Baby’s First Christmas…

It’s my first Christmas! I have no idea what this means, but Mommy keeps dressing me up in “festive” (a.k.a. Uncomfortable) outfits and taking endless photos of me. She also keeps chasing me and my fur siblings away from “decorations” and “presents”. These items are obviously made for the enjoyment of kittens and babies, what with their sparkles, flashy colours and lights, jingly bells, and scrunchy paper. What child or feline could resist a little chomp here or there?

Mommy keeps playing different versions of the same songs over and over. I would approve of Raffi song covers on repeat, but this is craziness. I may need to stuff my monkey blankie in my ears if I have to listen to one more version of that song about the baby Jesus and how he never cried in the manger… come on buddy, you’re making the rest of us babies look bad.

I keep seeing images of the same creepy old bearded man dressed in red. He’s on every floor of our house. He’s in the grocery store. He’s in some of the books that Mommy reads to me. It’s like he’s always watching… as though he knows when I’m sleeping, and perhaps when I’m awake. Well, better up the ante on the refusal to sleep through the night so that I can keep an eye on HIM. Take that, old man. How do YOU like being judged?

I love to look out the window at the sparkly lights twinkling on the porch, but it seems like as soon as they appear against the darkening night sky, Mommy is scooping me up and trying to force me to lie down in that demeaning cage they refer to as a “crib”. Harrumph.

What do Mommy and Daddy actually do when I finally surrender to sleep? I bet they are downstairs right now, dancing under the sparkly lights, playing with the colourful decorations and unwrapping crinkly papered presents, listening to Raffi!!

The Santa Conspiracy

I was born into a hybrid Buddhist/lapsed-Christian home, so I was not raised to fear a vengeful bearded man in the sky damning me to an afterlife of fire and brimstone, nor was I raised to fear a vengeful bearded man in the North Pole damning me to a Christmas with a coal-filled or empty stocking. I feared the disapproval and disappointment of my parents and teachers, but my behaviour was never connected to my expectations of Christmas morning.

Christmas was secularly celebrated at my house, with an artificial tree decorated with tinsel and lights, “Christmas turds” (handmade salt clay creations) and other cherished ornaments, a special meal of some sort (the best year was our Lebanese themed dinner… Yum!), those ridiculous “Christmas Crackers” that you pull apart with a loud ‘snap’ to find a paper hat that dyes your forehead some wild colour when you sweat and some cheap plastic choking hazard of a toy, and a stocking from Santa. Santa really liked to bring socks and underwear (and sometimes a new nightgown) to fill up the bottom of our stockings, but he also threw in candy and a toy or two. Santa didn’t bring bikes or Barbie dream houses, like on television. The whole schtick was pretty toned down. My sister and I wrote letters. We made a wish and blew out a candle in a special Santa candle holder. We left a small bribe of cookies and milk (as a child, I understood this to be a form of payment). Santa broke into our house undetected, tasted the cookies, drank the milk, and filled our stockings. Santa always came, even though we didn’t go to church, and he continued to visit even after I started to wonder aloud why he and my mom had the same handwriting.

I don’t remember ever being threatened with Santa not coming on days when my sister and I misbehaved. We were threatened with lots of other things, including the loss of our existing toys when we did not clean them up off of the floor (Dad followed through!!), but Santa wasn’t a big enough deal for us to be used in that way. It didn’t even occur to me that Santa might really pick and choose “nice” and “naughty” kids to either shower with gifts or coal, even though I had read stories, sung carols and watched videos attesting to this behaviour.

I originally thought the Elf on the Shelf was a cute toy, and enjoyed seeing friends’ photos of their elves getting into mischief… but when I found out that some parents use it as a kind of “Santa Spy” that supposedly reports all misdeeds to the Guy in Red, I suddenly lost my affinity for tiny elf culture.

Being a new parent means making some interesting choices. My husband and I both enjoyed the mythos of Santa as a child. We had many years of waiting for Willow to consider our parenting choices, including how we might handle Christmas with a child.

For now, I think that we have agreed to buy into the Santa conspiracy, but in a low-key way. We hang lights and decorate our home. We don’t have a Christmas tree for Santa to leave anything under but we do hang a few ornaments on a potted plant out of reach of our furbabies. Willow has a Santa stocking that will have three handmade presents in it this year: a crocheted rainbow tutu dress, a crocheted bib, and a stuffed monkey with embroidered eyes.

This is “baby’s first Christmas”, and she will not remember it except through pictures. There is time for us to tweak traditions, to figure out how Santa can get into a house without a chimney, and to decide how deep we really want this whole Santa thing to go. How best to encourage meaningful literacy through letters to Santa, both asking and thanking him for a gift. How many explanations we want to give. How much honesty will be too much honesty at certain ages. How to allow her to experience the magic and mystery of belief and then later on respectfully allow others (especially younger friends) to continue to experience that same magic and mystery without ruining their fun.

The best part of all of this musing about Santa? We finally get to make these choices for our real, living child, who is finally here. I don’t need anything from Santa this year. I have everything and everyone I ever wished and prayed for, right here.

Happy HannuKwanSolMas, everyone.

The Perfect Parent

I read an article on HuffPost today. An underlying theme really resonated with me… even when we feel like we are doing a horrible job as parents we are often still achieving amazing things that are easy to overlook. Sometimes the act of just holding it together (albeit with duct tape and a prayer) when you want to fall apart is a huge accomplishment.

A lady in one of my groups mentioned that she often felt “like the worst mom ever”, particularly on the mornings when she would show up to drop her oldest off at school while pulling a defiant, half-dressed preschooler along with one hand and trying to steer a carriage containing a wailing infant with the other hand. She felt judged by every other parent there, with their pristine, non-vomit stained jackets and immaculately dressed, well-behaved children with their perfectly brushed hair and Pinterest-inspired organic, locally-grown lunches that looked like edible art.

I reminded her that as a teacher, the most amazing and loving parents I have met are usually the ones who are constantly worrying that they are screwing up their kids. The ones who care enough to read all of the very articles and books that make them feel like they are not doing enough. The ones who seek out support from professionals to make sure that their own dysfunctional childhood will not negatively impact their children. The ones who compare themselves with every parent they see on social media or in real life, never feeling like they can be as patient, loving, kind, or creative as they “should” be.

Parents who have lived through infertility, loss or the adoption process often feel even more pressure to be “perfect” parents, since we have worked so hard to have a family. The stakes are high. Some of us will only be blessed with one shot at this parenting gig, and there are no do-overs. Some of the mommas in my support groups have felt compelled to hide severe postpartum depression from friends and family, afraid that they would seem “ungrateful” for their miracle babies.

Repeat after me: there is no such thing as a perfect parent or a perfect family. Maybe Princess Pinterest has an abusive alcoholic spouse. Maybe Franny Facebook is battling a severe chronic illness and only has enough energy to interact with her kids from behind the lens of her iPhone. Maybe that perfectly coiffed mom standing in line to drop off her equally perfect offspring at dance class is crying herself to sleep every night.

Parenting is messy. It’s beautiful, challenging, and full of surprises. It’s heart-wrenching work that can bring out the best and worst in people. Sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes it’s not. Let’s not make it any harder for each other by adding judgmental comments and unsolicited advice. Instead, let’s share a knowing smile or nod, or offer a bit of assistance when it is needed.

To all of the mommas feeling like they are “less than”, I say… Pat yourself on the back today. You do enough. You ARE enough. You are magical. You are a miracle. You are Mom.

Let’s all forget about being perfect and just agree to put the “fun” back in dysfunctional, shall we?

Competitive Mamas

“So… is she crawling yet?”

“So… is she sleeping through the night yet?”

“So… is she signing yet?”

“So… is she talking yet?”

When other mamas ask me these kinds of questions, my standard response has now become: “Willow will do it when she is ready, just like all babies.” I have complete faith that our daughter will do anything and everything in her own good time, just as she waited for the perfect time to enter our lives.  She will eventually do what all babies do, regardless of how early little Owen said “mama” or how soon little Angelique made the sign for “potty”.

As a child I had some delays in meeting infant and toddler developmental milestones, but I still ended up being placed in gifted education programs and growing up to become a productive member of society (albeit one who requires a GPS in order to get to the grocery store).

The “mama questions” are, more often than not, followed by either advice about how to encourage or force my daughter to master the desired skill, or by a list of the exact timeline of “accomplishments” of the offspring of the person asking the question.  I’m starting to realize that questions such as these are rarely a genuine expression of interest about Willow.  Instead, they are a socially accepted tool to allow one to offer unsolicited advice or to brag.  A way for another mama to justify the parenting choices she made, or to attempt to plump up her sagging self-esteem by presenting her child’s development as a reflection of herself.

Comparing our kids in this way is neither helpful, healthy, nor supportive.  The Nipissing and other developmental screening tools and regular check-ups by trained physicians are helpful in identifying children who may need appropriate assessments and follow-up from specialists, and as a teacher I am a big fan of early identification and intervention from the appropriate professionals.  I am not a fan of depending on a child’s rate of development for a parent’s own sense of self-worth, especially when it becomes a game of competing with other parents in a game of “whose child is the most advanced”.

Is this why I am not desperately trying to befriend other mamas (in the way that I was assured I would need to for the preservation of my “sanity”) and prefer to hang out with my original set of friends, most of whom either have older children or none at all?  It seems that mamas in many of my different circles (with a high degree of variance in socioeconomic, cultural and religious backgrounds) all end up having the same kinds of conversations.

Maybe it is okay to just honour myself by giving myself permission to be a wee bit of an introvert.

Again, it is hitting home that I will never truly be part of the Mommy Club. And I’m discovering that I’m okay with that.

“Not meant to be a mother.”

“This is God’s way of saying that you are not meant to be a mother.”

A coworker said this to me, in a matter-of-fact tone, after inquiring why I wasn’t pregnant a year after getting married (I had stupidly not made it a secret that we wanted a family). To her, it was a simple statement based off of the latest book on spirituality that she had been perusing. She probably never thought of that conversation again. I eventually moved onto another job, wisely told NOBODY that we were trying for a baby, but obsessed over that comment every day for five years after it was uttered.

It’s what no fertility-challenged, loss-grieving woman wants to hear and what many of us, deep down, believe might be true. It is the stuff that depression, anxiety, and self-doubt are made of. It’s a powerful self-defeating delusion that can stop us from seeking treatment options or from moving on to adoption.

Here’s the thing. If God/the Universe only granted fertility to those who were going to be “good” parents, then I strongly disagree with His/its view on parenting. As a teacher, I’ve worked with many children who have been neglected, abused and abandoned by a biological parent, often one who had multiple other children with no apparent history of infertility or loss.

I believe that Willow chose the right time to come into our lives and to remain long enough to be born. I believe that we were blessed and chosen to be Willow’s mommy and daddy, and although I would not wish the pain of infertility and loss on anyone else, I know that it was an important part of our journey that helped to strengthen our marriage and our determination to be the best parents we could be.

I love being a mommy. I thrive in this role that I craved for so many years, and I don’t take a moment of it for granted. Our little girl is strong, healthy, smart, loved and lovable.

I think we are doing pretty well for people that God/the Universe was supposedly trying to force out of the gene pool.

A bit of an introvert

I have never been considered “shy” and have always had friends/acquaintances. I ran for school president in high school. I performed in plays and musicals in elementary school, high school and University. I have performed solos in choirs and sung in bars, churches and coffee houses. I have taken courses on public speaking and leadership. I have spoken on panels and led workshops. I have delivered speeches and soliloquies. I have served on my union executive.

Many of my friends/acquaintances would describe me as an “extrovert” based on my public appearances and the types of volunteer and paid roles I’ve been drawn to over the years. What they do not see is me feeling utterly drained and exhausted after social events, often physically manifested as gastrointestinal issues, headaches, and fatigue. They didn’t see me coming home from school as a teenager and literally submerging my head under the water in the bathtub to muffle the world for a few minutes, or bury myself in a book, under earphones, or in a musical instrument so that I would not have to interact with others for a few hours. There’s a reason that I preferred solo swimming or cross country running to team sports, and why I was drawn to editing the school paper all alone in my little office instead of spending time in the cafeteria. I just didn’t realize what that reason was.

I was, and am, a bit of an introvert.

It’s almost humorous that I persisted in calling myself an extrovert for so many years, despite the intense need to be alone to recharge after being “on”. I’m sure that my introversion was easier to dismiss because I married a man who was just as content as I to silently read a book or sit outside listening to the pond instead of socializing when we got home from work and needed to unwind. I recall being upset after a Myers-Briggs assessment labelled me an introvert during a workshop. Surely the test was skewed in some way. Me? An introvert? But I love people. I have friends. I’m not shy. I fought the “introvert” label fiercely until my daughter gently guided me to see that I could live with, honour, and respect the part of me that needs down time in order to function.

I was on bedrest for the last trimester of my pregnancy. My only job was to gestate. I went from a career of multitasking and being “on” to being an incubator. At first, I thought I was going to go insane if I didn’t have contact with hundreds of humans each day, as I normally did in my itinerant role for the school board. However, after the first week of “alone time”, during which I came to terms with my physical limitations and accepted the fact that I would need to ask for and receive help from others, I also realized that I had found the experience of being alone to be recharging and peaceful. I wasn’t losing my mind, as I had feared. I was, in fact, more clear-headed and optimistic than I had been in a long time.

I started to write again, after years of deciding that there were more important things to do. I connected with online support groups for high risk pregnancies and found soul sisters in infertility and loss through Twitter and Facebook groups. Strangers around the world gave me the virtual hugs that I needed at 2am, and I responded in kind at 2pm. People I had never met were praying for our baby, and I for theirs. I never would have walked into a real life support group with real people, or even joined a phone support group. Our daughter made it possible for me to reach out to others in a very safe way. I could engage or disengage as often as needed with my online peeps, and I never felt overwhelmed by the needs or expectations of others.

Willow also gave me the gift of experiencing true stillness. I so often had to just be with myself and my emotions while on bedrest. There was no idle chatter to distract me, no social or work obligations to cover up the thoughts in my head. She needed me to rest my body so that she could safely continue to grow. In coming to terms with this, I realized how much of the constant activity in my life had been “filler”. I never really knew how to rest. I rarely gave myself permission to just “be”. I had been forever running away from myself and my thoughts, and as a result, was emotionally and physically spent at the end of each day.

Fast forward to our return from the hospital with a jaundiced, hypoglycemic little baby who was losing weight every day. I was overwhelmed by the influx of people who just “had” to see the new baby and by the sheer volume of unsolicited and conflicting advice from medical professionals and seemingly every other person we came into contact with. My only job at this point was to nourish my wee one, and I was determined to transition Willow from tube and bottle feeding to breast feeding. The only way I was able to do this was to literally close my door to the well-meaning, advice-laden visitors (even relatives), unplug the phone (which I only reconnect to make outgoing calls these days), and just spend time bonding with and feeding our baby. She was only a few weeks old, but was already teaching me to set boundaries, to focus on the things that mattered, and to ensure that both of us had the privacy and rest that we needed to survive.

Many friends, family members and acquaintances wanted to visit during the “feeding struggles”, with one actually showing up on my doorstep and trying to physically force her way in while my husband literally blocked her with his body. Some people were quite offended by my insistence that we be left alone as mother and child, skin to skin, until we had established our own unique rhythm. How dare I “hog” the newborn and deprive them of the opportunity to hold her?!? Before Willow, I never would have had the chutzpah to say “no” to these well-wishers, but this was a matter of sanity and survival. AND it worked.

Sometimes the Universe teaches us important lessons by slapping us with opportunities to learn them until we finally “get it”. I needed to learn to slow down, to be alone, to rest, to accept who I really am as a person and to give myself permission to set healthy boundaries in order to take care of myself. I am a better person and a better mother because Willow gave me no other choice.

Thank you for helping me to be the Mombie you needed and deserved, little one.

The Missing Piece

To others it is “just a painting” hanging on my fridge. Just another piece of art by yet another child. To me it is a miracle. A victory. A reason to believe.

As a teacher, I have had no shortage of “kid art” on my fridge. For several years while my husband and I struggled to have our own child, I proudly displayed the paintings, drawings, yarn, macaroni and tinfoil masterpieces lovingly presented to me by my students and by friends’ children. I was given so many that I had to cycle through them so that each child would get to be featured in my kitchen gallery, as promised. I always followed through on my word.

I overfilled my fridge with the photos and artwork of other peoples’ children because it helped to hide the baby-shaped hole in my heart. I told myself that I was happy and blessed to have the opportunity to have so many amazing children in my life. And I was blessed. And grateful for the blessing. But I wasn’t truly happy.

I remember wondering what it would be like to have a child of our own creating art. Would I eventually be like the first grade parents, sighing when my little gaffer came home with yet another plasticine spaceship or fingerpainted rainbow? Would I take time to create art with my child or be too busy with “more important things” to ever get around to it? Would I be able to get over my desire for cleanliness and structure to allow my child to really enjoy the creative process?

More importantly–would I ever have the chance to see art created by our own child? Or would our fridge gallery always have a void, a piece missing from the collection?

The first time I proudly hung an ultrasound photo of Willow on the fridge I wept with joy to see our own child featured in “the gallery”. A few months later I was able to hang a photo of our baby girl, and I wept again. Last night I hung her first painting and… you guessed it… I wept. Body shaking, soul cleansing, full out sobs of gratitude for our miracle. The missing piece is finally up. The gallery is complete.

Devaluing the Childless and Childfree

My husband and I were driving to his work the other morning and noticed a “baby en route” bumper sticker in the shape of a bottle. A pregnant woman’s version of the “baby on board” bumper sticker that will surely follow.

“Oh, I guess you should make a point of NOT hitting that car now that we know there may be a pregnant person riding in it…” I sighed.

We often laugh about this kind of thing. Do people actually think that a bumper sticker announcing that a pregnant woman is driving a car will somehow make the rest of us drive more carefully? Are there perhaps people going out of their way to murder others on the highway who suddenly change their minds when they see a quaint little “baby on board” sign hanging in the back window?

Does this mean that it is okay to drive recklessly around motorists who are NOT pregnant or parenting?

As we continued on our journey we turned to a news radio station. We heard about a road construction accident in which a worker was killed by a reckless driver. The radio announcer claimed that it was a tragedy because the man was the father of two children.

Would it not have been a tragedy if the construction worker was a single student on a work placement or a married woman without children? In other words, are we placing higher value on the lives of certain people based on their ability or choice to reproduce?

Whether or not we mean for it to be this way, our language helps to shape our cultural attitudes toward people in our society. Our language also sometimes subtly reflects cultural attitudes that are not always explicitly stated.

Was I less important of a human being when I did not have a child? I certainly hope not. One could actually argue that I was actually contributing more to our community (in measureable ways, at least) when I was not pregnant and did not have a child of my own, including working as a full time teacher and paying taxes, working on my Union executive, volunteering on various committees, being a regular part of my church community, etc. My role as a mother has changed the ways in which I can afford to spend my time. I now often rely on the support of others who do not have small children to help me. I have traded spaces. My role as a mother in our society is still very important, but I would be foolish to think that my life is somehow more valuable than a childless or childfree person’s just because I am now a parent.

There are millions of people who are silently grieving an inability to have children. There are many people who have chosen to live childfree and are facing discrimination as a result. It is often implied (intentionally or otherwise) that these people are worth less than their parenting counterparts, and I find this very upsetting.

A childless or childfree teacher has likely been instrumental in your own emotional/social health or that of someone you care about. Think about some of the amazing education workers who lovingly and freely give their time before and after school to tutor or run activities, who give up their lunch or prep time to console broken-hearted teens or junior kindergarten students who miss mommy. Think about that amazing childless or childfree godparent, aunt or uncle who gives up so much of his or her personal time and resources to be there for a child in need. Think about all of the Sunday School Teachers and Big Brothers and Big Sisters who are childless or childfree… the ones who seem to have endless energy and love to give to the children in their care. Nurses, outreach workers, therapists, ECEs, counsellors, child and youth workers… Some of the best ones I know have the time and energy to be amazing with children because they do not have a second job (parenting) waiting for them when they get home.

Thank goodness our world is made up of so many different types of people. Thank goodness we have parents and non-parents alike who are willing and able to love and nurture our children and their parents. It takes a village… and each of us in that village is important and valuable, whether or not we have children of our own.

Note: Since publishing this post a few days ago I have had a huge response from some childfree forum folks. First off, thank you so much for reading and responding to this post. I had no idea that this post would capture the interest of more than my regular 25 readers (mostly my family members and a handful of friends, with a few bonus twitter and blogger pals).

Secondly, I wanted to address a few concerns that have been expressed:

-Although not explicitly stated in this post, please know that my CF friends are valued whether or not they have any interest in my child or in the children of others. Their worth is not defined by what they can “give” me as a parent.
-I do not believe that CF adults should be expected to take on more responsibilities than parents in the workplace or in the community simply because they are not parents. This is discriminatory and unfair. I really resented it when a coworker once told me that I should be volunteering to do more evening activities because I “didn’t have kids” (as a parent, she excused herself from said activities).
-My expressions of gratitude for those CF people in my life who have positively impacted my life or my child’s life are just that: expressions of gratitude. They are not meant to degrade, offend, or otherwise upset anyone. They are not meant to imply that you are not a good person if you are not contributing in the same way, or that you should be compensating for your lack of offspring in some way. It takes ALL kinds of people to make our world a beautiful place in which to live. Perhaps you helped a friend through a tough divorce. Perhaps you’re the person others go to when they need advice, a cup of tea, a hug, or a power tool. Perhaps you care for animals or are amazing with numbers. Perhaps you make a point of smiling at the homeless guy at the subway station every morning and you secretly make his day. You don’t have to be volunteering with preemies at the hospital to make this world a better place, or to be seen as a valued part of our society. Your life is worth just as much as the nun reading to disadvantaged kids.
-For those of you who have suffered when parenting friends suddenly ditched you for other parenting friends… Boo to your “friends”!!! Real friends will want to spend time with you because they care about you, not what you are willing or able to contribute to their child. You have the right to ask them to not discuss the contents of their child’s diaper (eww), and to converse with you about other (less gross) topics unrelated to their offspring.

.

Mommy Club Outcast

The dreaded question that all women struggling with infertility and pregnancy loss have to learn to cope with is: “Do you have kids?”

It’s an innocent question that can elicit a range of emotions, depending on where we are on our journey.

I was out for dinner with my family. I ran into a mother and her young child in the bathroom. She asked the aforementioned dreaded question. This time I was able to say “Yes… My little girl is sitting with her daddy.”

It was a small victory, the realization that this was the first time I had been asked this question since the birth of my daughter… I was finally able to answer without hesitating, stammering, blushing, or wanting to crawl underneath the nearest floor board. I had made it. At long last, I was now officially part of the exclusive “Mommy Club”.

The woman sighed an exasperated and exaggerated sigh. “Oh… too late. I was going to tell you DON’T DO IT! Run away now while you can!”

And there you have it.

I will NEVER truly be part of the Mommy Club.

As long as being part of the “club” includes resenting my child and commiserating with other mothers (even in jest) about hating being a parent and how much I miss my childless days… I can never be a member.

In my mommy circles I spend a lot of time listening to what others have to say… but I seem to have nothing to add that makes sense in the context of the conversations. We are experiencing the same kinds of universal parenting events: diaper changes, feeding, sleepless nights, vomit stained shirts… but my perception of the events is so vastly different. I just don’t “fit in”.

When I was pregnant I tried to join some online pregnancy forums. It turns out that many of these communities are simply venting boards for women to complain about morning sickness and other pregnancy discomforts. They are not seeking solutions or sharing suggestions or ideas, just wanting someone out there in internet land to say “Oh, you poor thing”. I didn’t belong in the normal virtual preggo club. Nor did I belong in the real life preggo club in the OB/GYN waiting room, which was mostly comprised of women lamenting their rapidly thickening waists, swollen ankles, nausea and heartburn.

Communities specifically geared toward high risk pregnancies and pregnancy after loss were more my style. These women knew anxiety and pain. These women celebrated with me when my nausea and vomiting continued at full tilt and required medication in order for me to gain enough weight to support a growing baby, reassuring me every day until she was born that I was still pregnant and that the pregnancy hormones were still raging strong. These women joined with me in celebrating the expanding belly that pointed to a developing fetus, the intense heartburn that reflected positive hormonal changes, the pelvic and back pain which indicated that my body was shifting to accommodate its precious cargo, the need for extra doses of insulin to keep up with the baby’s impact on my endocrine system, the need for extra iron to help with the anemia which was proof of the growing demands of my growing baby… They cheered me on as each week of bed rest bought another week for my baby’s organs to mature and for her weight to increase. Every typical pregnancy symptom, every bit of discomfort, was met with a round of applause because it meant that I was STILL pregnant, that this pregnancy was progressing, that this baby had a fighting chance at survival.

The impact of infertility and loss does not just disappear the moment you see two lines on a urine test or the moment you hold your baby in your arms. I wonder if I will always feel like an outsider looking in at the “club”.

This journey has given me the gift of being able to truly enjoy and celebrate what others may have considered a very difficult and uncomfortable pregnancy and birth. My experiences have ensured that I will appreciate every single vomit and urine-soaked moment on this wild ride of parenthood. Perhaps I get all of that in exchange for not really belonging in the Mommy Club. And maybe that’s a pretty good deal.

Cringe-Worthy Children’s Songs

As a musical sort of gal, I often sing to Willow throughout the day, usually substituting my own lyrics about whatever we are doing to the tunes of familiar children’s songs or popular songs from my teen years. We have a diaper changing song, a staircase song, a quiet contemplation chair (bathroom) song, a plant watering song… you get the picture. Occasionally I will sing the actual words to a song. More than a few times I’ve stopped myself in the middle of a song when I realize what I am actually singing about.

Which brings me to…

“Cringe-Worthy Children’s Songs… A tongue-in-cheek review of some familiar yet demented ditties”

Alouette: Yes, let’s pluck a poor bird’s feathers from his still warm body while we joyfully learn the names of his body parts en Francais. Poor little bird didn’t know what was coming. Cruelty to animals packaged in a sweet little ditty. What would PETA think of this?

Three Blind Mice: Let’s teach our kids to use knives to maim and torture small animals. The farmer’s wife cut off the mouse’s tail while it was still alive? Yikes! Someone call PETA or the SPCA! Apparently the mice in question were also visually impaired! Talk about kicking someone while he’s down…

Ring Around the Rosy: If my tenth grade high school history teacher was correct, we are joyfully singing about people falling over dead from the Plague. Why are we smiling and dancing as we sing this? Who wrote this maudlin piece in the first place, and why is it so much fun to act out dying at the end?

It’s Raining, It’s Pouring: So many questions… was the old man drunk or suffering from sleep apnea? Did he need a CPAP machine? Why couldn’t he get up in the morning? Did he suffer a concussion from bumping his head? Or worse… Did he DIE?!? Why are we so cheerfully singing about him instead of finding him medical assistance?

Rock a Bye Baby: I started singing this to Willow at bedtime the other night and suddenly stopped when I got to the part where the cradle falls down with the baby in it, no doubt leading to the child’s death or dismemberment. Why are we so sweetly singing about a serious accident that really could and should have been prevented? Who hangs a heavy baby-laden cradle from a tree branch, anyway? Somebody needs to take a basic parenting and infant safety course. Just sayin’.

Hush Little Baby (mockingbird): Is there anything that Mama ISN’T going to buy you? No wonder we are surrounded by kids with entitlement issues. Sometimes birds don’t sing and rings don’t shine… Maybe we need to teach our kids to accept some imperfection in life instead of sheltering them from any and all disappointment by buying more and more “stuff”.

Hmmmm… maybe I’ll go back to making up my own lyrics!!!