Chicago Moms Blog

When Babies Attack

My nearly six month-old baby was attacked by a two year-old at the park last Saturday. Am I exaggerating? Only a little. I was standing with my son is his stroller watching my older two children play t-ball when a mother I know from our neighborhood approached with her two year-old daughter toddling behind her.

We exchanged "hellos" and "how are yous." I asked how old her little one was now. She asked the same of my baby. Her daughter then reached into my stroller and began to poke and prod my baby with her little hands. She picked up his pacifier and put it in her mouth. She pushed a flower she had picked into his eyes. And then she took her grubby fingers and shoved them into his mouth.

All the while, I was trying to remain polite while also protecting my baby. I tried to block her hands with my own. I said things like, "Careful sweetie." "Gentle." "Oh, I don't think he wants to eat your fingers!"

Feeding My Flock

Sometimes the process of feeding my family of five just feels like thankless manual labor. 

First, I have to think of three healthy meals to feed them -- not counting the endless parade of snacks. Every.  Single.  Day.

Then I need to procure the food (sometimes with three kids running amok at the grocery store). 

Next comes the trickiest part -- turning the food into a meal that all members of the family will actually eat (again, always with a child or two underfoot). Then we sit together and I encourage people to try the brown rice and remind them not to dip their spoons into their cups. I try not to take it personally when my children reject my zucchini muffins or scowl at the sight of my ratatouille.

Then comes the clean up -- which usually involves crawling under the table to get at a stray bit of waffle before the ants do.  Or scrubbing the straps of a highchair to remove a myriad of unidentifiable substances. And scraping mushy goldfish crackers off the bottom of my sandals.

Just when I have everything in the dishwasher, it is almost time to do it all again.

Am I "Natural" Enough For You?

When I am amongst other moms who purport to follow a "natural parenting" or "attachment parenting" philosophy, I sometimes wonder, "Am I a natural parent?"  Do my parenting decisions qualify me to be a member of the "natural parenting" club? And if they don't, then am I somehow an "unnatural parent?"

I breastfeed. We co-sleep. I wear my baby in a sling so that he is snug and happy as I care for my older children. I make my own organic baby food. I incorporate natural and homeopathic remedies into our heath care. I really love Mothering Magazine. I would buy a Montessori-style wooden toy over its louder, flashier, plastic counterpart any day.  All of these things seem "natural" to me but I don't do them in order to qualify as a "natural parent."  I do these things because they make sense for my family.

But I have also given birth three times in a hospital setting . . . with an epidural each time. My children have been vaccinated. Homeschooling is not for us. Although I have toyed with the idea of cloth diapering, we still use disposables (and the idea of elimination communication overwhelms me). These parenting decisions seem no less "natural" to me.  But my impression is that many adherents to the natural parenting philosophy would disagree.

A Girl and Her Plans

I would love to take a photography class. My knitting could use some serious work. I think that I would be a great restaurant critic. I want to volunteer with an organization that provides one-on-one support for at-risk girls. I dream of practicing yoga on a daily basis. I wish my garden was ten times as big as it currently is. Lately, I have been wondering if I will ever make it back to some of the places I saw while spending a semester abroad in the spring of 1997. I'd like to be the kind of girl who always has her eyebrows shaped and toes painted. I wish I owned a bike that I could ride up to the Green City Market on Wednesday mornings. On days when I am feeling ambitious, I want to do twice as much freelance writing as I am currently doing. Sometimes around 6:30 p.m. on Fridays, I dream of meeting my husband at Avec to sip wine and share a plate of chorizo-stuffed madjool dates.

I have plans -- lots of them.  But I also have three small children and a husband that need me -- I mean, really need me.  Don't get me wrong -- I want them to need me.  I am never bored or without company. My life is full and happy. I enjoy all of the day-to-day things that I do for my family -- from nursing my baby to taking my daughter to art class to picking up the dry cleaning.  I want to do these things for them.  But that also means that there just isn't time for most of my other plans.

Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda.

I spend waaaaay too much time looking back on my life and feeling regret or anxiety over decisions and actions that I can't do anything to change.

Some of these regrets are ancient.  I wish I hadn't quit basketball in high school because it was hard and I felt intimidated.  I should have actually gone to more classes in college rather than sleep in.  Why haven't I been a better friend to some of the people who have stood loyally by me for years even when I was being a total jerk?

Others are a little more raw and immediate. I really, really wish that I hadn't raised my voice to my daughter last week out of frustration and exhaustion. I should have gone to see my Dad last Father's Day -- and I would have if I had known it would be the last time we could have celebrated that day together.

Is This Baby My Baby?

I gave birth to my third child right after Christmas -- a baby boy.  He joins his two-and-a-half year-old brother and four-and-a-half year-old sister.  So I now have three children under the age of five.  And when people say to me (as they often do), "You must have your hands full,"  I enthusiastically agree with them.

Even though my baby is only two months-old and I am certainly not planning to become pregnant in the near future, my husband and I have already found ourselves wondering,  "Is this baby our baby?"

Postpartum Fashion (Or I Literally Have Nothing To Wear)

My beautiful baby boy is two weeks old already.  And while he greets his many visitors and well-wishers wearing one of his adorable layette outfits, I am rotating between my "fat" jeans and a pair or lululemon yoga pants and the only two shirts I own that can accommodate my massive breasts (and the back fat that goes with them) and also conceal my floppy baby belly. 

He looks like an angel.  I look like a mess.

Oh Rod, Why Did You Have To Do This?

Nothing kills new-found optimism and faith in politics like waking up to the news that your Governor has been dragged out of his house in handcuffs by the feds.

For the past month, I have been riding high on Obama's victory and all of the promise that it holds.  I'll admit it -- I really believed in "Yes we can."  I watched with pride as Obama delivered his election night speech to the hometown masses assembled in Grant Park.  I felt giddy excitement over his competent and efficient transition team.  I have been following the speculation over which local power players will be moving to D.C. as part of Obama's administration.  It seemed to me that promises of change were in the process of becoming, well, actual change.  And I felt proud that this was all taking place right here in Chicago.

A Long Overdue Thank You to my Body

As I limp (literally limp -- you would not believe my lower back pain) through the last few weeks of pregnancy, I have been reflecting on how hard my body has worked to grow, nourish, and care for my babes.  It is work that I take for granted.  But it is the greatest work of my life -- and my body has made much of it possible.  Before I begin my third go-around at mommyhood, I thought I would give credit where credit is due (well, overdue really).

Thank you lumpy tummy for creating space for my babies to grow big (very big, I am talking about nearly ten-pounders). Things will never be the same, I know. But every stretch mark, strange discoloration, and sag is evidence of the little creatures who began their life inside me.

Why I Love Prenatal Yoga

I have discovered that prenatal yoga is my type of exercise. Every Sunday afternoon,I drag my gigantic self to class and join with other similarly-sized women for an hour and a half of stretching, squatting and belly admiring.   The yoga teacher delivers upbeat birthing pep talks, extols the virtues of motherhood and and makes me feel like I am a vessel for all that it good in the world.  And then just when I am starting to feel like I have had about enough exercise for the day, I get to take ten minute power nap.  I mean, what's not to like here?