Category: Motherhood

14 Years

by Ashley filed under Hooper, Motherhood


The night before Hooper’s birthday we celebrated as a family, with our larger family, and went around the table to share something we really cherish about him. I told him that I love his ability to reason; the way he shows up to conversations curious and able to follow me down different paths of thought. It’s a trait I’ve seen in him for a while but in this post-election fervor I’m realizing it is a tool in his toolbox that’s more necessary than ever. 

 

To be able to reason connotes that you also have empathy because to reason is to demonstrate understanding and understanding comes from listening with the intent to understand. 

 

When you have a belief, on the other hand, you’re not looking for more information, you’re actually building walls to prevent it. Hearing becomes impaired when the intent of the person listening is to hold onto a belief; listening, in this context, becomes defensive as you’re no longer taking in information in hopes of refining what you already know, but instead listening only to defend what you already believe. 

 

Reason allows for ideas you have to grow and change; it’s holding something with an open hand. Reason says “this is what I hold true today and here is how I got there and when I know more, I’ll mold what I know to be true differently”. And when new information is received or the same information is seen but from a new angle, the open hand that holds it is the same but the truth is refined. 

 

Reason not only allows for more information but it thrives on it. Reason understands that there’s no final destination, only continuous refinement. To be reasonable implies less ego because when things are held with an open hand – when information is free to flow in and out, when the need for belonging or identity is not dependent on a fixed belief – being wrong is no longer detrimental to one’s selfhood but instead is an opportunity for refinement and growth. When you’re reasonable, information gained from mistakes comes with the value in then getting to apply the new lesson learned to what you previously held true. Reason, in this sense, is the opposite of shame that wants us to believe that we are mistakes as opposed to we made a mistake. Reason is always looking for more and open to more; more information, more feedback, more criticism, more perspectives, with attachment to none of it. 

 

If reason requires or allows for continuous information and if new lessons are learned from making mistakes or if new conclusions are drawn from recognizing that previously held judgements were really just a lack of understanding, then to be reasonable is to also be compassionate toward self; to be reasonable is to not only hold your truth with an open hand but to also hold your concept of self with an open hand too. Because, just like what we believe to be true, we too are always changing and growing.

 

When I think of Hooper, I think not only of his ability to reason but I think about all the things that come with it: his ability to listen, to understand, to be curious, to apologize, to empathize, to forgive, and to love. 

 

A lot of people who know him refer to him as an old soul. I think that’s the simpler way of saying everything I just said. 

 

Happy 14th birthday Hoop, I love you. 




Going on dates with boys…

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Relationships

A few days ago I posted a pic of Van from a one-on-one date I took him on. Underneath the photo, I wrote: “…And he talked and talked and talked about football. I’ve never been so content to just listen. This age is the best”.

A lot of people, mostly moms, sent me heart emojis.

I went on a date the other week with a guy who had a pretty unique and diverse background — raised in another country in a culture that was different from the country he was raised in. Sidebar — as much as my friends hear me bitch about the urine in the dating pool, I really do enjoy meeting different people. I’m not even sold on the idea of “finding a partner” at this point — I’m really just enjoying meeting people and hearing different people’s stories.

Anyway, I learned a lot about this guy’s life because I was curious and that curiosity led to me asking questions.

At one point he mentioned having a daughter that was 7 years old. I told him my youngest was 7 as well. He asked no follow up question; no “oh, you have more than one kid?” … nothing.

He continued talking about himself.

I asked him about his relationship with his kid’s mom, because I know there’s loads of ways it can go —> co-parenting, parallel-parenting, counter-parenting, and I’m always intrigued. He didn’t reciprocate the question.

And he continued talking about himself.

I called a girlfriend on the way home and shared my narrative that men really don’t seem interested in getting to know women. So many men seem complacent in allowing women to cater to them, to center them. And it doesn’t come across as malicious, it comes across as ingrained.

This morning I thought back to my date with Van and what I wrote about it. It occurred to me that a man’s first experience with a woman is with his mother. A mother who was happy to just listen and listen and listen, who welcomed her son onto center stage while she took a seat in the back of the audience.

I read somewhere that you can’t be a feminist and a mother because the two are at odds; that being a mother is literally solidifying yourself in a role in a patriarchal society that’s really damaging to women (to men, too, but that’s a separate post). As mothers, we are constantly praised for self-sacrifice; we give and give and give and the more out-balanced what we give is in relation to what we take, the more applause we garner. The unpaid, underappreciated labor of motherhood is truly what (indirectly) fuels our economy (a separate post).

I often feel like I’m fumbling with the responsibility of raising three boys; like I can’t counter the weight of patriarchal conditioning especially in light of the fact I’m still coming into awareness of so many ways it impacts me and my role as a mother.

The following night I took Sonny out for a one-on-one date. I told him he can pick anywhere he wants for dinner. He picked Cane’s Fried Chicken, a fast food chain I honestly hate. I paused, gave it some thought and consideration, and said, “I’d like to go to a restaurant where we sit down and they serve us. I don’t feel good after I eat fast food.” He immediately had a strong reaction. I followed it up with, “Remember this is a date for the both of us. When you go on a date with someone, you want to make sure the other person feels good with the decisions being made. A date is about the couple, not about just yourself. Can we find a restaurant we both enjoy?”

And we did.

Maybe men aren’t considering women because they were raised by mothers who prided themselves on taking everyone else’s needs, wants, and desires into consideration above their own.

I’d like to change that.

40, A Reflection…

by Ashley filed under Ashley, Motherhood

Society has told me that this is the age I need to fear, the age when I need to start investing in “anti-aging” (as if that’s an actual thing), the age when things start heading downhill, the age when we wish we were young again, the age of midlife crises when some of us may feel compelled to buy fancy cars and toys to remind us – and others – of our importance.

Maybe it’s my age or maybe it’s my life story but I’ve never been more clear-headed or more centered. I’ve come to see myself and, in-turn others, in a way I never have; with curiosity and compassion. I’ve become willing and able to take my own moral inventory and shine a light on my own character defects; dissecting where they came from and how they’ve infiltrated my choices, my actions. I’ve come to see parts of myself as a child who needs my love and acceptance and nurturing. I’ve come to see the child in others, too, that still needs mothering and I can meet it with an openness instead of a judgement. I’ve come to value my role in certain communities and recognize the fact that we need each other not as a weakness but as a gift; I spent my early adult years clawing at independence and today I embrace interdependence.

We move, we shift, we break, we break open, we fold, we bend, we expand, we morph. The only opportunity to truly find ourselves is in the present. It’s all written in sand, waiting to be erased and rewritten. Over and over again.

I recently listened to a guided meditation on impermanence and it talked about how some children cry when a wave washes away their sand castle and how others use it as a blank slate to rebuild again. It presented this idea of how clinging to anything too tightly predisposes one to suffering.

I’m another year closer to death, I’m also the closest I’ve ever been with my authentic self. It’s funny how life wants to chew you up and spit you out just when you feel most alive; I feel like I’m only now coming into my womanhood, my sexuality, my true self — just when life wants to alter me, to devalue me. And yet there’s perks to stepping out of the spotlight we all found ourselves in during our youth; to live quietly on the fringes, in peace, experimenting with life, settling into my center, and not needing the attention of the spotlight or the validation from a society I’m not sure I fit completely in anyway. Life is one big catch 22 and I’m as invigorated as ever to open further.

My brokenness has been my greatest catalyst, an unexpected gift. I think life brings you suffering as a mirror to show you the parts that need tending to. Watching the seeds sprout, noticing my mind shift, witnessing my self-talk change has proven to me that brokenness can also be opportunity in disguise.

I’ve always considered myself to be a late bloomer. Only now, at 40, do I feel like I’m showing up for myself unapologetically with compassion for where I’m at on this journey and for where others are at on this journey, too. Life… it’s wild.

 

A date with Sonny…

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Sonny

Time can feel so scarce in single mama land. Though I’m pretty sure time can feel scarce no matter the motherhood label. I used to do so much on autopilot — bedtime routines, morning routines, after school routines, appointments, activities, check ups… Following my divorce, so much  of life was just about getting through the day, working through the debris. It felt like doing anything mindfully, with intention, was unattainable. I’d pile on the guilt trip, filing it all under the tab of one more thing I should be doing better at.  I willfully submerged myself  into autopilot and fulfilled my own prophecy.

The more healing I’ve done, the more conscious I’m living. It seems like a catch 22 to say that the more time I’ve put into myself, the more time I’ve gotten elsewhere too. Someone I look up to once told me that it’s hard to do the work but it’s harder not to. At the time it felt like she was coming down on me but I knew the way I was living was not cutting it so I leaned into it and she was right; no deposit, no return.

I took Van on a date the other week and yesterday I went out with Sonny. The last time I took him out on a date I remember coming back and telling my mom “never again”. I think back to what made that previous date with him difficult and can’t help but think it was my own rundown tank. Today, my tank is mostly full and I have so much more to give as a result. Yesterday’s date was proof of so much — proof that what you put out to the universe will come back to you in unimaginable ways, proof that it’s hard to make the time but harder not to, and proof that I can show up better for them when I can show up well for myself.

An evening with Sonny, uninterrupted and connected under the moonlight. Trains passing, surfers surfing, and the most appreciative five year old throwing out thank yous and I love yous to remind me that I may not do it all perfectly all the time but whatever I am doing seems to be working just right for us.

Images are shot on my iPhone but I want to remember this day, so never mind the quality. 

We Can Do Hard Things

by Ashley filed under Divorce, Hooper, Motherhood

I’ve definitely found a groove in single motherhood, an appreciation even, but the last few days have been challenging and I’m voicing it here so I can let it go and to let those who can relate know that I see them.

I had 48 hours without the boys, which is always bittersweet. It’s a feeling of equal parts dread and anticipation. I try to approach it from the logical perspective and focus on my work, which so often gets kicked to the curb. There’s pros and cons with anything but with running your own business, working from home is both a pro – in that you can do it from home and a con – because you’re always – seemingly – available. And so when they’re gone, I work on The Bee & The Fox from sun up to sun down.

But then my internet was out, an apparent problem within the area, according to Cox. I had the lighthearted energy that comes with a full night’s rest to do what I could with what I would; and so I concentrated on laundry and dishes, and reorganizing the boys’ room and watering the plants and so on and so forth.

I got little work done that I wanted to get done, got the boys back, and took them to the skatepark, per their request. Transition days are always riddled with big emotions and I’m still mixing ingredients, trying to find the perfect concoction that works for us. My game plan this day was to cater to them and get as much time outdoors as we could. I was helping Hooper on a trick he’s been trying to do when we fell forward, his chin being the first thing that hit the pavement. I couldn’t even tell what was injured because there was so much blood. I got something to hold onto his chin and took a look and could see the exposed fat and knew he’d need stitches. So there I was, single mom to three, during a pandemic, on my way to an urgent care.

There’s silver linings in all of this, like my brother-in-law who showed up soon after we got to the urgent care to take the other boys and allow me to concentrate on an anxious and frantic Hooper. I always strive to be honest with him so I tried to prepare him for what was to come; the prick of the lidocaine, the stitches… pretty sure I should have just kept my mouth shut.

Luckily they offered him laughing gas, his mood did a 180, he got 3 internal (aka deep) stitches and 5 additional ones that are more superficial, and we were on our way. Emotions still big from transition day mixed with post-trauma emotions was a recipe for disaster and there was a lot of tears and anguish that came with eating dinner with a newly loose tooth and a cracked molar (both from the impact of his fall). Silver lining number two came when his buddy from down the street came over to check on him and I watched a boy who was hell bent on making his mom believe he’d rather be dead turn into a ball of giggles, recounting the story in a jolly tone only friends have the honor of hearing; us moms always getting the tone filled with pity and anguish while the truth probably sits somewhere in the middle, like it does.

That night, after putting the boys in bed, I stepped in cat diarrhea. A result of Sol being spayed just two days prior and being on antibiotics. It felt like a fitting way to end my day. I texted my mom, who assured me – as she always does – that tomorrow will be a new day.

Sonny kept me up throughout the night, a situation that’s common on these days of transition; waking me up to tell me he loves me, waking me up to see if he can come in my bed, crawling into my bed, kicking me, scooting into me, and ultimately peeing so I could spin my wheels worrying about whether the pee pad was in the right place, annoyed that I’d have to do the laundry (again), and trying to stay in the 2 foot space I now had to avoid either rolling off the bed or lying in urine.

I woke up in the morning to find Sol had removed her cone; my mind picturing her licking her incision the whole damn night. But I didn’t step in anymore diarrhea, so there’s that.

I called the dentist first thing in the morning and was able to get him in at 9am, a silver lining in it’s own right. I lost my marbles though when Hooper came downstairs and met my excitement for us having to leave in 20 minutes, grateful we could get a same-day appointment, with a somber, ungrateful, reluctant tone of having to do something other than what he wanted. Something I can see now that has more tethers to my exhaustion and less tethers to a child’s ungratefulness; because surely there’s nerves and anxiety I was discounting in my overwhelming exhaustion.

Nothing had to be done at the dentist, another silver lining; his loose tooth is loose enough that it will fall out on its own (and it’s a baby tooth, so another silver lining) and the molar we’re going to keep an eye on since it will be a long while before the adult one moves in and other problems will be created if it’s removed now. So, not a problem today.

I feel my own self-pity creep in; that abrasive knock at the door from that friend you find annoying and is often invading your boundaries, telling you you should have a partner in this. That all of the juggling, the worrying, the catering, the planning, the tiredness would be less if divided by two. Logic trying to remind me that it can be multiplied, too. That division only occurs when shit’s working. So a longing balanced against an inner knowing that I’m exactly where I need to be, watering the relationships I know I’m meant to. Knowing that what I had is not what I’m longing for and that the opposite, longing for an ideal may be what got me in trouble in marriage in the first place.

That’s where I’m at; washing urine out of my laundry, cleaning cat shit up off the floor, tending to stitches, making soft food, all amongst the usual grind of juggling, keeping everyone busy, getting it in when I can fit it in – whatever “it” may be – and trusting my inner knowing in knowing that the path may sometimes be bumpy and the load is always heavier, but the signs are now pointing in the right direction.

“We can do hard things” being the words that most often leave my mouth these days.

Final silver lining: the sunset, post-stitches and pre-my-internet-working-again, right after we went back to the skatepark and conquered our fears; which collectively deserves its own post but, hey, who has the time?

Mother’s Day

by Ashley filed under Motherhood

Nothing has solidified my role as mother more than single motherhood. The past year has been one of adjustment and growing pains; causing me to reach deeper within but also proving that the more I dig inward, the more I’ve been able to put out. Haha, “put out”. The other day Hooper and Van laid in bed with me, cuddled me, and told me so genuinely that they loved me. I know it because they say it but I truly know it because I feel it. I played Bob Dylan’s “make you feel my love” for them and let tears of gratitude roll down my cheeks. There’s nothing that has given my life more meaning than to raise my boys, to really evaluate what it means to love them — what it translates to. Love as a verb and not a noun, an action. An everyday sacrifice.

I haven’t thought about romantic love much at all since my divorce. My pull is toward myself; the more I see myself become whole, the more I see I’m able to give. And receive. I’m marrying me these days. Dating my boys. And letting the crumbs fall where they may, knowing that we are solid.

Hooper, Van, & Sonny — you three are my everything. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, except for what you can do for yourself. Ain’t that what I always say?

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there. And especially to all the single mothers. I didn’t know until I knew, and man, the boat is always rocking but the anchor always holds. I see you.

Springville

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Travel

I have this vision in my head that I replay often, especially on the hard days, where my boys – now grown men – are sitting around the dining room table reminiscing on that time mom did what she thought was best, owned her boundaries, and still provided, showed up, explored, and put in the time, effort, and work. Maybe that’s my own ego talking; I’ve been exploring the ego more and more these days. My google searches becoming less and less about others and more and more about myself.

The memory can feel so different than the moment. Isn’t that a weird concept? How we can feel so defeated, so tired, so dirty, so uncomfortable, so overwhelmed in the moment and yet forget all of those things and look back on the accomplishment, the effort, the reward. Perhaps it’s a reminder that you get out what you put in. In any event, writing in the moment has its challenges these days and as I reflect on this trip  quite a few months after-the-fact, I’ve forgotten all about a phone call to my mom that I know I made where I told her that I didn’t think I could do it. I remember being at a restaurant and just feeling spent. No more patience, no energy left for reprimanding. And yet looking back on these images, I only see the triumph in having done it. In having gone.

And that sweet gift of Lola – who the boys were originally calling “Michael” before I notified them that she was girl. The stray cat who wouldn’t leave our side. The stray cat who now makes me question all the mean things I’ve ever said about cats and has me wondering if I may just end up that divorced mom of three grown men who now lives solo with a houseful of stray cats she’s saved. Or maybe they saved her. Plot twist. In any event, we speak of Lola as the cat that chose us; the cat who showed up and wouldn’t leave. The cat who spent the entire 5 hour drive home curled up on one of our laps. And the cat who, once home, worked her way into even Jimmie’s heart. A best friend to us all but especially to Sonny, who now completely dismisses (read: downright abuses Jimmie) in the name of only loving Lola.

At the end of the day, all the mud washed off. I mean that both literally and figuratively and I’m gonna write that on a post it and put it on my wall for a daily reminder. Right next to the taped up piece of paper that reads: Sunshine is the best disinfectant; the only way to cure the darkest parts of yourself is to shine light on them.

Previous trips to Springville: here and here.

You can’t be what you can’t see

by Ashley filed under Life, Motherhood, Parenting

I have a clear memory of being in elementary school and daydreaming about creating a robot that could do my homework for me. I distinctly remember being overcome with joy; a solution to all that time spent doing homework. Though I should say complaining about homework, because I probably spent more time vocalizing my distain for it than I actually did doing it (sorry, Mom). Almost just as fast as the idea came to me, so did the realization that the robot could only be as smart as me; that if I were the one building it and programing it, it could not perform beyond my own abilities. So I let the idea go and sharpened my pencil and got to work.

I was reminded of this memory the other day when I was taking a class about anti-racism by Layla Saad. In it, she drove home that fact that we cannot expect our kids to learn things we have not sought out and learned ourselves.
It’s such a simple notion but it’s replayed over and over in my head as of late.
Want your kids to be honest adults? Be an honest adult.
Want your kids to have good coping mechanisms? Model good coping mechanisms.
Want your kids to eat healthy? Eat healthy.
Want your kids to be kind? Be kind.
Want your kids to be accepting? Be accepting.
The life we live is their blueprint. It’s so hard to chose a way that we don’t know or haven’t seen. Choose right, so they can choose right. Never rely on your words carrying them, it has to be action. In the words of James Baldwin, “I can’t believe what you say, because I see what you do”.
The same goes for relationships. I can, once again, distinctly remember the same notion coming to me like an epiphany; you have to be the person you want to be with. Meaning, you can’t ask that the person you’re courting have all their shit together if you don’t have your shit together. Nor can you expect them to be a, b, c, or d if you yourself are not a, b, c, or d. Want to be with someone rad? Be someone rad.
Filed under: simple concepts that still require routine reminders.

Fill my cup

by Ashley filed under Life, Motherhood

I was having a conversation with a friend the other day who was seemingly trying to convince me that I needed / wanted a 4th child. Don’t get me wrong, there was definitely a time I did. Part of me would consider it if Willy had any desire but I digress because this morning I was looking out our kitchen window at our backyard; the little patch of grass that filled what was once a pool covered with rusted scooters, broken skateboards, pots I’ve washed out with intentions to put plants in that still sit inside our living room slowly dying, an upside down plastic pool that I’m quite certain all three boys have pissed in at one point or another. And that’s just the grass area, never mind the makeshift side yard fence that I’m always nervous Jimmie will get through, the beach umbrella that has been carried by recent storms from one end of the yard to the other, the random holes where worms have been vacated from their homes. The thought crossed my mind that our home is too big for me to keep up with. I felt old in my thought process; commiserating with retired folks who size down because they no longer want the ‘burden’ of keeping up; the ‘burden’ all us young folk work so hard to obtain. And somewhere in the rush of getting the kids fed and ready, the connection of it all came to me; I truly don’t think I have enough in me to give another child. Like I’m barely filling cups as it is – both literally (as in they drink all their milk before I even put the milk away) and figuratively. Most days, I’m just treading water; hoping plants don’t die before we get a chance to pot them, making sure the good bikes are inside when it rains so they don’t rust, and making sure there’s enough milk in the fridge to get us through the next morning.

I have to believe I’m not alone. I know I’m not alone.

Kids & Body Image

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Parenting

If you’ve followed my blog for sometime you may recount me telling the tale of Hooper slipping in a puddle of water by the pool on one of our trips out to the desert and suffering a concussion that resulted in a trip to the ER where, like most, we waited.

The hospital is not a new environment to me but actually sitting and taking in the slowness that only a wait in the ER can afford me is a new experience. I people watched, mostly; the older man with a laceration above his eye resulting from a fall, a young woman hoping to get a prescription for pain medication, and about 20 others who – like Hooper and myself – didn’t have an obvious reason for being there, waiting. And when I was over that, I glanced up at the TV. On it were informative snippets, all health related, that the average google-searcher is probably already keen to. But one, in particular, caught my eye and has stayed with since. So much so that it’s months later and this particular post has been marinating, writing itself really, in the back of my head ever since.

The snippet was on body image and how to talk to children about their bodies in such a way that fosters confidence and self-respect. The one that stuck with me most was something along the lines of “point out all that their bodies do for them”. It got me thinking. I tell my boys numerous times a day how ‘cute’ they are. And ever since letting the infomercial sink in, I start to choke on those words as they come out of my mouth. Because they’re more than cute. They’re CAPABLE.

I would rather build them up and make them feel special based on what they can do rather than on how they look. And what they can do need not be anything more than breathing because the gift of breathing, we all would agree, is pretty special in it’s own right.

I’ve had a harder time trying to transition this kind of vocabulary into words that would actually come out of my mouth because I’m certainly not willing to ditch ‘stop being so dang cute’ with ‘how amazing is the fact you breath’. But I’m on my way, because dammit, it’s important.

I grew up with the ‘skinny girl’ complex that in today’s bizarre weight obsessed society feels like an inappropriate thing to complain about. But it made me incredibly self conscious. So-much-so that I wore sweat pants to gymnastics. Mind you I trained 5 days a week for 4 hours a day, in the afternoon, in southern California. Point being, it was hot and it didn’t make sense.

The other day my mom told me Hooper’s golf coach gave him a ride in the golf cart while all the other kids walked and justified it, in front of Hooper and the other kids in the class, because Hooper was ‘too skinny’ and couldn’t afford to lose calories walking. When I heard that, I was reminded of my junior high days when all my friends and a few curious classmates pitched in on my birthday to buy me an absurd amount of balloons to see if I could actually be whisked away. I was a pretty resilient kid in the respect that it didn’t bother me much, but my sister and my mom – who were equally thin but arguably more sensitive – recall similar memories being more detrimental to their psyche.

Hooper overheard me the other day describing him as a baby being ‘skinny’ and immediately upon hearing the word ‘skinny’ turned to me and said, ‘I’m not skinny’ in-such-a-way that proved he’s only beginning to become aware of this new label and making sense of it. I can see the wheels spinning, ‘is this a good thing’, ‘is this a mean thing’, ‘do I want to be skinny’, ‘do others want to be skinny’…

I recall reading a post by my dear friend Marge Jacobsen, who herself was a victim of abuse. Her post highlighted the fact that she does not make her children hug her. Sounds fair enough but I know I for one am always trying to manipulate a hug or kiss out of my boys because, dammit, I love them. But she makes a ridiculously important point in that we ought to respect when others don’t want to touch us or show affection and not make it about hurt feelings.

Sometimes I think we’ve all gotten too damn sensitive in this age of parenting. We’re all so hyper-aware and there’s so many avenues that allow for so much judgement of one another. I mean describing Hooper as skinny is synonymous with describing his hair as blond; it’s nothing more than a characteristic trait. By the same token, one would never describe a kid as fat to his / her face because it carries a certain amount of hurt when being described in such a way.

I suppose the take home, for me, is that it is more beneficial for me to compliment my boys on things they have control over; things like chores or the way their body enables them to do things they enjoy. I won’t deny their obvious traits, I just won’t let them define who they are and I won’t file them under reasons why I love them. Because fat or thin, short or tall, black or white, hugs or no hugs, I love them all the same. Always will.

Therapy for the win

by Ashley filed under Life, Meet Your Parents, Motherhood, Parenting

Before Sonny was conceived, Willy and I had a lot of discussions surrounding adding another member to our family. I always knew I had wanted more than two; it’s just what has always felt right, instinctively, on a level that cannot be backed up by any sort of logic but instead is felt solely on an emotional level only the one feeling it can comprehend. I knew that should we not go on to have another baby that I would feel a void, a longing, and I feared the resentment that likely would fill in the holes.

Many of our discussions ended in frustration; Willy protesting that life with the current two is crazy enough, all he can handle, and me, saddened by the fact his reality did not match mine.

Our parenting structure kind of broke down. We didn’t support each other in the same way we had in the past. It was only in hindsight that we can attest to much of the acting out during this time, on the kids part, was in direct connection to the fact we were no longer standing strong together.

I always saw the argument for a third as a matter of perspective. That life as it is today and the hardships that come along with the caregiver stage of parenting are temporary, Willy always saw it as starting over again; hitting reset, and adding to what is / was already a chaotic struggle. Albeit the chaotic struggle we all endure and on some insane level seem to miss just as soon as the dust starts to settle.

It was a battle no one was going to win. He’d tease me on the ‘good days’, when the boys were our ideal versions of themselves, by holding up three fingers and locking eyes with me as if to say ‘in this moment, and only in this moment, I do want a third’. I’d question the seriousness behind such a statement and we’d launch back into the same discussion we’d beaten into the ground so many times before.

It takes two to tango and tango we obviously did and when I found out I was pregnant right around my birthday, I, of course, was ecstatic. Willy shared in the excitement from time to time but I also sensed a twinge of an ‘you won, I lost’ attitude and sometime around the start of the second trimester, I was feeling alone. I was beginning to wonder if adding a third to the mix meant anything to me if it also meant losing a part of my husband. I felt like I was carrying the weight of ‘I asked for this so I have to deal with the repercussions, whatever the repercussions may be, on my own’ on my shoulders.

We bickered more than usual. We fought a lot over the birth plan, his anxieties over the first two births flooding back in. I remember we went down to San Diego to tour a hospital that offered both a birthing unit as well as a labor and delivery unit. We went out to dinner afterward and fought the whole time. Me, thinking I had found the perfect middle ground, him, still not satisfied with involving a midwife in our care on any level. I agreed that night to go the OB route, threw it in his face that I wasn’t comfortable with any of it and blamed him for making decisions out of fear that involved my body and the baby I fought so hard for.

Perhaps I’m painting a picture of an unhappy couple. We weren’t. Not at all. Life continued on in between all these events and though our everyday was impacted on some level, the extent to such wasn’t apparent at all at the time. If anyone would have asked us, we both would have said we were happy. And we were. But we were also on edge.

I can’t remember how it came about… if there was a final straw or if it was that I just knew instinctively we needed to regroup and prepare in a more serious way to welcome our third baby, but whatever it was landed us in therapy with a therapist a dear friend had seen for years and highly recommended.

And. It. Was. The. Best. Thing. We. Could. Have. Done. For. Our. Relationship. As in, we still talk about how great it was for us and we still feel the freedom that came from unearthing all the resentment and anger and bitterness that, at-the-time, we thought we were so neatly sweeping under the rug when in actuality we were more like a tractors at a construction site building piles of dirt that eventually ended up crumbling and suffocating us.

I talked about the regret I felt in putting the both of us in a position where our own relationship was negatively affected. How I didn’t realize that ‘winning’ in one battle would mean ‘losing’ in another. Willy talked about how much of his reluctance to bring another child into the world was associated with the birth process and his anxieties related to our past experiences with birth. Any and all issues brought up were discussed and through none other than the vulnerability associated with sharing with a professional, laid to rest.

All this to say, therapy is where it’s at.

For most of us, when we hear that an individual, or better yet a couple, is in therapy, we think the worst. We think that life must be caving in on them. We think they’re weak, unable to handle whatever they are dealing with on their own. We think therapy is the last stop, the last chance to pick up whatever morsels of the broken pieces that are left.

I think it’s stigmas like these that prevent many from seeking outside help. It’s my hope that in sharing our experience that you too may come to see therapy as an outlet to helping yourself the same way you may help a friend. That consulting a therapist is a way of practicing and nurturing love for yourself and for your relationship. That it’s okay to admit to not being whole. And to see therapy not as a weakness but instead as an attempt to help build a stronger understanding. Because all we’re ever really striving for is to be the best versions of ourselves, right? And don’t we owe it to ourselves and our partners, too? I think so.

In any event, Sonny was welcomed into this world by two eagerly waiting parents. And he’s brought so much joy. These days Willy jokingly pokes, “You couldn’t have possibility known”. He’s referring to how special Sonny is (to us, anyway). And all I can say is, “I knew. I just felt it”. And we laugh, knowing that we not only got through it but that we also buried any lingering resentments.

If you, or a friend, needs help I hope this post encourages you to seek the help you need. And if you’re in the Orange County area and are in need of a great recommendation for a therapist, email me. Look. No. Further.

Penis

by Ashley filed under Motherhood, Parenting

I was at a dinner with friends recently and was shocked to hear another mom confess to being uncomfortable using the terms penis and vagina with their children. Now granted, I know I’m a little more liberal in my ways than some but it got me thinking about what I am comfortable with and what I’m not in speaking with my children about anything in life. In this case, body parts. And, more than that, sex.

I speak openly about having a vagina with my boys. I never speak of my period as an inconvenience but rather as something beautiful a woman experiences; when asked, I simply tell them that it means ‘mama doesn’t have a baby in her belly’. Because those are terms they understand.

Hooper asked me once if penis is a bad word. It’s amazing how young they are, but how much they pick up on. Referring to genitals by other names insinuates that they are dirty words. I heard that Scotland has a new movement that is teaching parents to refer to body parts by their actual names, to normalize penis and vagina. I mean it is only the genitals that are referred to by alternative names. It would be rather silly to refer to our mouths as slobber holes or our noses as snifferdoodles. No wonder why we are ashamed or embarrassed about it when we’re in our teens.

The other day I was watching one of their stupid shows. In it, the two characters were discussing where babies came from. The one character was leading the other through a factory, explaining that babies came from factories. When the other character appeared perplexed, the leader prompted him to share what his parents told him previously and, to do so, he whispered into the leaders ear a theory we, as the audience, could not hear. To-which-the-leader replied, “That’s disgusting”. So to sum it up, two characters are going through a factory. One is telling the other that babies come from factories. The other is confused because his parents have seemingly told him the truth. When he shares this theory with the other character, this truth is referred to as ‘disgusting’.

And it made me sad. Sad to think that a show would not only condone such a falsity — because I get it, we lie about Santa and the tooth fairy and loads of other things… but to call it disgusting? That part pissed me off.

I remember watching the Surfwise documentary and, if you’ve seen it too you might recall the mom talking about having sex right on the floor of their RV with children coming in and out. By no means am I there – though to each their own – but I do think that we ought to talk about our bodies and it’s parts by their proper names and not attach shame to either the act of sex or the body parts involved.

The other day I used the carseat buckles to explain male and female parts. So easy for them to understand the male fitting in the female. I also think it opens the door for them to be open and honest down the line when sex becomes a real thing.

Doing my part, one day at a time, to unwind societies impositions on them. The best way that I see fit, anyway (I know not everyone will agree with me and that’s okay).

Do you talk to your young children about their body, your body, and sex? Curious to hear what others are saying and your perspectives behind it.

Winter Escapes

by Ashley filed under Life, Motherhood

A cold winter evening spent on the beach because even winter in California is worthy of such happenings. Riding bikes, chasing ducks, bbq-ing and eating too many s’mores, throwing sand, and lots of make believe with sticks.

These days go by so fast and so many of them I spend willing to get to bedtime, for reprieve and the sound of silence, only to in turn feel guilty about that because it all is going so fast. I look at these photos and I see a baby that will always be a baby in my eyes but is really anything but. And two boys, in full blown kid-mode; only remnants of their sweet baby faces.

Time, it’s a real bitch.

An Anniversary

by Ashley filed under Life, Meet Your Parents, Motherhood
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For our first date, he took me to a fancy Hawaiian fusion restaurant. We sat at the bar and ordered fancy drinks that only adults order; partly because we were both a bit nervous and awkward and partly because we wanted to own the title of adult all 20-somethings yearn to claim. We talked, we laughed, he drove me home afterward – to my parents house, where I was living at the time – you know, when you’re in-between here and there. I had just returned from life on the road with Janet and though my physical belongings sat in the room I grew up in, my spirit still felt fiery and restless. It’s the first time in life I felt complete ownership of and confidence in my self-awareness. It wasn’t lacking before, just still being molded.

He kissed me in the driveway, the oak tree hanging overhead. It sounds cliche to say I knew he was the one, but I knew he was the one. That night was only the beginning.
We have reservations tonight at a nice restaurant on the beach. A treat to one another. We laugh thinking back to that night, to that $100 dinner that was so out-of-form all those years back. And how I confided them the same confession that I confess tonight; that I’d be just as happy going to Denny’s.
Happy Anniversary to my one true love.

Breastfeeding Anxieties

by Ashley filed under Breastfeeding, Motherhood, Parenting

There isn’t a lot many can say when it comes to having three children and drawing any sort of similarities out amongst them. I mean, leave it to being the mother of three to prove to you that each one, cut from the same cloth or not, is bound and determined to be their own being. And yet, there are just a few similarities I can say about all three of my boys: each of them came in the 41st week of gestation. In fact, I think damn near 41 weeks and 4 days if we’re being precise. All three waited until their 9th or 10th month to cut any teeth. All three were early walkers, Hooper and Van both in their 10th month, Sonny in his 9th. And breastfeeding; all three have followed the same path.

You would think that by the third time, I’d have it down. In actuality, it’s quite the opposite. For starters, time has passed. Older people joke that they can’t remember their grown children as infants. I joke back that I can’t remember my 4 and 6 year olds as infants. And it’s only a partial joke because there is truth embedded in that statement as well. I’ve forgotten.

My experience with Sonny up until a month ago was seamless. Not without effort, but certainly without bumps in the road. He’d eat when I offered and I’d offer often. If it was before a nap or before putting him down for the night, it would put him to sleep.

I’m seeing things more clearly now from hindsight and I can pin our latest struggles down to the following: he’s far more aware of his surroundings than he once was. He’s easily distracted and half of the time I feel like I’m forcing him to eat which seems silly having always prided myself on ‘on demand’ feeding. Some days I feel like I need a basket filled to the brim with various toys and knick knacks that I can dangle in front of him to keep his attention. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I fed him without holding something on my chest. I suppose I wouldn’t care so much about him refusing feedings if I weren’t so worried about maintaining my supply.

You see what’s happening here? It’s a cocktail I’m mixing.

I wouldn’t even know about my supply if it weren’t for working so much lately. I worked three days in a row in the hospital (which is the only time I pump) and became growingly concerned seeing just how little I would get from the pump. Sure, it’s argued (and presumably true) that baby’s are more efficient than a pump but instinctively I cannot help but be concerned when I used to pump a combined 4 ounces and now, only 1, maybe 2. It’s also stressful to take time out of my day when I’m working as a nurse to only bag a mere ounce (leaving my patients, walking to another unit, pumping, cleaning, storing, walking back… Point being, it’s a process that takes time and takes me away from my patients).

And now, from the position of hindsight, it’s beginning to dawn on me that the same thing happened with both Hooper and Van, around the same age. While I’m blessed with good sleepers, the 9 or 10 hours of consecutive sleep at night causes my supply to plunge.

It’s also right around this time, with all three, that my body begins regulating itself once again and my period returns. I mean all three, at or damn near the 10 month mark. And I know menstruation has ill effects on milk supply. Or can, anyways.

Combine all this – working more and therefore pumping more, the return of my period, and a baby who is distracted by everything and loves solids (and is eating those like a champ) and who is sleeping through the night and then some – and it’s clear to see why my supply is suffering.

I was beginning to talk myself into the idea that maybe he’s just weaning and while, sure, he probably is to a certain extent (definitely transitioning into the world of solid foods) he’s not done with breastfeeding. And nor am I. It’s my goal to make it to a year and now that I’ve gotten over this hump, I know we will.

So how did I get over the hump, you ask?

Well, I reached out and heard back from so many of you via instagram. Sometimes you just have to talk yourself through something to be able to understand the issues.

The consensus was this: the distraction at the breast is normal for this age. Several suggested feeding in a low lit room. While I find this to be helpful during feedings he needs/wants, the reality is that we’ve simply had to cut out some of the feedings we once had… which is fine. I try to cram in as many daytime feedings as I can because I know not feeding at all throughout the night has had an effect on my supply. I’ve also given up on multitasking, gone are the days I could send a quick email or scroll through instagram while breastfeeding. And I’m fine with that, it’s nice to give him my full attention.

My next realization is that we all have limits. At least one person that responded mentioned getting up in the middle of the night to pump which, I agree, would be helpful in breaking the 10 hour hiatus I take from feedings while he sleeps. But, with working two (sometimes three) jobs and wrangling three kids, I need a full nights rest. And I feel very fortunate that I get it. I do, however, wake Sonny a couple hours after I put him down for the night, before I go bed myself (around 10pm or 11pm) and feed him one last time. And I will continue to do so to alleviate the long lapse in not feeding him. That particular session is my favorite; it’s the only one that doesn’t require the extra effort. Very rarely does he even open his eyes. It’s sweet, the kind of feed breastfeeding cliches are made of.

I’ve also increased my water intake. Or at least most days I try to. The amount of water we should all be getting each day is kind of baffling and I firmly believe so many of us – breastfeeding or not – are walking around partially dehydrated. On the days I work in the hospital, I make it a point to down two glasses of water every time I walk into the patient nourishment room. At home, it’s a little harder to come up with something similar because I’m distracted and multitasking with no organization about 90% of my day when I’m at home. I could probably stand to eat more greens too, but hey, we all have limits. I’m trying.

I’ve also started taking calcium + magnesium as well as fenugreek. I tried putting it off for as long as I could because I don’t necessarily care for walking around and smelling like a pancake house. Please tell me there are others who agree that fenugreek makes you smell like maple syrup? I was sitting in a class and thinking that someone near by smelled weird only to get home and have Willy point out that that somebody was, indeed, me.

I’m back to my regular work schedule for the most part and in the past few days I’ve had ‘off’, I’ve found comfort in the fact that he is still taking a significant number of feedings. And while it’s hard to ignore the pump, he does seem to be more efficient and able to draw out more than the pump.

And at the end of the day, he’s healthy. And there’s loads of comfort in that. I worried so much when Hooper was little and his weight percentile dropped all the way down to the 10th percentile. But not the case with Sonny. He’s chunky enough, with thighs that demand to be pinched. All in all, if it weren’t for pumping and attaching a number to the issue at hand, I wouldn’t even second guess anything. And the realization that I’m not alone, not in my worries or in my hatred of pumping, is something too (I’ve enjoyed reading some other breastfeeding stories, here, which have made for a nice late-at-night-oh-hey-look-at-that-I’m-not-alone time suck).

The breastfeeding relationship changes so much in the course of a year and it’s as if you’re constantly having to adjust and re-assess. From the early days where it felt like I was a slave to feeding him to the current days where the anguish derives from just how little time he’s willing to sacrifice to eat. It’s enough to make my head spin. In any event, wish me luck this week as I’m scheduled for a couple 12 hour shifts and will be returning to the dreaded pump to learn my fate as if the pump is some magic 8 ball determined to tear my confidence down. Trying not to let it.

Would love to hear from others in regards to the changes in the breastfeeding relationship and how feeding your 9, 10, or 11 month old and so on is different than when they were younger.

Pumping & Building a Supply of Breastmilk

by Ashley filed under Breastfeeding, Motherhood

MattandTishPhotography-37MattandTishOh the dreaded pumping. I hate pumping, to be honest. I also hate worrying about my supply. And it’s because of the latter that I partake in the former.

I initially started pumping to build a small excess supply of milk for times I would be away from my babies, namely for return-to-work purposes. As my excess supply started pouring out of every crevice of the freezer and exceeded the amount I needed to return to work, I donated. I kept up with pumping for the purpose of keeping up my supply and donating was an added benefit. It felt great to be able to give to someone else who wanted to provide the same but was not able to. It also felt good to have a plentiful supply.

Because I had to return to work in the hospital, just after Sonny was a couple of weeks old, I started pumping once a day. I would pump just after his morning feed, when my supply was most abundant. On an average day, I froze anywhere between 3 and 5 ounces. And when our freezer started to swell, once again, I found someone to donate to. Win, win.

Looking to build a supply as well? Here’s what has worked for me:

-Start pumping early, when your supply is still calibrating to your needs. I started when Sonny was two weeks old. I vaguely recall reading advice from lactation consultants saying to wait longer. For me, starting earlier produced the best results. A reminder, I suppose, that any post I publish that may seem like it’s advice-giving is in actuality just a personal account of my own experiences.

-Use a double electric pump, as they’re most efficient. I use a hospital grade pump when I pump at work (Medela Symphony) and honestly notice no difference in the amount of milk I produce. It does, however, seem a little more efficient in terms of time, but not enough to justify the price tag of a hospital grade pump (it retails for nearly 2K — you would think for that price that it would be able to magically turn your breastmilk into straight cash. The kind you could fold.). At home I use the Medela In-Style double electric. It’s the same pump I’ve used since Hooper was born and I have no complaints.

-Drink lots of water. Staying hydrated is key when breastfeeding, even more so if you’re pumping in addition to breastfeeding.

-Pump in the morning, as your supply diminishes throughout the day. Pumping after Sonny fed first thing in the morning worked best for me; as there was no need to feel guilty for ‘stealing’ milk when he already got what he wanted / needed, first. If I were to add another pumping session, I would do so one hour into his morning nap with the knowledge that I’d be able to make more by the time he awakens to feed again.

-Stimulate multiple let-downs. There are two settings on the pump, one that is quick and intended to bring on the let-down and one that is slower and pulls the milk from the breast. When my milk more-or-less stops flowing, I switch it back to the quick setting and try to stimulate another let-down. More times than not, it works, and I’m able to draw out another ounce or more.
-Bottle training. No sense in pumping milk you hope for your baby to one day drink if your baby is unable to take a bottle. Think it’s a matter of it-they’re-hungry-enough-they’ll eat? I thought so too and the fact it’s actually a learned skill for newborns caused a lot of stress and turmoil and tears when Hooper was a baby. I have Willy give just an ounce of pumped milk once a week or so to Sonny to keep up on his ability to take a bottle. We also found that giving him this ‘recreational feeding’ works best first thing in the morning, before he feeds and just after he wakes, as he’s not as aware of what’s going in his mouth.

I’m no longer pumping. Sonny is 5 months and sleeping through most of the night (on and off) and I’ve found that my milk has calibrated to such. Slowly I stopped having any excess. But I still have a freezer full of frozen milk, so the relief lives on.

What was your experience like with pumping? Did you pump in addition to breastfeed? Any tips or tricks others would like to share?

And if anyone in the LA / OC area has a plentiful supply of stored breastmilk they can donate, I have a local mom that I’ve given my excess to that I know would be grateful to have more.

Image by Tish Carlson. 

A letter to first time moms

by Ashley filed under Motherhood

San Clemente Family Photographer-4959 I’ve always felt that the benefits of hindsight were grossly unfair; probably even more so now, as a mother.

I remember feeling so handicapped when Hooper was a baby; like every outing was now some sort of huge undertaking. Even going to the grocery store felt like an ordeal. I had all (or most) of the gimmicky stuff — the diaper bag, the stroller that I’d whip out to wheel him into a restaurant from the parking lot, an assortment of pacifiers that I never ended up using (the list goes on).

It isn’t until the second, or better yet, the third, comes around that you see just how easy you had it with one. How nothing that you thought was a big deal was, well, a big deal. How all the things you said no to – “no, sorry, can’t go on that camping trip because we have the baby” – were as doable as they’d ever be.

I recently visited a friend who is a first time mom and those early days – and all the emotions surrounding that time — came flooding back. The drastic change of going from none to one, feeling like breastfeeding owned me, the resentment I felt toward Willy.

If you’re a first time mom, or even a mom for the third time around, these words are for you:

It’s okay if you don’t goo and gaa over your child immediately. Sometimes the best relationships are the ones that grow with time. Or better yet, over a few consecutive nights of good rest. Or even better yet, when personality comes into play.

It’s okay if you hate breastfeeding. It’s not as romantic as some make it. And it’s not that people lie or try to portray it as something more glamorous than it is, it probably has more to do with the fact they’re in a different time or place than you. And that’s okay, too. It wasn’t until Sonny that I can say I truly love breastfeeding and am not overwhelmed by the commitment it entails. It also wasn’t until I grew into my role as a mother that I learned it’s best not to judge. And freeing, too, to let said judgments go.

The distance you feel from your husband is normal. It most likely stems from resentment, which is normal too. After all, our lives, our bodies, our priorities as women change tremendously. The role of a mother is one you grow into. What once felt like a burden now feels like a privilege. So if you don’t love all your new responsibilities and you feel bitter about the unequalness of it all and the mere question from your husband of how the night with the baby went makes you quiver with disgust because you wish you could bite off a chunk of the bliss that comes from his ignorance, that’s okay.

And if the time it takes your husband on the toilet is the same amount of time you’ve been longing for to sneak in a shower or rub lotion on your dry legs and you’re resentful because of it, you’re not alone.

If you want to punch the little old lady who comes up to you in the grocery store and tells you to ‘enjoy every minute’ in the face, know you’re not alone. Also know that by the time you’re her age, you’ll have forgotten all the hardships and be telling new moms the same thing she’s telling you. There are seasons to motherhood and that sweet little lady is simply in a different season than you.

And perhaps the best advice ever given to me, from my own mom no less, is that it’s all temporary. All of it. Even life. So if what feels permanent today and never-ending, know there is an end and that a change will come. Our troubles today will be traded for different troubles tomorrow. Same with our joys. And so find some sort of peace in knowing that none of it – not the good or the bad – will last forever.

Hashtag: Normalize Breastfeeding

by Ashley filed under Breastfeeding, Motherhood

MattandTishPhotography-33MattandTish MattandTishPhotography-13MattandTish MattandTishPhotography-27MattandTish

I had a post written, ready to share, about the good that has come out of social media in terms of breastfeeding and the whole ‘normalize breastfeeding’ hashtag that may better be classified as a movement; because hot damn there’s a lot of moms out there sharing – what truthfully is – a significant part of any new breastfeeding moms life. Breastfeeding an infant is pretty damn close to a full-time job. But then I was talking to a friend who confided that she shared different feelings about all these moms sharing about their dedication to breastfeeding and flashing images left and right of them feeding their babies; an over-saturation of sorts with a message that may have gotten lost in the abundance, the point – possibly – distorted. Where perhaps an innocent message of comradery somehow started to translate into a ‘my way is the best way’ message of inferiority. Hard to say if seeing it in a context such as this is produced from the images themselves or through the eyes of the one viewing them. I thought it was an interesting debate so I figured I’d bring it here, so others could weigh in.

How do you feel about moms sharing images of themselves breastfeeding their young? Do you feel that the message ever gets misconstrued; that perhaps some of the authors of these images have a pretentious air of inferiority? Does the author behind the images you see impact the meaning you derive from the image’s content? In other words, maybe it’s not the subject matter at all but perhaps the voice behind an image that may lend to a less-than-desirable translation?

Seeing so many images of moms openly breastfeeding has made me less shy about breastfeeding – especially in public – this third time around. I stressed much more about breastfeeding when Hooper, and then Van, were babies. Staying home felt most comfortable in terms of avoiding having to feed them in public. I remember wandering the flea market with Hooper as an infant and asking a vendor if I could use his car to feed him in. I was there the other month with Sonny and I fed him on the stairs in the middle of the bustling food court. It wasn’t that I yearned for anymore privacy when I chose to use the vendor’s car with Hooper, it’s more that it simply felt more socially acceptable; I wasn’t doing it for myself, I was doing it to protect everyone else.
I can’t say for certain whether it’s different because Sonny is a third-born and my cares have gone with the wind or if the movement of normalizing breastfeeding has spread visually so abundantly that I feel, well, comfortable. I’m even comfortable with others feeling uncomfortable.
I used to think of breastfeeding as such a huge commitment and, sure, it is. But this third time around it doesn’t feel like such a ball and chain; it feels like a privilege. Maybe that’s because I know it may be the last baby I breastfeed. I’d like to think it has at least something to do with this “normalize breastfeeding” movement because, dammit, I need to feel there is some good coming from social media and not just one rolling instagram feed of picturesque kitchens, sponsored posts, and curated mumbo jumbo.

Anyway, curious to know your thoughts. And for those that don’t breastfeed or didn’t breastfeed or aren’t going to breastfeed – for whatever reason – do you feel like an image of a breastfeeding mother is a back handed judgement on you? Do you take images like that personal? I suppose ‘fed is best’ could be a separate post on its own, but worth a mention here anyway. Because, really, fed is best.

Images by Tish Carlson.