The Plan

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It’s important to always be in control….

When I was preparing for Fiona’s birth, I had A Plan. An actual, pen-on-paper plan that I’d written on the “Birth Plan” worksheet given by Kaiser Hospital to all expectant parents. I made a music playlist called “Birth.” My suitcase was packed. My mother was scheduled to fly out and be my birth coach.

Confident in my plan, I worked until two weeks before my due date, and scheduled my baby shower for the weekend following my last day at the office.

Fiona arrived, in what I’ve come to think of as “her customary dramatic style,” via emergency c-section at approximately the time my baby shower was supposed to be ending. I went to the hospital hoping for relief from what I thought was history’s worst case of heartburn; I returned home five days later with a teeny-tiny baby to a living room full of unopened baby shower gifts.

So much for The Plan.

When I was preparing for Campbell’s birth, I was determined not to make the same mistake twice. I didn’t bother with a birth plan, didn’t schedule any relatives to fly out in advance, and skipped any baby shower. Instead, I focused all of my energy on preparing myself and my house for the new baby: I stopped work a full month before my due date, and during that first week off I stocked up on enough diapers and baby supplies to last until Campbell turned two. (Not exaggerating: we still had newborn-sized diapers left over when Georgia was born).

Campbell arrived, in what I’ve come to thing of as “her customary laid-back style,” ONE WEEK LATE. She even pulled a bait-and-switch by causing enough contractions to send me to the hospital (after calling my parents to tell them to GET ON A PLANE – THE BABY’S COMING!); a few hours later, the contractions stopped for another 36 hours, until Campbell decided that maybe she’d like to be born after all. (It shouldn’t surprise me that, to this day, Campbell is the HARDEST kid to get out the door). By the time she was born, I was about to lose my mind with the impatience and boredom of waiting.

When it was Georgia’s turn, I tried a more moderate approach: I worked a little closer to my due date, but made sure I was prepared well in advance. (By your third child, “preparing” involves buying one pack of newborn diapers). While I didn’t have a birth plan per se, we did book a doula to coach me through the delivery because Erick was so busy finishing his PhD.

Georgia arrived exactly one week early, and in what I’ve come to think of as my customary, “‘Hey, Georgia, you doin’ okay?’ style,” I barely even noticed; just prior to her birth, Erick had accepted a new job in Vermont, so my mind was full of the logistics of buying a new house, preschool registration, and packing-and-moving. (Of course, when we called the doula to tell her that the baby was coming, it turned out that she had the flu, so poor Erick ended up being my birth coach after all).

All of which is to say that I no longer put much stock in plans when it comes to birth. The old adage, “Want to make God laugh? Tell him your plans,” seems to apply particularly to labor and delivery. I know almost nobody who got the birth they’d planned, and the odds diminish the more children you have. The few people I know whose Birth Plans progressed flawlessly always seem a little smug –  at least, I have trouble judging them charitably. When they tell me about how they gave birth on a bed of roses surrounded by candles, listening to the soothing music of their labor playlist, while attended by a unicorn, I want to say, “OKAY, so you got a perfect birth experience. Let’s check in again in about 18 years, shall we? See if everything’s STILL going according to plan?”

I have no idea what to expect from Kiddo 4. He or she could come early or late. We’ve got some plans for grandparents to arrive in advance of my due date, but who knows? I just hope I’ll have time to buy a pack of newborn diapers and dig the  baby clothes out of the bottom of the closet.

Despite all of these unknowns, I do have a plan for this blog. So here it is: you’re reading this post about 2 weeks in advance of my due date. For the next couple of months, the only new material you’ll read here (aside from a baby announcement when the time comes) will be my regularly-scheduled articles for The Addison Independent and On the Willows.

If that doesn’t seem like enough, have no fear! Here’s what I’ve done: I’ve had a lot of fun going back through the archives, pulling up some of my favorite posts from the past two years. I’ll be regularly re-posting these pieces through mid-July. The Pickle Patch readership has increased A LOT over the past year, so for many of you this will be a first look at some older material. For faithful readers who’ve seen these before, I hope it’ll be a fun re-read (or maybe you’ll say, “Boy, Faith sure was a lousy writer back then!”).

While I’m away, in addition to caring for a newborn, I hope to work on some new material. I have lots of ideas, and there’s nothing like round-the-clock feedings to spur the creative process. Stay tuned!

Thank you all so much for taking time from your busy, overstimulated days to read what I write! Have a wonderful start to your summer, and I’ll meet you back here in July!

Thoughts While Waiting

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Kiddo 4 is officially full-term today, which means that his/her birth date is fast approaching. To be honest, I’m kind of hoping this baby arrives on the early end; I’m feeling tired, and it takes a lot of effort to get our family’s “ducks in a row” EVERY NIGHT, just in case the baby comes. Then again, my personal deadline keeps on moving to accommodate major life events; at the moment, this baby can’t be born until after: tonight’s preschool potluck, Erick’s poker game on Saturday night, my cousin’s law school graduation on Sunday…and definitely not until I’ve watched the final Season 3 episode of “Downton Abbey.” (Got it, Kiddo? That last one’s especially important).

While looking though all of my past blog posts in preparation for my maternity blogging plan (to be announced shortly), I noticed something distressing: the overwhelming majority of them had to do with parenthood. This was distressing because, in all honestly, I don’t think of myself as writing a “mommy blog.” I try to keep motherhood and my children in perspective, and there are MANY things that I find MUCH more interesting than child-rearing.

But I write this blog, it reflects my life, it’s full of my thoughts and experiences — and I am a mother. So I suppose it’s inevitable that my parenting should seep into my writing.

As I prepare to become a mother for the fourth time, I’ve been thinking how 5.5 years of parenthood have changed me. Here are a few things that I came up with, some of which are a little hard to admit. (Please note that this is NOT advice! No no, just changes I’ve observed in myself.):

1. Passing the baton? Erick brought home a couple issues of Vanity Fair magazine from his recent travels, which I’ve been reading slowly as a guilty pleasure. While perusing the glossy profiles of the fabulously rich and famous, I noticed a change in my thinking: No longer was I imagining what I would say if interviewed for a Vanity Fair profile. No; instead, I was imagining what my children would say about their childhood — specifically, their blissful childhood with their loving, supportive mother — if they were someday interviewed for a Vanity Fair profile. I don’t think you can call this “humility,” but it’s sort of close: abandoning grand plans for self, recognizing that one has to step aside and let the kids shine. Something like that.

2. Shifting goals. I’ve realized lately that what would make me happiest at the end of my life — my ultimate marker of success — would be if our children all still love each other and still enjoy family time together, even when they’re grown. Needless to say, this is a life goal that wouldn’t have entered my thinking six years ago. It doesn’t even seem all that lofty, but IT IS. To have adult children who still like each other and their parents — how many families can claim that? And how wonderful for the families that can!

3. A looser grip. This probably has more to do with the number of children we have rather than parenting itself, but here it is: I don’t worry about my children nearly as much as I did when I had my first child. I can’t worry about my children nearly as much as I did when I had my first child, because I just don’t have the capacity to store that much worry. When Fiona was first born, it would rip me to pieces if she screamed in her car seat. A fever was cause for a call to the doctor and a day spent in quarantine. If I wasn’t stimulating her in some way during her waking hours, I felt horrible.

I look back at the mom I was then and think it’s pretty cute. Because NOW I am deaf to screams. NOW fevers don’t scare me, I just want them to go away quickly so I can send the kids back to school. NOW, as long as the kids aren’t asking me for anything, I will leave them playing and go about my business for as long as possible. True confession: I’ve even left Georgia alone in the backyard for short periods of time as long as the dogs (Gracie and the neighbors’ dog, Brinkley) were with her. Large, protective dogs are considered appropriate childcare, right?

4. Never say “never.” I made a lot of proclamations as a younger mother. I laid down my laws because I was terrified, because more rules made me feel more in control, and because I naively put (well-intentioned) principles ahead of sanity. So I said things like:

“Absolutely NO T.V. until age 2, and then only 30 minutes a day!”

“I will never, ever make meals to order. Dinner is what’s on the table!”

We don’t own a T.V., which I’m glad of for many reasons, and I really do try to limit early exposure to the DVD player, and to limit consumption to 30 minutes a day. But never say never! What do you do with the 18-month-old who wants to watch what her sisters are watching when you need to make dinner? What do you do with three kids in the car during a three-hour drive to Montreal? I’ll tell you what you do: YOU LET THEM ZONE OUT IN FRONT OF THAT VIDEO, AND YOU GIVE THANKS TO GOD FOR PORTABLE DVD PLAYERS!

As for food, I do try to have everyone eating basically the same thing — especially for dinner. But I ask you, what do you do when your first child only wants bagels with cream cheese, your second child only wants peanut butter & jelly, and your third child wants a bit of what everyone else has AND a grilled cheese? Then comes the day when everyone decides they no longer like your go-to crowd pleaser: macaroni & cheese. Really, all you want is for everyone to enjoy dinner with a minimum of screaming, to stay at the table as long as possible, and to consume some calories. What do you do? I’ll tell you what you do: YOU MAKE THEM WHAT THEY’LL EAT, PLUS OPTIMISTIC SAMPLES OF THE FOOD YOU & YOUR HUSBAND ARE EATING, AND YOU RESOLVE TO ENFORCE ONE-DINNER-FOR-ALL NEXT YEAR!

So, there you have it: the collected wisdom of six years and three children. I’ve changed, I think mostly for the better. Whether this fourth child will push me over the edge is yet to be seen….

Where the Sidewalks End

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If you were to ask me now, almost two years since I moved to Vermont, what I miss most about the other places I’ve lived – the Virginia suburbs, Manhattan, the San Francisco Bay Area – I would answer: “Sidewalks.”

To continue reading the harrowing details about what it’s like taking sidewalk-less walks with our whole family, click here for my “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

This is NOT a Mother’s Day Post….

I’m a little nervous about this one, folks; it’s more opinionated than I’m usually comfortable with. In reading it, please just remember that — to quote my middle child — “I love EVERYBODY! Because that’s what God says to do!”

This week was blank on my blog calendar for some time. Finally, I posted a note for myself that said, “Something for Mother’s Day?” and left it at that. Then I fretted and stewed, because I’m just not inspired to write about Mother’s Day; I don’t get excited by this holiday. Some say, “Every day is Mother’s Day!” Well, maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but what’s definitely true is that I’m a mother every day; all that seems different about Mother’s Day is that my husband and kids get stressed out trying to thank me properly for my sacrifice. I’d much rather have moments of genuine thanks scattered throughout the rest of the year than delivered under pressure from Hallmark.

Also, I’m not interested in writing about motherhood as an institution. Motherhood has been around for a long time. Billions and billions of women have done it. Women have children, and then they raise them as best they can. Really, what is there to say other than, “It’s crushingly hard most of the time, but love balances it out?” I’d rather write about my own life experiences, my own thoughts and feelings, and hope that they make other moms smile or feel a little more okay.

Inspiration came, as it often does, in an unexpected form; in this case, it was this article that popped up on my NPR news feed one afternoon. The article’s focus is an argument against gay marriage put forth by Ryan T. Anderson of the Heritage Foundation; according to Anderson, government legislates marriage because when a man and a woman get together, children may result. The government has an interest in making sure that children are permanently cared for by both a mother and a father, so that the government won’t have to provide child support later on. To quote Anderson, “Marriage is the way the state non-coercively incentivizes me to be in the institution that does best for children.” He believes that allowing gay marriage would weaken marriage as a “coercive” force for heterosexual couples.

Now, before anybody’s heart rate gets going (too late?!?), let me assure you of something: I’m NOT trying to use this blog to advance my own political or spiritual views, which are too personal and uninformed to be of much use in any dialogue. Ryan T. Anderson is a smart man who’s spent far more time pondering these issues than I have; Slate apparently called his book What is Marriage? Man and Woman: A Defense, “the best argument against gay marriage.”

To the extent that my political or spiritual views DO seep into my writing, it’s because they’re intertwined with my experience. So I AM going to write from the logic of my own experience. The NPR article got me thinking about families — the families I know. I don’t know the families that Ryan T. Anderson knows, but it seems that his reality doesn’t look much like mine.

Here’s my reality: I know families composed of a mother + father + kids. I know families who’ve lost moms and dads to death, divorce, or abandonment. I know kids who honestly might have been better off without certain mothers or fathers in the picture. I know unmarried people, and childless married couples. And let me tell you this: Some of the most delightful, polite, intelligent, and well-adjusted kids I know right now — kids who make my own kids look like hooligans — are being raised by two married mothers.

My experience is that the religion I practice doesn’t give me a whole lot of specifics on how to vote or how government should legislate. But it DOES give me a WHOLE LOT of specifics on love, and grace, and humility. Specifically, it tells me to embody these things.

So, I’d like to re-christen this Mother’s Day as “Family Day.” I think that we need to celebrate the brave, important, and incredibly difficult work of raising children — shepherding the next generation — that’s being done every day in any number of family configurations. I want to salute the mothers and fathers and non-biological “family members” who are in the trenches — either alone or together — doing their darndest to nourish little people.

I also want to celebrate the people who choose to remain single, and married people who decide not to have children. These are brave decisions in a culture that sets the “norm” at marriage and children. To make these choices requires a confidence and a self-awareness that I admire. It also frees these people to function as productive members of society — and in the lives of children — in ways that may be impossible to married or child-laden people. They’re still family.

I’m not sure on what evidence Anderson reached the conclusion that heterosexual marriage is “the institution that does best for children.” Marriage as father + mother + children is Anderson’s ideal, and it’s not a bad ideal: It’s the way my own life looks right now. But like most ideals, it’s something that many people don’t have. (I’m not convinced that it’s something that the majority of people throughout history ever did have). Advancing this ideal as something that’s so “best for children” that it must be the only legal option — that excludes a lot of people I know, and diminishes the wonderful love happening in all sorts of families.

So, what really “does best for children?” (After all, until fairly recently my own marriage — which is interracial — would not have been included among relationships that “do best for children.”)

Here’s what I think: I think we all need each other. My own children have a father and mother, but we certainly don’t do it alone — we can’t do it alone. It wasn’t until I had kids that I realized my children need so much more than just Erick and me; they need their grandparents, they need their teachers, they need every one of the loving adult friends and family members who surround them. No one family situation is truly ideal — sometimes your mother dies, sometimes your father leaves, sometimes you get two drunk and abusive parents — but I think if kids are surrounded by enough love from whatever source, then they’re usually able to take the best of that and make it through life in one piece.

So here’s to all the families and parents and just plain folks out there who are trying to “do best” for our kids. When it comes to kids, all we can do is our best, and our best will always be better if we do it together. Whatever comes at the start of the equation, More Love = More Love. Happy Family Day.

Downton and Out

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The similarity is uncanny, isn’t it?

I’m not a trendy person; I tend to avoid anything that’s sweepingly popular. This is partly due to my contrarian temperament (I’ve loved the British alternative band Mumford & Sons for years, but when they won Album of the Year at this year’s Grammy Awards, I was actually upset. Now EVERYONE will like them, I thought). And it’s partly because I live in a small town with three young children (I saw NONE, exactly ZERO, of this year’s Oscar-nominated Best Picture films). I don’t usually read bestsellers until they’re off the lists because I’m cheap and have limited bookshelf space, so I get most of my books from the library. I don’t watch T.V. because we don’t have one.

Yet I’ve become addicted to “Downton Abbey.”

I held out until three seasons of this hit BBC/PBS television series had passed, but it grabbed me with its manicured fingers in the end.

I first became aware of “Downton Abbey” through friends’ Facebook posts. During the first two seasons, the internet was ablaze with exclamations of shock, joy, or outrage, depending on what had happened on PBS the night before. Clearly this show was arousing passionate feelings in people I respected.

Then there was the dinner party I attended where the hostess turned to the table and said, “Okay, now can we talk about ‘Downton Abbey?’” I was the ONLY person present who wasn’t following the show. A friend at that same party told me that she’d be happy to lend me her DVDs of the series so that I could once again be a functioning member of society.

I took her up on it only after the Season 3 finale (which I have yet to see, so NO SPOILERS!). The morning after that episode, Facebook was on fire with fury, but nobody gave away exactly what had happened. I had to know! So I told my friend I’d take those DVDs after all.  (I’m starting the Season 3 DVDs now, although I’m a little concerned that watching the finale will put me into early labor….)

So, what’s the big deal about “Downton Abbey?” Here’s why I’m hooked:

-It’s relatable. Although it has a massive cast and a web of plotlines, “Downton Abbey” centers around the family of Lord and Lady Grantham, who live with their three daughters (and a dog) on a vast Yorkshire estate with dozens of servants, around the time of the First World War. In other words, if you took away the servants, cut down the estate to 1/10 its size, and set it in present day Vermont, you’d have our family.

-”Housekeeping porn.” The servants and their daily tasks are a major component of “Downton Abbey,” and from the moment I started watching I found myself drooling longingly over the idea of having a full staff to prepare all my meals, servants to get the fire going before I woke up, and ladies’ maids to dress my daughters. In real life, I recognize that these class distinctions are outdated and unjust. But watching the show at the end of a day spent wrestling my girls into their clothes, singeing my eyebrows while stoking the wood stove, and preparing meals that nobody eats…that’s why I’ve started referring to “Downton Abbey” as “housekeeping porn.”

-It’s honest. The moment that sealed my affection for “Downton Abbey” came towards the end of Season 1. Sarah O’Brien, who is Lady Grantham’s maid and as close to a scheming villain as you can get, is in the middle of doing something wicked and malicious when she pauses before a mirror. “Sarah O’Brien,” she says to her reflection,”this is not who you were meant to be.” (Or something along those lines, if memory serves). The awful thing happens anyway, and she spends all of Season 2 trying to make up for it. But this moment embodied what I think makes “Downton Abbey” great: It’s honest about people. There are no one-dimensional characters, nobody who’s all bad or all good. The people of “Downton Abbey” are complex: the worst of them have redeeming moments, and the best of them have shameful pasts or make horrible mistakes.

-Good parenting. Lord and Lady Grantham and their three grown daughters are members of the aristocracy during a time when British society is starting to shake up, to enter the modern era. It’s kind of like “Fiddler on the Roof” set in turn-of-the-century England. But what’s surprised me is the extent to which Lord and Lady Grantham are actually great parents; I even consider them role models for how to parent grown children. Instead of angrily clinging to tradition and insisting that their daughters operate within the bounds of aristocratic society, they’re usually able to affirm who their daughters are and to support what’s best for each of them. Which is not to say that they never lose their tempers or make mistakes, just like real parents have forever.

-It hooked my husband, too. Erick doesn’t like getting addicted to anything. So, while “Downton Abbey” is my excuse to sit my tired, pregnant body on the couch after the girls go to bed, Erick was originally happy to use that time to get his work done. But then he’d come downstairs to get a snack, and end up watching the show over my shoulder. First it was 5 minutes, then 10, then 30. By the end of Season 2, Erick sat down with me to watch the last few episodes in their entirety. Then he said, “You know, I really can’t stand the idea of you watching Season 3 without me.” So it’s become OUR show. And the other day, I got a letter in the mail: a very nice, handwritten letter. It was from my husband, who said he’d been inspired by “Downton Abbey” to sit down and write a letter with pen and paper.

If that’s not a good reason to love “Downton Abbey,” I bloody well don’t know what is.

Puppy Love

It feels like this blog has been awfully DEEP lately, so here’s something a little lighter.

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It’s been quite a while — about six months, to be exact — since I mentioned Gracie as anything other than an aside. Remember Gracie? Gracie is the labradoodle puppy who joined our family back in October. She was supposed to be our fourth child, because we were “done having children.” (Cue bitter laughter).

Well, Gracie is still with us, and next month she’ll be one year old. I usually distrust anything that comes across as too perfect, which is why I try very hard to be honest about how flawed I am and how imperfect our family is. But I have to say: Gracie is the perfect dog for our family. Her most marked imperfections are:

1. She’s very independent. I can’t say that we’ve had the typical dog owner experience, because I barely have to take care of Gracie. Our yard and our neighbors’ yard are both surrounded by one electric dog fence, which was installed for the neighbors’ golden retriever, Brinkley. Gracie and Brinkley are BEST FRIENDS– soul mates. Our girls say they’re “married,” and that’s probably true on a spiritual level. As soon as Gracie was old enough to train to the fence, she and Brinkley started spending their days as free-range dogs. Gracie asks to go outside every morning after breakfast, plays with Brinkley for much of the day (weather permitting), and re-enters our house to collapse into sleep every night. Aside from a minimal amount of feeding and grooming, my responsibilities involve opening and closing the door. I never need to walk Gracie unless I want a walk. Do we sometimes wish she hung out with our family a little more? Sure, but that’s more than balanced by the knowledge that she has a very happy life.

2. She has anxiety issues. As she’s grown older, Gracie has become increasingly aware that she’s responsible for a family, especially for three little girls. She takes this responsibility seriously — she’s a little hard on herself, if you ask me. So, despite her fluffy locks and her constantly wagging tail, she’s become a bit of a guard dog. She barks…and barks…and BARKS at anyone who dares to walk past our house (on the street, 20 yards from our front door). Good when it alerts me that someone’s nearby; bad when she scares the girls’ friends. When the girls play outside, Gracie and Brinkley will treat them like sheep, surrounding them in a v-formation to make sure that they stay within bounds. Good when Georgia takes off into the woods the minute my back is turned; bad when they topple Georgia over with their combined weight. And once, Gracie even latched onto the pants of a strange delivery man and attempted to tug him away from the house. That’s all bad, and has resulted in us enlisting the temporary services of a trainer/dog whisperer — which feels a little silly, but in the end is cheaper than a lawsuit.

3. She almost always throws up in the car. We’re working on this one, but for now it’s very hard to take her anywhere. The WORST was when she was sitting between the two oldest girls in the backseat and tossed her dog food all over Fiona.

So there you have it: an itemized list of Gracie’s imperfections. Now, here’s why she’s the perfect dog for our family (click on each thumbnail to enlarge the photo):

Unless you walk past our house or attempt to deliver our mail, you won’t meet a sweeter, more patient dog. We all adore our Gracie, and can’t imagine our family without her.

Neighbors

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In past columns, I’ve alluded to the stereotypical view of Vermonters as reserved, “frosty,” maybe even a little…unfriendly. I was prepared for a chilly reception to the state, having grown up hearing about the legendary New England reserve.

Click here to get the inside scoop on our neighbors in my latest “Faith in Vermont” column for The Addison Independent.