It’s taken awhile for us to come face to face. I was led to believe that we would meet much sooner than this– as if you would be gripping my son’s heel as he was born. But midwives came and went, the birthing pool was filled and then packed away, and my little family nestled in our bed…and you didn’t appear. Even when we had to take him to the hospital. Or when he shivered because I forgot his blanket.  Or when I realized I’d been buckling him into his car seat incorrectly. You barely whispered a threat, still as a breeze. How funny that I thought I’d stood against the gale those times. I thought I had won. I should have known it was too easy of a victory.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let you catch up to me.  That I wouldn’t let you trick me out of my birthright of peacefulness. My rational self knows that I will not be able to make the world perfect for him. That he will get hurt on my watch. That he will be disappointed. That his heart will break and dissolve into tears. It’s not that I desire this for him.  But I am resigned to it in the same way I’ve come to accept those things for myself. In the same way that autumn is so bitterly beautiful, I know these things are part of being human. I was determined not to let you disfigure that very fragile beauty.

But it seems I was preparing the wrong front. You are a crafty enemy and adept at this through much practice no doubt. You let me win those easy battles, appearing weak.  You didn’t attack me with stereotypical things like not enrolling him in baby classes or letting him play on a dirty floor. You didn’t even attack my ability as a mama when I was learning to breastfeed or comfort his newborn cries.

Let me think I was a conqueror.

Instead you disguised yourself, if not as a friend, at least as something familiar that I am much less capable of defeating. In my blindness you came to me with a familiar touch. I knew the scent of you well in my Bible college days. Like then, the problem is not simply that I am doing something wrong. No. It goes much deeper than actions, things I could fix with enough will power. It’s me. My substance. My soul.

There’s not enough of it.

Or too much of it.

Or something.

You make deals with me. Do this, and you’ll be a good mama. But just as I manage to do that, you switch out the prize of winsome competence with swarthy inadequacy. I am tired of having to choose between making sure dinner doesn’t burn and being a good mama. Between shifting to be more comfortable and being a good mama. Between thinking my own thoughts and being a good mama. If I was a good mama, these things wouldn’t be a dichotomy. In a dream world, these needs would gracefully shift up and down the ladder of priorities, glowing with the serenity of angels.   But instead they slip and fall and dash their heads on the rocks below. And I always save the wrong ones. Balance is never mine.

It seems I will never be free of you. Even into the damp inkiness of night, you grab at me. Force me to wrestle with you till I have no strength left to even hold my babe.  I crumple onto the couch. (How is it only 9am?) As I limp through life, I resent what you’ve made of me. I used to be strong. I used to know how to take care of myself and have enough left over to care for others. Why has that ability deserted me now, when I need it the most, to care for the biggest Other I ever will?

It’s not always bad. There are moments, hours, even days, of piercing happiness. Where I feel reunited to an estranged part of myself. I am a favored one, blessed with much. I know this. I have a husband who has both flexible work hours and a flexible heart, never once begrudging me the comfort and care I need. My son is healthy and vivacious. Sometimes, when he’s asleep, I sneak into the bedroom just to watch him. He is always breathing and beautiful. We don’t want for anything. My life is coated in many colors of goodness.

Why then do I feel so enslaved to you? Why will you not let me go? What can I give you that will appease you? There is precious little in this barren famine-riddled place. My best intentions to try harder, to do better… they wither on the vine. There is no fruit. My emotions are thin and wan. Except for frustration. That at least looms large with ghostly eyes. Isn’t the mark of a mother her endless selflessness? All the poems and songs and books say so. I don’t have it. I try to get by with the minimum effort, as if this were some middle school science project. Perhaps then I am not really a mother at all? I so much wanted to be one of those women who takes gracefully to motherhood. Who, whether or not she planned to have children, allows it to bring out the best in her.

Instead all my worst traits are dragged out of me like entrails. I am weepy and selfish. I manipulate and grumble. All my reserves of patience and peace are gone. Even a little fussing makes me grit my teeth. Neediness sends me running to the other room. Having trouble starting a car will ruin my day. When did this become who I am?

And yet I know this is a foreign place. I do not belong here. This will not be my final resting place. You cannot fool me. There is a land where sweet goodness flows and I can look up clear. You cannot fool me. I see hope underneath.

I hope.

New Year’s resolutions are in season now. But I always feel a little disingenuous making them. After all who really cares about someone else’s resolutions once it’s not a third grade writing assignment? Also, it sometimes seems like the wrong time of year to be making new beginnings. Everything in nature has gone dormant and I often feel the summons to hunker down with them until spring.

And yet

Something in my psyche needs this shot of motivation after the let down of the holidays. Perhaps instead of dormancy, I ought look at the bare branches and listless patches of ground as a blank slate. Since I squander so many of them, I can use all the new beginnings I can get.

Perhaps it’s just the terminology I struggle with. Resolutions seem so rigid. They resound with do’s and don’t's. By mid-February most of us Resolutes are engaged in some form of double think. That didn’t count because I was tired. It was a special occasion. I won’t do it from now on. New Year’s resolutions are hard to keep precisely because a year is long time to hold to an intention that’s stiffer than a starched collar. I need something more along the lines of a pair of jeans. Something that I can take with me through my days, good, bad, and bland. A list not about guilt but about ambition.

Yes, an ambition. That’s a much better word.

Glad I got that sorted out.

Here’s a peek at my home and hearth list of ambitions for the year:

1. Make fermentation a habit. So far I’ve only thought of fermenting foods as a way to preserve them. I’d this practice to become more integrated into my kitchen. Inherent to this practice is learning to make some kind of fermented beverage, be it kombucha, kefir, ginger beer, ect.
2. Learn to sew or knit proficiently. Like, actually be able to make useful things, not just row after row of stitching.
3. Relearn photography basics. Even though I took a photography class in high school, I can no longer remember exactly what’s meant by words like aperture and focal length. I’d like to reclaim this skill.
4. Make soap.
5. Learn to use more organ meat. Other than the occasional liver and onions for dinner (that I’m obligated to warn Mr. Quotidian about at least three days in advance, serve with dessert and sandwich that meal in between other more normal meals to make up for it) I don’t really know how to cook these parts of animals.
6. Make regular trips to the thrift store. I’ve known for awhile that effective thrifting is habitual thrifting. While there are magnificent treasures out there, they most often go to those who are familiar with the bins, shelves, and racks.
7. Learn more about traditional Southern food. Not the Crisco and food coloring South, but the way people cooked deep in the South’s history. Places to start my research are Anson Mills and Southern Foodways Alliance.

Aside from making me desperately want to invest in a telephoto lens, moments like this also serve to remind me of my place. I am not all there is. I am not the only one who eats. I am not the be-all-end-all of creation. As startling as it is to come across it while surrounded by sidewalks, front doors, and mailboxes, the truth still stands that all death breeds life.

Fall seems to weak a word to contain this transformation. Although “fall” lends itself to some clever bulletin boards in classrooms and libraries, it only includes one aspect of this most delightful of seasons. And really, autumn is so much more than the falling leaves.

It is the smell of wood smoke unfurling across the evening air like a banner proclaiming allegiance to a new ruler. As the mosquitoes have slowly died off, we’ve been spending more evenings by the chimenea, watching the flames as if they were a drama.

Autumn is watching lettuces grow from nuggets the size of quarters to carpeting whole fields in the space of a fortnight.  I think autumn is secretly the farmer’s favorite. Even though there is still plenty to do, the pace is less dire. We find ourselves being able to stand back and admire the beauty of the farm, if only for a moment. Set against a background of velvety black earth is the iridescent wave of carrot tops, the sea of wine dark Rouge d’hiver lettuce, the dusty green crest of collards, and the dusky purple billow of Red Russian kale.

Autumn is pulling a carrot from the ground that you are positive is the archetype for all carrots. The mother carrot. The ideal of which all other carrots are just shadows. And then you take a step farther, pull out another carrot, and there it is again! The epitome of all carrots. And very soon you have a whole handful of orange perfection.

Autumn is letting your feet luxuriate in last warm days before slippers, socks, and blankets come rolling in like a northern front. I refuse to bundle up for the first few weeks of cold weather, relishing the new sensation of cold. Gradually though, all the blankets that’ve loitered around all summer find their usefulness again. The scarves are unpacked and hung by the door. Knowing the location of one’s slippers becomes a condition of getting out of bed.

Autumn is having finally said goodbye to the bright summer vegetables. It is making room on my plate for the deep green of fall. My psyche seems to be tapping into some deep ancestral craving for fresh green before winter sets in. Kale bulks up everything from soups to garlicky white beans to scrambled eggs.  Bok choy is a mild mannered partner for sassy curries. Collards sing back up to all manner of main dishes. My sink is continually full of chopped greens of some shade or other.

Autumn is relishing the warmth of the oven as you pass rather than going out of your way to avoid it. I’ve started making my own bread again, something I gladly pay someone else to to do in the summer. We’ve even fired up the oven for such unnecessary things as chocolate chip cookies. (Yes, organic carrots next to chocolate chip cookies is how we roll.)

Autumn is waking up to a find tendrils of frost on the leaves under you feet. No matter how strongly the news predicts a frost, it always surprises me to walk out with my morning basket of laundry and find that I can see my breath.

Autumn is that nap where you fall asleep wishing you had a blanket and wind up dreaming about snow tombs and giant cats. You guys get those too, right? This might be the first autumn that I’ve been both free to take afternoon naps and able to decide where I take them. Baby-tidian and I have taken our share of al fresco naps, whether in our yard in on the I Spy quilt or at the farm in hammocks.

If summer is wicker and peaches and winter is cable knit and hot chocolate, then autumn is copper and pears. Kettles start to whistle and the musk of apples and pears permeates our house. Each year we buy more apples than the last. This year we are up to three bushels, but that still doesn’t seem to be enough for preserved applesauce, juice and cider experiments, a stash of dried apples, and wanton eating out of hand. So perhaps next year it will be up to four.

Autumn is never long enough.  Like a school kid dreaming of summer vacation I spend the whole rest of the year pinning for it. But, on this second day of December,  perhaps it is time to let it go. There are good things ahead.

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf’s a flower.” — Albert Camus

I think I once faked being sick in order to stay home and watch out my bedroom window as the leaves drifted to the ground.  Or maybe I just planned to and then chickened out at the last minute. I don’t remember.

This year I don’t have to play hookie to watch the leaves fall. Not only have Baby-tidian and I enjoyed many walks through our crunchy leaf strewn neighborhood, we’ve spent countless minutes watching out our windows as leaves have transformed the cement dead zone of our driveway into a sea as vibrant as any coral reef.

I always forget how falling leaves makes one appreciate negative space. We tend to scamper about with our eyes fixed where we are headed, whether that’s the front door, the coffee shop window, or our car at the other end of the parking lot. What stands between us and our goal is just empty space to be gotten through. Leaves falling through it changes the way I see that empty space. It’s like lining a blank hallway with pictures. With a big gust of wind, I’m suddenly aware of the depth of the space I inhabit. There is value and beauty in the getting there.

Autumn also gives a blessed relief from the monotony of summer and winter. I love lush landscapes as much as the next person. And I’m a sucker for the pristine harmony of a fresh snow. But it’s fortifying to see trees bursting out of their verdant uniformity like a woman kicking off her slick high heels and stretching her bare feet. Where there was once a fire, now there are flames.

I find myself collecting these newly emancipated leaves. I’ll pluck one off a tree in the grocery store parking lot or stoop to pick another off the ground as I fumble for my keys at the door. I’ll find these leaves days/weeks/months later in my pockets or forgotten corners of tables in various states of crumbly decay.  Here’s a peek at my stash from this year:

Some are the color of Venetian glass while others sport the texture of a leather handbag. They evoke both the setting sun and night’s inkiness. They tell stories of swans, and rivers, and turkey tails. Of age, and beauty, and playfulness.

A time for persevering

and a time for idleness.

A time for cool baths

and  a time for warm towels.

A time for naps

and a time for… er… more naps.

A time for sun

and a time for shade.

There is a time for fire

and a time for ice.

A season  for every purpose under heaven.

Even if that season is endless summer.

]]> http://collectedquotidian.com/2011/09/15/a-time-for-everything/feed/ 0 http://collectedquotidian.com/2011/08/01/a-knuckle-sandwich/ http://collectedquotidian.com/2011/08/01/a-knuckle-sandwich/#comments Mon, 01 Aug 2011 17:19:34 +0000 Jana@ Collected Quotidian http://collectedquotidian.com/?p=1602 I want to eat his baby knuckles that dimple in rather than sticking out.

Here we come a-swaddling
With a cloth so soft!
Here we come a-cuddling
All comfort to adopt!

Love and joy come to you,
And to you a swaddle too!
And God bless you and send you a long night’s rest.

And God bless you and send you a long night’s rest!

So, once you have a Little like the one above, what do you need? As I began to see the whites of my due date’s eyes, I searched in every nook and cranny of the internet for the answer to that question. What I found was disheartening: endless product reviews and tired lists of the stuff everyone thinks of (nursing pads, onezies, diapers, ect). What I wanted was the stuff you didn’t plan on having around but couldn’t have done without. The “I happened to have this in my cupboard and it saved my life” list. I could not find such a list. I determined in my heart that I would keep an inventory of the things that were especially useful to me in the weeks immediately following Theodore’s birth, and so make my own list that might help some future mama-to-be.

So without further ado…

1. Hard boiled eggs-These have been a dark horse nutritional resource for me. I’d hard boiled a dozen eggs the day before going into labor in preparation for a meal later in the week. Even though that meal never happened, I was grateful for the eggs. They provided a much needed protein source that was easy to prepare in advance and kept well in the fridge. They are also infinitely adaptable. They can get chopped up on salads or toast, made into deviled eggs, or eaten straight out of the fridge during the 76 seconds you have before the Little starts crying again.
2. Netflix Instant or audio books- I had a long reading list prepared for all the down time I was going to have while nursing in the first few weeks. The day after Theodore was born, I sent Mr. Quotidian off to the library to pick them up for me. He left them in a neat stack next to our bed… and there they sat for weeks. Not for lack of desire, I assure you. I’d been looking forward to this reading spree for months. The problem was that nursing turned out to be a different kind of animal than I was expecting. I had thought it would curl up quietly in my lap, moving only to nuzzle into me contentedly. Instead it wrestled itself into my arms, snorting grumpily all the way. It took both my hands and my full attention every 42 seconds, leaving little for book holding, let alone sentence reading. Therefore Netflix Instant entered the picture– hands free entertainment. I found it’s best to watch either something a bit fluffy in subject matter or something you’ve already seen before. Then you’re not dying of suspense when the Little takes your full attention every other scene.
3. A gentle husband-I don’t have any advice about how to come by one of these; I only know how valuable they are.
4. Nursing camis- I bought several of these on the advice of a friend, and they’ve been the best clothing purchase I’ve made since a maternity dress. When clothing is required (and it’s not always), these are the best. My only additional advice is to buy at least a size larger than you normally would. I personally normally wear a small or medium and bought an extra large. You just don’t want anything remotely constricting.
5. A baby carrier- There are articles everywhere covering the benefits of babywearing, so I won’t clog the search engines even more with another one. However, if you aren’t familiar with the concept, it’s worth your time to Google “babywearing.” I also don’t want this to be a review of different styles of carriers. Everyone, including the babies, has their own opinion about which style is the best. So, be willing to experiment in finding the kind that is least likely to turn your baby into a back-diving octopus.
6. A bendy straw- This is a necessity for the same reason that Netflix is- a lack of extra hands. I was thirstier than a sun baked terracotta pot the first couple weeks after giving birth. I regularly was caught in the crossfire between the finally (but delicately) asleep Little and a nearly debilitating thirst. If I shifted him too much by reaching for and bringing a glass to my lips, well, you can imagine what could happen. But at the same time, not having that gulp of water produced a panic in me worthy of some great poetry. (Trust me, everything is more dramatic when you measure your sleep in 45 minute increments.) While a bendy straw doesn’t entirely bring peace to all the land, it does allow a treaty to be reached. I don’t have to move quite so much to get a drink and the Little finds a whimper enough to communicate his displeasure.
7. Experienced friends-Like a gentle husband, I don’t know where you can get these if you don’t already have them. They answer questions about your baby’s possible overbite without making you feel stupid or like a helicopter parent. The good ones also make sure you have everything you need even when you say “We have everything we need.” (Thanks Jed and Theresa!)
8. La Leche League.com, KellyMom.com, and The Ultimate Guide to Breastfeeding by Jack Newman- If you plan on breastfeeding, you can lost in the maze of self doubt, worry, and fear. While these may only be alieved by the constant reassurance of a veteran breastfeeding mama, these resources (two websites and a book) will at least slack your thirst for information.
9. A lamp with adjustable amounts of light- There is probably a more succinct term for this, but you know the lamps I’m talking about? You tap them once for a dim light, twice for a medium light, and three times for a full amount of light. I’ve needed light for a whole host of things during the night, from making sure Theodore is still breathing to reading to diaper changes to the ever almost-but-not-quite-attainable Latch. The adjustable lamp means I can keep the light on for as long as I want without worrying about disturbing Mr. Quotidian.
10. A blind eye towards housekeeping- This one needs little else said. Let it go.
11. Several changes of sheets and many, many, many washcloths and towels- I used to be the kind of person who kept only two sets of sheets– one for summer and one for winter. And two sets of towels per person. We live in a small space and I didn’t want to give up valuable closet space to linens that would just sit there. However, for various reasons, I’ve amassed at least three extra sets over the past months and numerous towels and wash cloths. And I have learned to be grateful for them. Wash cloths are hot currency because they are so versatile. One minute they are sopping up spit up, the next they are clogging the Leak which used to be quite a normal boob, thank you very much. And you’d be surprised how quickly sheets can feel dirty when you live on the bed. Frequently changed sheets (without having to wash them) are just enough of a luxury to freshen my unshowered spirits.
12. A sense of humor-My decision to cultivate a sense of humor carried over from some advice my doula, Kristen of Mama Sense, gave us concerning birth. She said the two things that she sees making the most difference to women giving birth is a sense of gratitude and a sense of humor. While I can see humor being important for labor, it has been essential for me post-partum. I don’t know what bodily fluid that is running down my belly and making a spot on the sheets- pee, poop, sweat, or breast milk. The Little, who’s been sleeping peacefully for tens of minutes,  cries just when I’ve snuggled up to Mr. Quotidian. There’s a trail of breast milk from the bed to the changing table to the bathroom. These are just a few of the things that have become normal since May 22nd. As Mr. Quotidian is fond of saying: It makes it better if you imagine a studio audience laughing at you.
13. Epsom salt- Whether your taking a sitz bath to soak your nether regions, a full bath to ease your new nursing injuries, or a spa like bath to just escape for a few minutes, epsom salts are essential. While their actual benefit lies in easing weary muscles, I love adding them to my bath for the little feeling of extra TLC. It makes all the icky things of early motherhood more bearable.
14. Swaddle cloths-Like babywearing, the benefits of swaddling are documented and much more thoroughly discussed in other places, so I won’t waste keystrokes on that here. However, my banishment of uni-taskers in the kitchen extends to baby care. I don’t like the made for swaddling blankets with velcro, zippers, or snaps. What do you do with them when the baby outgrows them or doesn’t like being swaddled anymore? Even if they swaddle well, they’re only good for swaddling. So there’s the unitasker mentality, but also because of my personality I wanted to learn to swaddle the old fashioned way- with just a cloth. When doing this, it helps to have an appropriate cloth. Receiving blankets don’t really cut it. I like muslin cloths (in as big of a size as you can) as muslin breathes well, meaning the Little stays warm but won’t overheat. The large size gives you enough extra at the end tuck in so the swaddle stays in place. When I’m not swaddling, these cloths are used as plain old blankets, sun shades, and spit up mops. A savvier mom than me could probably get long lengths of the stuff at a fabric store and not pay the “You’ll pay anything cause it’s for a baby!” price.
15. Ocean “Music”-Mr. Quotidian cringes when I call it this because it’s not technically music. It’s just ocean sounds. By accident I discovered that the Little is quieted by the sound of running water. Because of this revelation, I spent several nights leaning against the tub and depleting the earth’s clean water supply. Eventually I wised up (woze up? wizened up?) and dug out my old Ocean Moods cd that I was obsessed with in middle school and downloaded the file to my phone. Theodore’s ocean now travels with him everywhere. It still startles me how instantly comforting it is to him.
16. Hope- “This won’t last forever” is the refrain I keep repeating to  myself. Even already at seven weeks postpartum I’ve experienced that to be true. Gone are the days where it takes us ten minutes to get a good latch. The feeling of having no control over my days is fading as we settle into some kind of rhythm. So even on our very bad days where swaddles and pacifiers lay discarded on the floor and Theodore and I finally collapse into each other mutually exhausted from 14 hours of failed communication– even on those days I manage to find the barest teaspoon of hope.