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The Buzz about get born (from mothers who read and write)

get born is as close to truth in Motherhood as I can come. Why are people so set on painting motherhood as all soft and fuzzy?

get born provides an unvarnished (and therefore comforting) view of parenting.

get born fills a connection to a woman’s spirit

get born IS THE ONLY MAGAZINE AROUND THAT GETS PAST ALL THE WONDERHOOD OF BEING AN PARENT AND GETS TO THE NITTY GRITTY.

get born fulfills a need for the messy side of parenting to be aired and normalized.

get born talks about the experience of motherhood.  I love its voice (and am proud to have contributed once to that voice.)  I don’t need a magazine to help me potty train or to choose trendy vacation clothes for my baby.  My children are no longer super-small, but the reality of owning a mother’s (sometimes broken) heart is everlasting.

Writing for get born provides me with empathetical participation in the honest, and let’s face it, insane world of parenting.

I write for get born because I am a mother and a writer and being both isn’t always pretty – get born looks at the underbelly of motherhood.

WHAT DOES get born DO FOR YOU?

My Post-Cancer Goals

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After the shock of the trauma of my initial diagnosis abated somewhat, I began to ask the inevitable, “What now?” question.

So far, I’ve come up with three goals to accomplish post-cancer. They’re in no particular order.

Learn to sail

Be in a community theater production

Get into a fight with a girl

I’ve got one down.  This morning, amidst scattered cloudy skies, my husband and I took our brand-new-to-us sailboat out onto Bodecker Lake (a monster feat, I must say) and caught some gorgeous wind.  Our sailboat is made gorgeous by the brightly colored sails that, when filled with wind, conjure up images of Nantucket or the Hamptons, I suppose, though I’ve only ever gotten as close as Martha’s Vineyard.

When the wind is good, sailing is a beautiful thing.  When the wind dies, it’s like being in a canoe, so we, as our 5-year-old says, use the paddle and “Oar around.”

I think I’m starting to understand when people have those bumper stickers on the back of their cars: “A bad day fishing is better than a good day at work.”  I think mine will say, “A bad day sailing is better than a good day wiping butts.”  Yep, I do love my children, but not so much the wiping butts part.

We decided to christen our boat “Hope” as a way to express our post-cancer optimism.  We waited, however, until our first successful sail.  Just in case the thing sank.  I’m just saying–it’s practical.

We have two evergreen trees in our backyard that I bought for our Christmas wedding, draped with lights and put up front in the church.  After the wedding, we planted them in the hard winter ground, and, miracle of miracles, they’ve both survived and are even starting to thrive.  Early on, one of them looked rather pekid, and we’d joke with one another about which tree would live, and which one was him and which was me.  When I was diagnosed, it wasn’t so funny anymore, but given my propensity for gallows humor, I’ve brought it up several times anyway.  So it seemed prudent to sail the boat once before we gave her such an auspicious moniker like “Hope.”  She is sailworthy, and hopefully, less flighty than her Days of Our Lives namesake.

My attainment of the other goals is in the works.  I’m working up my margarita-induced mouth to prepare for a good girl fight, and I auditioned last week for “Birth,” the play  The Family Journey’s bringing in, sponsored by yours truly, get born.

Writing Workshop

I’m directing a Writing Workshop tonight on behalf of my friend Keri, founder of The Family Journey.   For those in the area who want to attend, it will be at Catalyst Coffee on the corner of Shields and Drake in Fort Collins.

As I sit planning this workshop, I realize how passionate I am about giving people the confidence and tools to communicate through writing. I’m reading Julia Cameron’s “Right to Write” and love her assertion: “Writing is like breathing.  I believe that.  I believe we all come into life as writers.  We are born with a gift for language and it comes to us within months as we begin to name our world.  We all have a sense of ownership, a sense of satisfaction as we name the objects that we find.  Words give us power.”

I’m downright evangelical about this words being power belief.  I publish get born because I believe writing is so powerful.

For the very daring among you, I encourage you to pick up pen or open laptop or whatever you do when you write.  If you never have, here’s a starter.  I hope that you find, as I have, that in the process of writing for your most important audience, you, a sense of peace, a more definded self, and purpose.

Close your eyes and breathe.  Take three deep, cleansing breaths.  Imagine your mind is a giant word swimming pool.  Everything that happened today can be described in words.  Take the pictures of the events of the day and “write” them in your mind.  Watch as the words swim around the pool of your mind.  Some words will dive and swoop in and around each other like playful otters.  Others are floating at the top of your consciousness like leaves fluttering from a nearby tree.  Some words sink all the way to the bottom weighed down perhaps by the emotion within them that’s packed like a leaded sphere.  Others fill with water and slowly sift to the bottom, teasing you to dive down and squeeze them out.  Now sit quietly and watch.  The word pool is closed—no other words are allowed right now.  Sit on the nearby pool lounger and watch your words.  Breathe.

Now, find one of those words and pull it out of the pool.  Write it down, and begin to follow where it leads you.  Don’t be afraid to let it pull you down whatever road you’d like–fiction, non-fiction, a simple anecdote.  No path is wrong–all lead to discovery.

When you’ve written three pages (yes, three pages,) put it down and treat yourself to chocolate, a glass of wine or the latest installment of the Twilight Series (no teen-novel snob here!!)  Visit your pages again tomorrow and see where else they’d like to take you.  When you’ve found your rhythm, submit something to the magazine so we can all share it.

Happy writing,

Heather

The Other Side of the Look

In her essay, On the Defense, Cindy Strandvold mentioned “The Look” that people give her when she tells them she is a stay at home mom. I have given that look many times. It isn’t that I was looking down on people. Rather, it was purely a deer in the headlights reaction to a complete conversation stopper. I haven’t always been very successful at meeting new people or starting a conversation. I feel awkward and desperately grasp for more questions to ask in order to avoid that dreaded silence. As soon as the words, “I am a stay at home mom” leave someone’s mouth, I can’t think of what to say. I stand there willing my jaw to keep from going slack and hoping no one can tell that my sweat has broken the deodorant seal in my armpits. For whatever reason, I can’t think of what to ask next when someone tells me they are a stay at home mom. I stare at her and desperately try to think of what to say next… and nothing comes to me. Sure I ask about names and ages, but that is where it ends. I’ve got nothing.

Add onto that the fact that until recently I didn’t want to hear about other people’s kids, let alone be forced into an uncomfortable and impossible conversation about staying at home with kids. As much as these women may have felt I was judging them based on their choice to stay home, I felt they were looking right back at me wondering why the hell I didn’t have kids. I never viewed staying at home as a cop out or being free from the rigors of work. I was impressed that people could make that choice in a world where I had no choices. I couldn’t be a stay at home mom, because I couldn’t be a mom, period. And it killed me that some of the people I met thought that was a choice, because it wasn’t.

Finally, after several years, here I am a stay at home mom of four month old twins. There I said it, I am a stay at home mom! I’ve been telling people I am taking the year off. Maybe it will be longer and for now, my job is being a mom. It is hard to say though because I worry what is on the other side of that conversation. Will the other person feel awkward? And what if I still don’t know what to say?

Children’s Political Campaign

Ahh..the innocence of younger ones. As always my blogs will reflect my working environment because that’s where I am all the time. Yesterday a woman and 4 kids (1 boy and 3 girls) was checking out. One of the younger girls (about 7ish) noticed a display of magazines and said, “Where’s John McCain? He’s never on anything!” I couldn’t help but laugh that the presidential election would be on the radar of someone so young. So I asked her, “Who are you voting for?” She said Barack Obama. I asked her why and she said with assurance, “Because he’s nice.” In my 25 year old mind I was wondering how she got that impression. Political ads? Adult conversations? What does someone “nice” look/sound like?!? Is today’s propaganda driven towards the younger generations to get an “easy vote”? Not that a 7 year old can vote- but it certainly gets them talking-and other people thinking. I’d also like to state that her older brother was voting for McCain…because his sister wasn’t! I have always said that I love kids because up to a certain age they really don’t know the meaning of bias. They just make a decision and have a really basic reason as to why. As we get older do we complicate the simple things? Thinking back to the first election I can remember (George Bush senior) I remember making a poster that scribbled–I am voting for George Bush because he reminds me of my grandpa–. Now, many years later I am basing my vote on the issues of the present and future. Here is the million dollar question…If you counted the votes from adults versus children, would the result be the same? Have the younger generations figured out a quick way to politics? Here is an exercise. Let’s ask all the children/mothers/daughters/sisters of get born readers the following questions and post them. I understand that politics is a sticky situation for adults. So please respond with whatever you are comfortable with. It will be interesting to see the differences in the generations!

1. What is the presidential election?

2. Who are you voting for and why?

3. What is the presidents job? (this could be funny)

Happy Campaigning!

Here are the answers from my friends son Caleb who is 6 years old.

1. ummmm….

2. John….because it’s my uncles name

3. to sign stuff

My answers

1. to decide the president of the United States

2. I still have no idea.

3. To keep the peace, make policy and convince the rest of the world to keep the peace and policy.

My Mom’s answers

1. what you said (lol great answer mom!)

2. I knew asking this would be funny- she has never told anyone who she has voted for- including my father. (even after decades of marriage!)

3. umm..listen to the people and run the country

My sisters answers (who is in college)

1. same as you

2. obama- because my sisters (greek) are…

3. A lot…

Pondering profanity

I’ve been pondering the pros and cons of using profanity the past few days as my tweens use every opportunity to exclaim, “we just drove past the dam store”, and “did you know our neighbor has a new ass?”  There is an exhileration to technically obeying the rules of “no cuss words,”  while still SOUNDING like you’re saying them.   Being a more enlightened parent than my parents (aren’t we all , I’ve actually discussed the meaning of cuss words with my kids–basically three vulgar categories, poop-related, sex-related, and the body parts that pertain to poop and sex.  Well, there is the fourth category, the “profane” relating to God and his eternal judgments, which doesn’t have quite the “ew” factor for the kids.

I’ve told them that these culturally designated “taboo” words are considered shocking and offensive, and that if you have a good vocabulary, there is no need to use them.  But part of me acknowledges the unique power these words have, and I wonder why I care whether my children use them or not (as long as it’s not in front of the grandparents). 

I realize that with my upbringing, I will never be comfortable routinely swearing, but I’ve become less shocked and judgmental about those who do as I’ve aged and recognized that it is only my reaction that gives these words power.  Maybe I should be teaching my children that these words are to be reserved for the special occasions where they are particularly accurate, and where the decibal level needs to be higher than their tamer synonyms can convey.  Because I wonder if I do my children a disservice in teaching them to avoid offending people–I know from personal experience that sometimes it is right to challenge others, even if it does offend them. 

So, to swear, or not to swear–that is the question?

Forgiveness

August 31, 2008 by mamabop

I hadn’t even finished the first paragraph of Kim Spencer’s “Hanging in My Closet” before I knew this was the essay I was going to be blogging about. My entire preteen-to-teen existence, one long therapy session that it was, flashed before my eyes, and I finally had the breakthrough that my therapists had been working toward all those years.

For me it began at the ripe young age of 12. All of my childhood anger towards my mother came to a boiling point when she confessed her affair to my dad and promptly divorced him. Being the independent oldest child that I was, I packed my bags and moved out with him. And that’s how it all began. Four years of Thursdays wasted in my opinion, with one counseling session after another.

The divorce I got over within the first year. Then there was my new stepdad, my developing drug problem, and the fact that I was a 15-year-old high school dropout living in my own studio apartment and basically doing whatever I pleased. I was the case study all seven of my therapists had always dreamed of.

I generally glared out the window during those sessions and refused to speak as the therapist stared helplessly at me and my mom sobbed. I hated her. She was so weak. All she wanted was pity; for someone to tell her it wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t going to get that from me.

And so it went. Finally, after I didn’t show up for Christmas one year, she gave up on counseling, and we didn’t speak for a full year. Basically parentless, I continued down my path, doing whatever I felt like and still blaming my mom for the way my crappy life had turned out.

It wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I started to straighten out my life, sobering up and enrolling in the local community college. I slowly began talking to my mom again, and by pushing all the pain out of our minds, although not our hearts, we patched things up.

Now I am a young mom myself. I have a wonderful husband and little girl who means everything to me and my mom is a loving and enthusiastic grandma. Although I haven’t yet been through many struggles of parenthood with my 10-month old, I know they are coming. My mom still cries sometimes, not because of what I’ve done or said, but because she is a woman, she has emotions, and because she lives and breathes. And now I love her for it. Because I cry too, for my daughter who I love so much and who will one day, I’m sure of it, break my heart, and for my mom, because once I broke hers.

There have been times when I’ve sat wondering what it was that kept my mom insisting on those counseling sessions all those years, getting nowhere. Why she never gave up on me and why she took me back without even a lecture when I finally picked up the phone and brought her back into my life. Now I know. She, too, had a Wonder Woman suit. All of us moms do. We wear it because we love our children, because they are part of us and no matter how badly they crush our hearts, we will always be here for them when they come back home.

Once I thought my mother was weak, but I was wrong. Every decision we make as moms takes strength. Sometimes the hardest one of all is the decision to let our children choose their own paths, and trust that we have instilled them with the wisdom to choose the right one.

“Special Ed Mom”

After reading “Special Ed Mom” in the Summer ‘08 Get Born magazine I found my heart aching for this very ’special’ mom. I wanted to reach across the miles and give her a tight fierce hug. Her story touched me in many ways. As someone who worked with mentally challenged adults for 14 years I understood her sometimes desire for a more ‘normal’ child and barring that at least a child who appeared disabled so the world would accept his differences more readily – the reaction to someone with Down Syndrome is often more lenient than that to a child with autism – ‘Why doesn’t that mother just make him stop that tantrum!”.

I also felt for her worry that she didn’t ‘do all kinds of research on her son’s condition, institute behavioral programs, write books, blog, or learn enough to be precise and absolutely sure’. I’ve known those parents (and must admit have tendencies in that direction myself ) and I’ve seen how their drive to perhaps ‘cure’ or ‘fix’ can mask a feeling of failure – ‘Maybe I did something to cause this” – and can become so all consuming that there is little time to just be present with their child and love him.

When the author, Marcy Neth, says, “So I keep bringing him and worrying about him and wondering if I’m wrecking him in the long run.” she expresses the fear of every parent. Every decision we make every day – to spank or not to spank; to shield from risque movies/topics or permit and engage in dialogue about it; to trust the keys to our 16 year old on prom night or wait outside in the family van – we don’t know for perhaps years and years whether we have made the right choices. But I can say this, that no one, not the team of therapists, teachers or doctors will ever fill her role as mother – baker of cookies, knitter of sweaters, worrier of the future, dispenser of unconditional love.

Marcy Neth, take your son under your strong wing and know that his life is much enriched by his “Special Ed Mom’.

Back to school – no, I do not miss my 6 year old

Shayel - my oldest - on her first day of kindie

“And how are you doing?”

This was the question posed to me by our sweet and infinitely competent school secretary when we were talking about my oldest and her transition from half-day kindie to full-day first grade.

I just raised an eyebrow, shrugged with non committal nonchalance and said “eh, doesn’t matter to me”.

She gave a little nervous chuckle and finished filling out the receipt for the lunch money I had just handed over to her – the lunch money I had given her, for the record, because I have no interest in making my child’s lunches and as long as we have the money, I will rely on her school to provide her with whatever sloppy muck they have in the cafeteria that day.

This is not the first time I’ve felt a bit like an ogre when responding to questions about how I feel regarding my children going off to school. Don’t get me wrong, I get along well with my girls so far (you better believe I relish every moment of prepubescent ease), they don’t fight too much with each other, I have ignored them enough that they play independently and we pretty much stay out of each other’s way. But that doesn’t mean I don’t rejoice a little when it’s time to leave them with another adult…an adult who is paid by the state to educate them! God bless the USA!

However, as nice as it is for my oldest to go to school, in many ways it’s not helpful. That’s the other comment I get, “oh, it must be nice just having one at home now”. Yeah, except that now my youngest doesn’t have a big sister to entertain her.

Back to school time brings back all the comments and questions that make me feel like a pariah in the middle-upper class, highly educated, ethnically diverse world that is my neighborhood school. It also brings the expectations – PTO, bake sales, fundraisers that make me throw up a little in my mouth, classroom volunteering… and the worst – after school pick up chit chat. Oh how I loathe after school pick up chit chat. Thanks to God Almighty for ipods with headphones and knitting projects.

Welcome back to school moms! I raise my martini to you in salute and leave you with this benediction: May you rise above the school room din and stand tall as an uninvolved parent (well, except maybe for those bakesales, cupcake frosting is damn tasty).