Cast from Eden

Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine
Visit me at http://writingthewavesagain.blogspot.com/

We are Skyping with my parents when I realize it is time for the talk.

My mom and dad’s disembodied heads grin as my four-year-old disrobes. “Oh, Max, can you please keep your clothes on?” I beg. It is just after 1:00 PM and we have already had four costume changes. Lately Max demands to dress monochromatically. His favorite such outfit is his gray sweatpants and grey shirt, which my husband says makes him look like a 1950’s gym teacher. He just needs a whistle. “I want my grays!” are among the first words out of his mouth in the morning. But now, his grays lie on the floor near his bare ankles.

Max opens his mouth, cackles a bit and does a little jig in his Cars underwear. Except that he is removing that now, too. “Maxie! That’s private,” I say. As I say it, I realize I have never said that to him before. I have begged for privacy myself: Can I please just go to the bathroom without an audience, just this once? I have stopped him from barging in on unsuspecting friends as they use the potty: Maxie, Addie probably wants a little privacy. On the computer screen, my parents shake their heads, still smiling.

 
We have taken a very relaxed approach to nudity thus far. I am amazed and awed by the way that my children are strangers to shame. Having had a long history with negative body image and shame, I ache to preserve this feeling for them for as long as possible. Soon enough, societal pressures and rules will have their way with my babies and they will be exposed to our culture’s strange and conflicting ideas about bodies and sex.

My husband and I have tried hard to create a little slice of Eden in our home; we use the correct parlance for body parts. We don’t make a big deal if of our children see our naked bodies while we are bathing or getting dressed. Max recently asked me, “Mama? Why are your nimples so big? Are you gonna have another baby?”

But lately, Max has been removing his fig leaf a bit too often. His penis has joined us during playdates with friends, at an indoor play space, and recently, on our windowsill. He is four now. He can count and write his name. Soon he will be in grade school, and it seems unlikely that his kindergarten teacher will encourage the unleashing of genitals during show and tell.

“Bye Baba! Bye Papa!” Max bellows at the computer, his fingers rushing to push buttons to disconnect from Skype. “Bye Ma--!” they say, the screen going black.  

I take a deep breath and begin. “Maxie, I need to talk to you about something.”

“What?” He looks at me. I can tell by the light in his eyes that he thinks I am going to tell him something exciting. Yes, you can have that Easter candy for breakfast after all! We are going to watch Cars movies all day long, only taking short breaks to eat pepperoni and Easter candy!

“Sweetie, there’s nothing wrong with your penis,” I begin. Already I am saying it all wrong. The expectant light will now drain from his eyes forever, and all he will hear is “Wrong with your penis!” This will be the moment he will someday pinpoint in therapy, the beginning of his downward shame spiral.

 
“But it’s a private part of your body,” I stumble. “We just don’t show our privates to everybody, okay?”

 “Okay,” he says, prancing off to pound on his drum set.

 I head into the kitchen to scavenge for lunch for him and Violet. I am slicing a pear, gauging at the stiff core and seeds, when I spy something pink out of the bottom right corner of my eye.

“Maxie!” His underwear is pulled down just far enough that his penis rests atop Lighting McQueen’s bulging eyes. “Remember what we just talked about?” I ask.
 
“Pitano is a monster who puts his penis out!” he blurts.

What? I think.

“What?” I say.

“Pitano is a monster who puts his penis out!” he restates.

 

“Where did that come from?” I ask.

 
“I made it up!” I laugh, unable to stop myself. Who is Pitano? Does Max now think he’s a monster because he’s exposing himself? I imagine a future Max in a shadowy room, flogging himself like the tormented Silas from The Da Vinci Code. Bad Pitano! Bad Pitano! He will chant.

Max is trying so hard to understand the world. He asks things like, “Why does mans not care if they get their shoes wet?” and “Why isn’t Aunt Sue’s dad alive?” and “But where were Violet and I before we were in your belly?”

They are questions I mostly don’t know the answers to. And truthfully, I don’t really know why it’s not acceptable to display one’s genitals publicly. Perhaps our bodies and sex would seem like less of a big deal if we all were privy to one another’s privates. If, like Muppets with their uniquely colored heads and hair, our bodies, with all their quirks and variations, were exposed. We could go about our business, Muppet genitals flopping in the breeze.

The kids and I eat lunch, then head to the playground. Pitano doesn’t make any more appearances. After the kids are both in bed, I try to read, but something nags at me. Though it seems to not have sunk in, I hate that I severed a little slice of my son’s innocence today. I cast him from Eden, never to return. It aches, the same way it aches when I catch a glimpse of him at his daycare before he sees me. There is Max, out in the world.

Which is, of course, exactly why we have to teach him about privacy. A big part of our job as parents is to help our kids learn to be okay out in the world. Wearing clothes. Even if they’re monochromatic.

How do you teach your children about nudity and privacy? Or other societal rules that you don’t 100% buy in to or understand?

The Perfectionism Monster

Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine

It is spring and my perfectionism is in full bloom.

 

It happens at the playground: Why is my child licking the statue like it's a giant metal ice cream cone? It rears up regarding career and ambition: How come she is younger than me, but has already published a book and has a story in the New Yorker? And at the gym: Did you see her butt? It doesn’t move when she runs! My butt is so big, it has its own pair of running shoes!

 

Needless to say, this voice sucks. It is not helpful. It doesn’t inspire me. But it is loud, bossy and persistent.

 

Sometimes, when I’m smack in the midst of struggling with a life lesson, the universe gives me a little extra material:

 

“Mommy, you left your underwear at my school,” my son says. Four year olds say many weird things, flailing from the existential: “But where were me and Violet before we were in your belly?” To the bizarre: “Pitano is a monster who puts his penis out!” To the embarrassing: “Why are your nimples so big? Are you going to have another baby?”

I have become used to fielding bizarre questions and statements. So the underwear comment semi-permeates my consciousness, but quickly glurps beneath the surface of my quicksand mama brain.

But the next day, he says it again. “Max, what are you talking about?” I ask.

 

“Deb was holding it up,” he says, his arm outstretched to demonstrate.

 Oh dear God. I can instantly feel the static that his school nap blanket and sheet create when they come out of the dryer, clinging to each other like new lovers. I remember not taking the three seconds to shake them out and fold them before I dropped Max off at preschool on Wednesday morning. This must be why most people wash their sheets or towels separately from the rest of their clothing instead of tossing it all together, a bright stew of darks and lights, nap sheets and panties.

 

I bet the other mommies all shake and fold. They probably even do it the night before school, right after they finish cleaning up from the five-course organic meal they made for dinner, I think.
 

When I drop Max off at school the following day, my fears are confirmed. In his cubby slumps a crumpled plastic Hannaford bag, the kind that his clothes come home in when he gets pee or vomit on them. I peek in and spy a flash of bright pink.
 

“Hiiiii Deb!” Max bellows to his teacher as he struts into his classroom. Violet makes her bowlegged way after him, heading straight for a tray of small, shiny beads that are exactly the same size as her esophagus.

 

“Hey, Deb,” I say. We make brief small talk about the upcoming auction for the school while my underwear blazes in my son’s cubby. I take a breath and decide to confront the situation head on. “So… Max tells me a pair of my underwear made it to school the other day?”

“He told you?” she says, surprised.

 

"Yep.”  

 

“You’re not the first,” she says. A breeze of relief flushes over me.

 

“Really?” I ask.
 

“I’ve seen thongs…all kinds of things…” She trails off, a war veteran trying not to summon up the horrors her eyes have beheld.
 

“At least it was clean,” I quip. And not the enormous, leftover maternity panties that I drag out once a month, I think.

After I hug and kiss Max goodbye, I grab Violet and my underwear.

 

Maybe that wasn’t so bad, I think. I’m so tired of trying to gauge how I measure up, always coming up short. It takes so much energy. I make mostly good choices. My kids are healthy and loved, and they seem to be kind human beings. It is unlikely that the underwear incident will be mentioned at my funeral. It is doubtful that my inability to get a meal on the table that doesn’t contain peanut butter or pepperoni will come up. We are human. We have body parts and children that don't always behave as we'd like them to. We are wildly imperfect, shimmeringly flawed creatures.

 

That being said, I will probably shake and fold my son’s nap gear next week.

 

How do you battle the perfectionism monster?

Equinox

Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, a writer in Portland, Maine 

It was the first day of spring, despite the foot of snow most of us Mainers just got. A day of hope, when the amount of daylight is finally equal to the amount of darkness.

It was also the anniversary of my brother's death; fourteen years ago, my only sibling died of an accidental drug and alcohol overdose. Because it had been over a decade, I wasn't prepared for it to be an exceptionally hard day. 

But after I dropped both kids off at daycare and sat down at my home office to work, I felt a pit of something dense and hard in my chest. 

After I worked for awhile, I grumbled around the house by myself, managing to inject my cloudy mood into the most mundane household tasks: I shut the door to the laundry machine just a smidge too hard. I pouted as I wiped down the kitchen counters. 

Finally, I did what I knew would at least dislodge my emotions. I sat down and wrote my brother a letter.

Dear Will. I am still mad that you died. Mad that you left me here, a suddenly only child. Mad that you won’t be here for my beautiful babies—for Max who reminds me so much of you, who loves music like you did, who has your same big blue eyes.

I was mad that the only other human in the world who understood what it was like to be raised in our particular home, with our particular parents, was gone due to his own poor choices. So I told him that. And of course, underneath the bruised thick skin of anger was a soft, fleshy sadness.

It still breaks me to think of how you left.

As I strung the words together, I had a good, body-wracking sob. Every cell of my body was droopy with grief. 

Usually after that type of cry, I feel some relief and my mood will shift. But for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, I still felt very, very off. 

And then my kids came home. And they were both on the grumpy side at first, too. But Max asked for a dance party to Put me in Coach, and we twirled around the living room together for a few minutes, letting the music sink into our bodies and lift us up a bit. Afterwards, Max pointed out four smudgy squares of sunlight on the kitchen wall, stenciled by the late afternoon sun streaming through the window. “I want to play hopscotch on the wall,” he announced. I stared at the squares for a long time, the literal imprint of lightness. “I wish we could,” I told Max.

My husband, knowing I’d had a hard day, fetched takeout for us, and while we finished eating, we watched the kids huddle together watching a movie. They took turns putting their arms around one another. “Bru-bru, Bru-bru,” Violet kept saying, her word for “brother.” “Can Violet have some M&M’s?” Max pleaded. “No, sweetie. She’s too little.” (Watch for future posts on how to wean your kids from candy and television.)

I watch the way that Max loves Violet, watches for her every move, shares most anything he has to give with her. And of course I loved you like that, of course I mothered you like that.

And it was bittersweet. To watch my current family of four on the anniversary of the day when my first family of four lost a member. To witness the love that blooms between siblings from simply sharing the same space in time, from sharing the same parents. 

And then the day was over. I put Violet to bed as the daylight waned. I asked the universe to give my kids long and lovely lives, as I do every night. 

I pray that you are somewhere warm and safe. I pray that you are somewhere.

Knowing that the next day, there would be a bit more day than night. 

Coping with the Winter Why's

A Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, writer and mother of two

“Mom, why are you stopping?” Max asks from the backseat.

“Because it’s a red light.”
“But why?”
“Because…because we have to take turns with the other cars,” I sigh.
“But why? Why, Mom?”
“So we don’t get in an accident, Maxie.”
“Oh,” he says, and for a sliver of a second he is quiet. Blissfully quiet.

Sitting at the red light, I practice the breath we do sometimes in yoga, where we breathe in for three counts and out for five. Three, fo-

“Mom? Why is the gym there?”
“I don’t know. It just is.”
“Why is Violet asleep?”
“Because babies need lots of sleep,” I sigh. Because she was tired of listening to your questions and fell into the sweet release of sleep, I think, envious.

I pull up to the gas station. “I’m going to put some gas in the car, Maxie. I’ll be right back.”
“But w--“

I close the door a bit more forcefully than necessary. Breathing in the rich smell of spilled gasoline, I glance at Max through the window. He is smiling at me. His lips are still moving.

 

Maybe it is the winter with the light deprivation and snow-covered playgrounds. Maybe it is because my four-year-old’s constant questions remind of how little I actually know. Or maybe it is because my sweet, easygoing Buddha baby girl has suddenly morphed into a separation anxiety-riddled Drama Mama who clings to me like a fifth limb. Whatever the cause, lately, my patience has been nil.

 I’ve put together a list of tools that have helped me to stave off the winter grumpies:

Dance Party. When I am at my wits end, the last thing I usually feel like is busting a move. But I will say that it’s very hard for one to take oneself seriously when attempting the Gangnam Style pony dance. The kids like it, too. Frugal hint: My kids aren’t old enough to notice that I just use the preview button on iTunes to play songs that I don’t want to buy (or watch on YouTube with potentially inappropriate content).

 
Write a Song. Getting my son to wash his hands after using the bathroom can sometimes be a battle. Similarly to the dance party, it’s hard to be too grouchy if instead, I focus my energy on creating a song about the battle. Not sure that Sani-tize your hands come on! Let’s have a sanitation! will ever catch on, but it shifted my energy.

Picture them grown up.  I have been pregnant or nursing for nearly five years now. So sometimes—many times, I just want everyone to leave the Host Body alone. When my four-year-old wants one more snuggle and I am just dying to tuck into some trashy TV series on Netflix, I think about what it will be like when he is grown. I wonder how much I would give for one of these little tender moments, his nose pressed to mine. Then again, perhaps I will be so busy going to movies and taking naps and doing yoga and sleeping in that I won’t notice what I’m missing. But I just might.

Sniff something/Drink something. No, not those somethings. When I was quite pregnant with my daughter and my son refused to get into his car seat on a daily basis, I got some aromatherapy oil that was supposed to be relaxing. I huffed that thing so hard and so often that I had little crusty burns on my nostrils. Did it help? Not sure. But just the act of doing something for me made me feel a bit less powerless and gave me something to focus on instead of screeching/swearing/curling up in the fetal position. Making and sipping a cup o’ chamomile tea would work similarly.

Adjust your behavior. One of the things that drives me the most nuts is when I’m trying to talk on the phone or check my emails. The kids immediately seem to smell my need for autonomy and instantly start bellowing demands. I am finding it is unrealistic to think I can read anything longer than a comic strip (do they still make Garfield?) at these times. Trying to do so just sets me up for extra frustration.

Take a break. Perhaps this is the most important tip of all. Trade child care with a friend. Go to the gym. Take turns with your partner. (During recent Winter Storm Nemo, my husband and I took turns escaping to the bedroom to sleep/read/stare at the wall). Go to the gas station and take in the ethereal fountainy sounds of gasoline entering your car.

Have compassion. A dear friend says she often reminds herself that her kids are a bit like little insane people. They don’t have the impulse control yet that we expect adults to. They don’t have logic. It must be hard to have such little control on one’s environment. But remember to have compassion for yourself, too. It’s hard to corral little insane people all day long. Forgive yourself if you yell. Let it go; chances are, if you lose your patience/scream/swear/cry, you will remember it much longer than your little ones.  

 What techniques do you use when you’re about to lose it with your little ones?

Small Change

A Guest Post by Lynn Shattuck, writer and mother of two

 

January. The jewel-toned lights of the holidays disappear. It is cold and dark, and perhaps a twinge of post-holiday letdown lingers in your body. It makes sense that the shiny promise of a brand new year full of hope and possibility would be a welcome beacon.

I am always tempted to make grand resolutions: no TV ever for the kids! Workout so much that I retrieve the body I had when I was 14! Keep the house spotless!

I’ve found that making such big promises sets me up for failure. However, I love the idea of looking back and reflecting on the year that just passed. What worked? What didn’t? What do I want to do differently?

My reflections this year led me to realize a few important things. First, I struggle mightily with consistency. I can keep the house in order for a few days, but before long, toys seep into every corner of the house. Stray laundry lurks in each room. Or, I wean my son off of TV during mealtimes (eek!) for a week, and then he throws an Exorcist-style tantrum and I give in and he is watching Angelina Ballerina on the couch with a cereal bar in his hand.

I know my kids need consistency. I also know that if I take on too many changes at once, I will burn out and stop doing everything. So I’m focusing instead on small daily tasks to create a more peaceful existence: deal with the incoming mail every day. Take the trash out as soon as it is full. Do the dishes at the end of the day. Put the laundry away when it’s done. In short, the mundane tasks of life which have to be done every day for the rest of our lives. I fight it, and I resent it. And yet, when I take these small, consistent actions….it feels good.

The other piece I’ve realized is just as challenging, but a bit more fun. When I had kids, I stopped doing the things that I enjoyed. Not because I wanted to be a martyr, or because I thought it was good for my kids to see a zombie mom with all the joy sucked out of her heart. It’s because of time. There are always a zillion things that I could be doing when I have a free moment; many are those same things that I struggle to be consistent about. Sort the mail. Attempt to match up the 85 tiny pairs of socks that seem to slither about the house like baby rattlesnakes. When I have a free moment, I have become loathe to do something fun for myself.

Sometimes I can barely even remember what I enjoy doing. The quickest way to rediscover it is to think about what I enjoyed doing as a child. Reading, writing, listening to music. Being outside under the trees. Watching movies. These are still my favorite things. In 2013, I’m going to do more of them. It might mean leaving the kids with babysitters or grandparents more often. It might even mean a little less precious sleep. But fun is worth it.

How do you want to fill all those empty, white calendar squares of 2013? What do you want to do differently this year, big or small? 

Miscellaneous Thoughts and Musings...

       I am glad to know that there are people reading this...It keeps me inspired and thinking about reflections to record for all of you folks! Also, As a side note regarding my last post...that Holiday Card wishing my family and friends Peace and Joy in the new year??? Well, I mailed some of them off in the form of an empty envelope with no card inside. It would appear as if I could use some peace...and quiet in this new year that is almost upon us.
       This is always a time of year that I find myself yearning for Simplicity in my daily routine. I find this urge is taken care of with a few weeks of doing things a bit differently than I normally do to calm the stress and sensation of constantly being overwhelmed. As much as I would like, I cannot disappear into the woods and never come back, so these are a few of my fall-backs when things get intense. I thought I would share them with you. Thanks to Lynn's previous Post to making me sit down and think about my coping strategies for stressful and complicated times...

              1. Get back in the kitchen and COOK.... I spend hours on end in my car driving from job site to market, to school pick-ups, to my parents, and back. Nutrition is lacking for a person on the go. Just when I think I couldn't feel worse and more fatigued, I get back in the kitchen. I immediately feel better as I slice into a lemon to squeeze over the Mustard greens that I just sauteed with farm fresh onion and foraged Mushrooms. As Alton Brown once said, “We are fat and sick and dying because we have handed a basic, fundamental and intimate function of life over to corporations. We choose to value our nourishment so little that we entrust it to strangers. This is insanity. Feed yourselves. Feed your loved ones. And for God's sake feed your children."    Remembering this ethos and cooking to it never fails to ground me. 

            2.  I Read....something, anything, that reminds me of my path and the general ideologies that I adhere to... We all have those moments when we know that we could be doing better and we know how to do better, but it's just that initial step back onto our path that is sometimes the hardest. For example-Whenever I feel that I could do better as parent, I also turn to Kim John Paine's Simplicity Parenting. My mother gave me this book when I had just opened up my second business and I was on the edge of the parenting cliff with an infant and a wild toddler, somehow she knew, just as she always does. This book has changed my entire view and "method" of being a mother. I reread it anytime I need a reminder of  how important it is to reduce the unnecessary in our families life and our surroundings....It is also a handy motivator to throw out all of the clutter and junky toys around your house (always a plus). 

         3. Work HARD, harder than ever, and more than usual. This may not work for you, some people can't, or simply don't have the drive to sustain days and weeks of giving a job or task their absolute all. I myself, find it soothing. Taking a day off, or half=a$$ing my work is always a sure fire way to start the guilt wagon. I need to be completely and totally confident and satisfied when I go to relax that I have done everything in the best possible way that I could that day.  Whether its scrubbing baseboards for the cleaning company, mixing up my products, or raising an 80 lb Tent in the hot sun for a five hour market, I need a hard days worth of work to set my mind at ease. There is nothing shameful with having to work manually or laboriously, no matter what our current social culture will say. I do what I need to do and I am proud of it all...too many people are dying slowly inside their cubicles. My physical abilities and work ethic give me a sense of pride...an important aspect of our social emotional health. Like I said, it may not be your cup of tea, but there is nothing like going to bed after you have worked as hard as you possibly could all day...bliss! 

So there is what I do to get grounded and to stay there. Recently,  I have turned back to these three tasks and will probably continue with them until the New Year arrives. Is there anything more Amazing and Inspiring than ending a year and beginning a new one knowing that you have all the tools to implement change in your daily life? -KATE

Tis The Season...

       So Far this December has been a memorable and enjoyably hazy blur of work and valuable time with Dahlia and Greyson. I view the beginning of December as reminder to slow down, take stock, and enjoy the closing of another year.
       I always rolled my eyes when my mother went into "Holiday Patrol Mode"...and now I find myself slipping into her soft and nostalgic ways with a certain ease, as if I hadn't just ended my 'angsty' twenty something years.
        Dahlia and Grey have enjoyed lighting our Advent Candles, reading the Holiday books, and playing with the ultra breakable ornaments on the tree...here is the current score for broken holiday ornaments: Grey-2 Tree-0.

       
     I hope everyone is having an enjoyable season filled with traditions (whatever they may be), family, and lots of food.  Here is the Perrin family Christmas card, some of which I sent out in the form of an empty envelope...whoops!