read: clothes) and moved in with my husband's family, in Rockford, Illinois.

The summer has gone surprisingly fast.  Granted, we've squeezed in quite a bit, mostly the usual summer fare:  camping trip, swimming pool visits, water play in the backyard, summer camps, and a trip with the entire fam (save two) to the amusement park.  We've made lemonade and ice cream sandwiches from scratch, and visited with far-flung friends.  The girls have run amok with their cousins, which is of course a requirement for a good summer, and I've managed to come down with a nasty flu-like virus, complete with a sore throat.  In the summer.

Well done.

That last bit has really sent me for a loop, and so, with our move looming on the horizon, yesterday I was sent scrambling over the internet to fit the last few logistics into place.  You know, things like when and where we will pick up our moving van, and arranging for the gas and electric to be turned on in our new place.  Being the daughter of a postal worker, I don't mess around when it comes to change of address forms, either.  All of those little things add up to a rather large inconvenience if someone doesn't do them.

Our most sticky bit of logistical work thus far has been figuring out how to tote the few things we have with us (which seem to have multiplied over the summer) to Evanston, where we will try to squeeze them into our 20' truck.  Granted, we have a wonderfully cavernous station wagon, but we were hoping to get a new mattress en route, and so we (read: I) have been looking into installing a hitch on our car so that we could tow a trailer, should the need arise.

The trouble is, we've got a very tricky car.  You wouldn't think to look at our grey station wagon, but it's got quite a few surprises up its tailpipe.  The first being that it's an 8-cylinder.  The second being that it has all-wheel-drive (which you can turn on and off).  Apparently, those two combined make it virtually impossible to find a trailer hitch that fits.  I've found hitches for my '02 VW Passat Wagon W8 (not 4motion) and for my '02 VW Passat Wagon 4motion (not W8), but nothing that meets all the criteria.  Even the dealer, that over-priced purveyor of everything Volkswagen, can't find anything to fit.

Well, you may think, if the hitch doesn't fit... it's probably time to downsize, no?

Your response to my answer will tell you foodies from the flock - it's all because of my tomatoes.

I will gladly leave my clothes here to pick up at another time, my bits and bobs, etc.  But over the summer, I picked up twelve heirloom tomato plants, which I've been coaxing into fruition in buckets in the backyard.  I picked them up at the local farmer's market here in Rockford - they were on sale for $.50 each, which is amazing - and they're organic, to boot.  I asked the tomato man what would grow in a pot, and so he and I had a wonderful seek-and-find time, looking through his beautifully-named jungle:


Honeydrop
White Tomasol
Black Plum
Paul Robeson
Gold Medal
Woodle Orange
Blush
Green Zebra
Czech's Bush
Angelic Organics Learning Center Yellow
Cream Sausage

With such enticing names (especially that last one - two of my favorite things!), how could I resist?  They've met the challenge boldly, finally getting to the point where there are tiny fruits on most (I did buy them late in the season), and so I am loth to leave them here.  But the fact is, even with the capaciousness of our trunk, there is no way that six five-gallon paint buckets full of dirt and plants and cages are going to fit into our car.  At least, not if we intend to take the girls with us.

Which we do.

So I am feverishly searching (not the sore throat fever - this is a different one), for someplace that will stick a trailer hitch on the rear of our car.  I justify that this is an investment that we can use in the future - even now, we can carry any overflow from the storage unit with us to Bloomington.  In the future, we can put a bike rack on the back, or even haul a camper or a boat.  We'd have to buy a camper or a boat first, but still...

To those of you who are rolling your eyes at this, all I have to say is that you get it or you don't.  For me, there is unmeasured excitement and anticipation in watching a plant come to fruition - it mirrors my growth here in the physical world as well - starting from a tiny seed, enduring the elements of sweltering sun and gusty rain, growing strong from the winds of tests, and finally bearing fruit.  The excitement that a ripe tomato evokes must be rooted in my evolutionary heritage - fundamentally, this is the food that feeds us, and here I am: small, paltry me; and I helped it grow.

So wish me luck.  I have a few options lined up, but if you know of any place in the Chicagoland area that could install a hitch on my finicky car before Friday, let me know!

UPDATE:  We possibly found a match, the only drawback is - $500.  Oh, well.

I'll ask my in-laws to send me the seeds.

Sour Grapes

I'm sick. 

I hate being sick. 

When I was little, my mother told me that "hate" was a strong word.  I've said the same thing to my five year-old, but I can guiltlessly state here that I hate being sick.

Firstly, because it causes me to stop.  Everything.  Especially right now, in the midst of moving and planning, during the week that I'm supposed to be helping my sister-in-law clear out her house in preparation for a garage sale.  And I haven't finished remodeling my in-laws' guest bathroom.  It's just sitting there, hooks unhung, tile uncaulked, paint un...painted.  And I'm in bed.  I hate that.

When I get sick, I get pathetic.  Usually because it takes a lot of pain to actually get me to stop.  I've had two babies, so I have a good point of reference.  So when I'm the kind of sick that makes me stop, I'm really sick.  And I've been really sick for five days now, with a grossly sore throat.  The kind that you can't help but feel every time you breathe.  And I have to breathe.  All day.

I also get complain-y.  Can you tell?

Of course, I usually get sick when I'm doing too much.  I think that my body has an under-the-table agreement with infectious viruses, which states that whenever it doesn't want to keep up with my oft-full mental timetable, it can call on said viruses to make me stop.

Clearly, I got the message.

But that doesn't mean that I have to like it.

I can put some of the blame of genetics, in that my grandmother is the same non-stop way, but I think that my challenge is balancing this way of being with the chaotic style of our times.

For instance, right now, my internal self is having a war-of the-roses style battle - should I take this little burst of feeling-better energy and help my in-laws finish their house?  I feel terrible because I helped to make the mess, by leaving things undone, but at the same time, I feel terrible because I'm sick.  I think my body wins.  At least for now.

I suppose all of this reflection time has helped me become more aware of how I function in the world, too.  I am very good at doing things, but it is very difficult for me simply to be.  I don't think that either is better than the other, but I think that there must be a balance of the two for sanity's sake.  And by balance, I mean that each individual must find what mix of the two is best for her/himself.  My husband, for example, is a very good be-er, and thinks through things quite thoroughly.  I don't think that he would mind me saying that doing is often his weakness.  I am the exact opposite, which is why we are good for one another.  Each encourages the other to practice that attribute at which s/he is most deficient.

Anyhow, I haven't gone in to clear up the room, nor have I painted even a wall today.  I have sat upon this couch all day, and reflected and distracted and watched Blue's Clues on Netflix with my girls.  It has been rather nice, actually.  I don't know if I could do it every day (in fact, I know I couldn't), but it is nice to do once in a while.

So, thanks, you nasty virus.  I may be sour grapes, but at least I've mulled a bit.

Back to the Earth?

My brother Emeric thinks I'm a hippie.  The other evening, after washing his hands in our kitchen, he asked where the paper towels were.  We don't have any.  Mid-thought, though, he checked himself, and, drying his hands on the kitchen towel I have hanging by the sink, recalled, "Oh yeah.  You're a hippie."

We aren't that weird.  At least I don't think so.  But then, it tricky to gauge one's level of "hippieness" when most of those folks are my parents' age.  The only hippies I've known seem to have missed the boat somewhere and ended up thirty years late in my high school years - they had toothpaste-induced dred locks, wore hemp necklaces and baggy corduroy pants, and played hackey sack, so they looked like hippies, but there seemed to have been some of the philosophy missing.  They seemed disestablishmentarianist, but then, they still came to school.

I recall at the time admiring them for their search for open-mindedness, but unfortunately, much of it went up in smoke with their weed.  So I picked the lesser of two evils and hung out with the stoners and "alternative" kids, even though it mixed me up in that drug culture by name (thankfully, never by deed).  My other choice involved enduring the kids who were looking to impress with clothes and appearance and studying to the test, but spent much of their energy on that, rather than real thought.  Unfortunately, it seemed that all the heart- and brain-power of those teenage years was spent in maintaining some sort of image, rather than delving into the mysteries of life.  So I was sort of stuck in the middle, not having the money to buy into really any image-group, and not having enough of the peers to really explore anything interesting in mind-land.

Boo, consumerism.

Now, living in the city, I buy organic food and wear old ratty jeans, but I don't really think I'm a hippie.  I'm still in between those city-ites who have electronic nail files and those truly granola friends who compost their nail clippings.  In the city, it's easy to get caught up in the tide of ease and convenience - I must admit I've eaten out more in these past few years than in all my previous years combined - the pace of life is much faster and it's tricky, even if you choose a slower pace, to actually maintain regular home rhythms.  For instance, how can you have a vegetable garden if you live in a third-floor walk-up?  There a people who do, through roof-top gardens and potted tomatoes, but then again, most of those people don't have small children and a roof access that involves a potential 40-foot drop.  There is no way I'm taking my kids up on the roof of our rickety building.

Which is why I'm excited about our upcoming move.  The more I live here, the more I appreciate the potentialities of a "country" life.  It's an interesting shift - in high school, I couldn't wait to get out of my little town.  So I moved to the city.  But, just like those friends in high school, so much energy was being spent on one extreme or the other that there was very little balance to be found in either place.  In the "country," there was limited mind, but in the city, there was limited heart.  Where can we find the middle way?

After a life-long education in both the rural and urban environments, I'm looking forward to a brief respite in the country.  I've had my fill of city life and culture, and need a break and a garden.  I think that is where the balance can be struck - through education.  Each environment must appreciate the value of the other.  The city friends must appreciate the work of the farmers whose lifeblood goes into growing the food conveniently bought at the grocery store - that is, they must understand all of the people and steps that it took to bring that head of lettuce from farm to table.  And the country friends must appreciate the value of culture and thought and diversity so vibrantly created in the city - the beauty of art and dance, of a well-formed insight, of a garden rich in world hues, only available where many people of varying backgrounds meet.

Ideally, every apartment will have it's garden plot, and every farm girl will go to college, but that's not for a while yet.  We won't find that out until we've maxed out the amount of people we can fit in a high-rise or the amount of water we can waste in the desert.  Silly us.  We're so enmeshed in trying to perfect our image that we've lost the root of our being - the ability to think and dream and connect to the Divine.  We're like little boats without rudders, and sooner or later we're going to hit a rock and spring a leak.  Some of us already have.  But, fear not - there will be those who are ready, with a life-boat:  vegetable gardens full of tomatoes and houses full of love and thought.  If you want, stop on by, and we can have a good talk - and a good meal.  We won't get back to the earth - we'll realize we're already there.

The Bossy Farmer

While visiting family in Ohio, I took the girls to my favorite local haunt - Aullwood Audubon Center and Farm.  As a child, I had taken summer nature classes there each year with my cousins.  We tromped around in marshes and ponds and in pine forests and prairies, and spent time on the working farm there, making egg salad and butter.  It was wonderful and memorable, and each time I go home, I try to stop by and let the girls run around!

During this visit, we saw, among other things, a new litter of piglets.  Well, not brand new, but new enough to not be full-grown yet.  I love piglets, mostly because I love bacon, but I don't tell that to my children.  What is mutually apparent is that piglets are cute (being small), and generally cleaner than full-grown pigs, and they have long eyelashes.  What's not to love?

Our pigletty friends, from left to right: normal kid, normal kid, bottom of the bully, runt, normal kid, face of the bully
(P.S.  That's not a fire - it's a heat lamp)

Among this group of piglets there were some clear-cut characters:  the overachiever (being the biggest and a bully), the regular kids (medium-sized ones), and the runt.  I have always loved the runt - I think he must be an American icon, as we love to root for the underdogs - and I could identify with this straggly little thing, having once been a straggly little thing myself.  He was the cutest and the wiggliest.  It was feeding time, and there was a mad dash for lunch, and the bully decided that he needed to not only eat, but exclude everyone else - particularly the runt - from eating.

My mother bear instincts immediately flared up.  I didn't object to the bully eating, but when he specifically bothered the little one is when the umbrella came out.  My umbrella.  I gave that bully a firm poke and hollered at him to leave the little one alone.  Twice.

I later remarked to a friend that I would make a bossy farmer.  She replied that most of the farmers she knows are pretty bossy. 

I suppose they stand in their fields and say, "Grow!  I command you!"  Maybe not, but I think that there is some level of bossiness when growing things.

Even children.