Thoughts on parenting and post partum

As the title suggests, what you will find here are some observations on parenting. I do not now, nor have I ever claimed to be a parenting expert. I have one child, with whom I have 3 years and change in this game. So stick with me. The second bit I am sure I am an expert. Or at least a survivor. So it’s from that perspective I will offer some thoughts.

Disclaimer:
These are shark -infested water. And the sharks may turn out to be dear friends or even family members. Say what you think about parenting, and if what you think is outside the accepted theories of the sub-culture (read: James Dobson, the Super Nanny, your pastor any given Sunday, etc.,) you risk the alienating hush of your friends at lunch. You’ll hear “Bless your heart!” A polite Southern way of saying ‘Wow, you’ve really gone off the deep end’ or ‘You’ve become so liberal’/ (the very worst of all possible fates) and the like.

So here are my radical, not- so- radical reflections on parenting.


Kid's are not stereo's, and there are no instruction manuals:

Do you remember in the hospital with your first child when the nurse (doctor, midwife, whatever) said "They all come out with their own little personalities”. Maybe you were too euphoric, depressed or exhausted to pay attention, but the comment stuck with you. This may have been their way of explaining why your baby was fussy, sleepy, goofy, or whatever he or she was upon initial descent to earth. But it was true. Your baby did things other babies didn't. Her knowing eyes, her projectile, er…, well you know- whatever it was, you recognized that it was true. She was unique.

Then the moment they released you from the hospital and the care of professionals, you set about looking for just the right instruction manual to make her exactly like your best friend’s baby. You know the baby; the one who slept through the night at two weeks old, took naturally to breast feeding and never had colic. The one whose "behavior" - a word which should never be used when talking about a child under 1, possibly 2 years old- was just perfect for her parents schedules, egos and needs. They could beam with pride when their child napped without a fight, ate all her strained peas or didn't puke at the dinner table, because this of course was "proof" that they were doing something right.


Ok, back to you and me. Let's retrace our steps. First we got into the attachment parenting thing, because it just seemed nicer. Digging through the stack of baby books at 1 in the morning, the picture on the cover of the “attachment” book seemed to sooth our fried nerves. “No cry method” sounded great to us who’d been up for three days and couldn’t quit crying ourselves.

Or maybe we tried the cry-it-out method first. Babywise. Because that's what our Christian friends swore by (wait aren't we not supposed to swear?) and their kid slept like 10 hours straight the first night home from the hospital. And besides, the book warned, if we didn’t follow their method our kids would grow up to be self-centered social deviants. All because we caved and gave them a bottle at 3am.

Whichever way we gravitated, we read and re-read the "instructions." We surfed baby blogs late into the night. But our little guy wasn't following the “instructions,” was he?

Mine didn’t. Not only did none of the many, many books help, but they were the cherry on top of my self pity Sundae. "See, I am not cut out for this." "Why can't I do this right?" "Why isn't my baby like all the other babies in this book?" I was determined that I would get it right, and my Christian baby books and prayer groups, Mom's groups and websites would be enough to guide me through. And granted, if my self -pity had been just the baby blues, the standard two to four weeks of weepiness, they may have.

But it wasn't, it didn't, and here we are. And the only reason I can imagine that God let me go through what I did, is simply so I can share it with you.

Here’s how it came down.

My brother’s band was in town to play at a huge arena when my daughter was about 5 months old. I had planned the outing for weeks. Though my nerves were fried from five months of anxiety and sleeplessness, I was determined to go to the gig, even get up on stage and sing backing vocals on a handful of songs. My adrenaline was in overdrive. I did my best to recapture some of my pre-pregnancy confidence. After a great night I returned home to Matt and Sydney asleep on the couch. She wasn't in her crib, it was midnight. The slight deviation from our schedule sent me into an anxious downward spiral of guilt and panic. I barely slept a wink. Maybe 30-40 minutes. The whole house was snoring and I was staring at the ceiling, punishing myself for having had a night out. Trouble is I had no idea that my sadness- about my body, my perceived daily failures at home, my fizzling career and creativity- was due - at least in some significant part to the hormones that were still raging through me. It had a name, and my brother named it. “You have post partum depression,” he said, a little frazzled by my sudden explosion of tears as he readied himself to leave town the next morning. “There’s medication for it. It’s not a big deal. Just talk to someone.” What I had feared, what I refused to utter, what seemed to be lurking just around each corner had finally come into the light.

That declaration by my brother in the kitchen of our rented house started me on the road back to wellness. In that moment, I had clarity. I had a to-do list. Talk to somebody. Get help. Put one foot in front of the other. I could handle that. Wandering around the desert of woe had just about done me in.


I’m a little bit disappointed that it took my rock star brother, who is not exactly an expert on women’s issues, to tell me to get help. I had prayer partners. Sisters in Christ. Family members who knew what I was going through but couldn’t, or wouldn’t name it. Maybe they were as terrified of this unknown monster as I was. Maybe the name alone, “post partum depression” conjured horrifying images of deranged women and defenseless babies. Maybe they did tell me to get help but I wouldn’t listen.

I was so certain that God's healing for me would come through prayer, bible study and white knuckle discipline. For some reason I perceived my depression and anxiety as my own fault. Something I could "kick" if I just worked harder at it.

But this is not how God works. He wants us to trust deeper, not work harder. He taught me something huge about himself through all this. First, that He and He alone determines how healing will come. He knows me. And He loves me. And wouldn't you know, His way of healing me was utterly simple. It could have come months earlier if during one of my many pleading prayer times I had stopped to listen. I would have had more crazy-free time to enjoy my baby girl if I'd had my antenna up a bit higher.

These days I am the post partum police. Whenever a good friend has a baby I give her a week or two before sitting her down, making eye contact (this is nearly impossible to do with the mother of a two week old) and ask how she’s doing. Not how the baby is doing, not how her mother-in-law, husband, best friend, boss or sister is doing. How she is doing. And I try to get a straight answer. Most of the time, my friends are doing fine. Even better than fine. Which reminds me of the statistics that insist that almost all women get about two weeks of blues, but very few get the full blown crazies like I did. And even fewer will experience the kind that lands their story on the evening news. Devastating as those stories are they are very, very rare.

But once in a while, when talking to my friend, I will hear the nervous quiver in her voice. The obsession with feeding schedules, sleep schedules or bowel movements. I will hear hopelessness in her voice. And that’s my cue.

If I know you well, I’ll just tell you flat out- there is a medication and counseling that can re-teach you how to be you. You shouldn’t suffer like this. It’s easily treatable. I will remind you, as my husband so kindly reminded me, that all healing comes from the hand of God. If I don’t know you well, I will try to get to know you better. But I will try, if you let me, to help.

the worst Jew ever

In an attempt to shake off the above title, not so kindly bestowed on me by my brother via Twitter when I mis-spelled mohel, I will say a few words about Passover.


As a child I had two sets of friends. My Jewish friends and my Catholic friends. My Jewish friends were closer friends, having nothing to do with their religion, but simply for the reason one chooses friends at 6 or 7; cool toys, nice Mom, and later, at maybe 11 or 12, cute older brother.

Having a regular Friday night sleepover at Rachel R.'s house guaranteed me a trip to Shul- Synagogue on Saturday morning. "Bring a dress", Rachel's Swedish convert mother would tell me, "something nice, but not too fancy." When we arrived at the Temple the kids would run to the coat closet where we would find lace doilies and bobby pins for the girls, and mini prayer shawls for the boys. The lace always seemed so elegant and precious in my hands. We would hastily pin the doily to our braids or ponytails and file into the sanctuary.

I, of course, was not Jewish. Though my father is Jewish and in some, more liberal circles I might be accepted, in this Conservative temple I was about as Jewish as pork tenderloin. I tried to blend in with Rachel's family. We whispered a hushed plan to tell the Rabbi I was a cousin visiting from a nearby town. Because I knew, somehow, that if I was outed I wouldn't be able to participate in the rituals I was growing to love and look forward to.

One of the best parts of the service is when the Rabbi, surrounded by a handful of lucky kids, processes into the Sanctuary carrying the Torah scrolls, high above his head. Because the Torah is sacred, I was told, it can never touch the ground. So the job of helping to carry the giant, sacred book, was an important one. Even if our part was merely symbolic, it was an honor to be called on for this job.

Christians also love to process. In some circles at least. It's dramatic and powerful. I remember being particularly moved by seeing a handful of Episcopal priests file past me on a Sunday night as I sat daydreaming in a garden beside St. Martin's Church. Robed and focused, one cheerful looking teenaged girl- arms outstretched balancing a Medieval looking banner- smiled at me as our eyes met.

Back to being Jewish.

One Saturday, I suppose my regular attendance and the "cousin" story had worked because I found myself at the top of the aisle behind a curtain, nervously standing beside the Rabbi as we were about to make our way to the front of the Synagogue with the Torah. I avoided eye contact with him. I repeated the story in my head, "I'm the cousin from Ft. Lee," I thought, hoping my lie would go undetected if I was called upon to identify myself before taking part in this holy errand.

Though this is not my favorite Jewish memory, for some reason it's the first that comes to mind. It wasn't Passover, it wasn't a high holiday of any sort. It was just a regular old Sabbath day, but yet, it was important. The work of God's people was as important on this morning as it was on any night of Hannukah, or Purim, or Passover for that matter. At least it was to me. And it was important for the children to be involved, to have ownership in this glorious, everyday activity.

It certainly was important to the Rabbi. My goy hands never touched the Torah. I watched teary eyed from behind the curtain, exposed, sort of, as the non Jew I was. But I get it. I understand now. I had no idea, except for the crumbs of Hebrew, culture and tradition that I gobbled up at every opportunity; I had no idea what it all really meant.

Passover memories are better. More inclusive, more encouraging. A myriad of seder dinners were attended by our family, one resulting in my little brother getting a cauldron of matzoh ball soup accidentally dumped on his head, but generally they were undramatic, regular sorts of events.

My friend Leah, another one whose family occasionally let me tag along to Shul, had a grandfather who was in the Jewish mafia in Pennsylvania. I learned of this years later when her parents got divorced and all the family secrets came spilling out, as they tend to do. But my memories of spending Passover at her mafia don grandfather's house are some of the happiest of my childhood.

They had a huge, gorgeous house surrounded by manicured gardens and 12 foot high hedges sculpted into a labrinyth. I remember the cool, pre-Spring evenings we would run around the backyard, waiting for the ritual to begin. As the sun began to set we would all take our places at the giant dining room table. Each place was set with a pocket sized prayer book, the prayers in both Hebrew and English. "Now this is something I can do," I thought. When it was my turn to read a prayer someone kindly suggested I read in English, acknowledging that I knew no Hebrew. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweating. I proudly and carefully read aloud the designated prayer, to smiles and nods of encouragement from Leah's family. To them, at least in that moment, I was Jewish enough.

Later we would all hunt for the Afikomen, slip sliding on the polished mahogany floors in our socks. We would be given mesh bags of chocolate money, whether or not we were lucky enough to find the hidden matzoh.

St. Leonard

Seth: You have such vivid Christian imagery in many of your songs, and much of it is contrasted with the selfishness of the "modern" individual. I was wondering what's your take on the state of Christianity today?

Leonard Cohen: Dear Seth, I don't really have a 'take on the state of Christianity.' But when I read your question, this answer came to mind: As I understand it, into the heart of every Christian, Christ comes, and Christ goes. When, by his Grace, the landscape of the heart becomes vast and deep and limitless, then Christ makes His abode in that graceful heart, and His Will prevails. The experience is recognized as Peace. In the absence of this experience much activity arises, divisions of ever sort. Outside of the organizational enterprise, which some applaud and some mistrust, stands the figure of Jesus, nailed to a human predicament, summoning the heart to comprehend its own suffering by dissolving itself in a radical confession of hospitality.

Laity Lodge No. 3

Stand in the field
Arms wide open

Don’t curl up, anesthetized.
Filling the cracked and broken heart
with lipgloss,
movies,
and religion.

Stand at the water’s edge
and trust-fall into the icy emerald pool.

“Put your hand into my wounds”
And know who I am.

The Valley of Achon, of Trouble, becomes the Door of Hope.

Risen from the water,
the wounds remain.
But we are no longer alone with them.

Laity Lodge No. 2

I have experienced disturbing kindness.
The kind that penetrates,
keeps your dinner warm,
and reduces you to sobs and shudders.

I have seen a blind woman paint.
Cheshire smile spreading
as her tiny, delicate hand applies crimson to the canvas.

I have been adopted
by a gentle woman made of love and Russian sweet bread.

I am not an orphan anymore.

I have been heard and named: beloved.

The locomotive wind arrives,
racing through the trees like a subway car.
Rattling my bones and promising deliverance.

In the shadow of the bald Cypress,
along the craggy driftwood and gravel path,
beside little Mary’s fountain.

I once was lost but now am found
Was blind but now I see.

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that flaming invented stuff
amazing hubris

soul vacation

constant Emperor invent epiphanies

relevant wisdom
common good

my nine lives and the ministry of lemon pudding

Naming
I was named for the stage. When my parents stopped fighting long enough to conceive me, the only name my father, a frustrated singer ala Dean Martin, would allow- was Cameron. Alexandra, my middle name, I am led to believe was a nod to his Russian Empiric heritage. My mother, herself a professed relative of Grace Kelly and a studied actress, must've hoped what she carried in her belly would live the dream she'd sidelined for love.

I named Sydney, Sydney Shalom for similar reasons. Shalom- a nod to my father's Judaic heritage as well as a proclamation of my own Jesus centered aspirations. Sydney Shalom- in itself arresting and poetic, is a perfect "stage name" should she so choose. Her name embodies the Hope that the eschatalogical future will include the reconciliation of all broken things- broken relationships with my father and the broken ecosystem included- back to the Creator.

I intend to write much of this entry on mentors. The importance of them and the way I have come about them in my nine lives. I have had a remarkable life so far. I've supped with movie stars and hobos. I've walked the far east and the lower east side. I've sketched alongside world famous artists and gazed upon the live and in person face of the great Audrey Hepburn, which was at more than 80, the embodiment of stunning kindness.

A colleague once exclaimed over tex Mex- "How old are you?" When I amen'd and smiled at some obscure cultural reference from the 60s. I've had an incredible journey so far and I'm not even 35.

Writing this and naming these different 'lives' has confirmed for me how blessed I really am, and that everything is indeed a season. The mountaintop and the valley of the shadow of death. Both, seasons. Perhaps God in his wisdom and his mercy knows we can't take much of anything for very long. And that waiting -shapes us.

Now, to clarify the stage I am referring to is not the American Idol or Star Search stage. It's the stage of the golden voiced Sarah Berhardt, the Grand 'Ol Opry (even though I've never been there), the in the round or blackbox theater where real art happens and dreams come to life.

This is the stage I named my daughter for, and I imagine, the stage I was named for.


Mentor
Sadly for my mother I never showed much gift for the stage at a young age. I was desperately self conscious. Adolescence was not kind (it rarely is) and I was immobilized by trying to hide myself form the eyes of the world. My skin, my profile, my hair, was never right. Too pale, to pointy, to red. At the tale end of adolescence I encountered my first real mentor. His name is Michael Horowitz and he is a writer, editor and the primary archivist of Timothy Leary. He is also the father of actress Winona Ryder.



Though I was too self conscience to act myself, I was an avid fan. And the blondes of the 80s had made way for the broody depth of my dark haired hero, Winona. I saw her in Lucas. Scrawny, boyish and beautiful, a misfit. Walking poetry. Later called "the thinking man's movie star" she embodied all I loved and wanted to be.

Instead of cultivating my headshot and monologue (which as a teenager at the High School for the Performing Arts, living a half block from Lincoln Center, was quite radical) I wrote poetry. I discovered Alan Ginsberg (who I stalked all over the West Village). I discovered Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Coney Island of the Mind (the actual Coney Island is where I would be baptized some 11 yrs later.) I discovered Jack Kerouac, and later Rainer Maria Rilke and Adrienne Rich. I identified myself as the maker not the muse.

And then I found Mike Horowitz. I was a fatherless, teenage poet and who better to mentor me than the father of my hero?

Reading an interview with Winona in Elle Magazine in my bedroom on the 21st floor, I came across a description of her father's business, a rare book mail order house specializing in rare books from the 60s. "Could I be so lucky?" I thought. I was writing a paper on the Beat Generation at the time for my AP English class and convinced myself that I had a legitimate reason to write to him. What could I lose?

What began as an inquiry for a book, turned into a bonifide pen pal and phone call mentorship. I cannot imagine what inspired this kind man to talk to me, encourage me and listen. I sent him my poems. He loved them. Or so he said "Keep going," he would say. "I am so proud of you."

My mother and I would later travel to Northern California, she on business, me on a pilgrimage to spend the day with Michael in North Beach, unearthing treasures of the beat writers in their original habitat. Later we would drive to Petaluma and have dinner at the family's kitchen table. Their kindness was shocking. They never questioned why this 16 year old stranger was hanging out with their Dad. We had dinner and conversation. I got to know Sunyata and Uri (2 of Winona's siblings who were living at home). I was enfolded and accepted.

Our correspondence continued for years. A self described LSD expert and Atheist, Michael Horowitz was the most fatherly man I had ever met. Though his values were not the best, he did care about me. And he encouraged my adventurous spirit, and most importantly my writing.

High Calling

Lovelies:
Here's a brief note to attempt to explain the sudden widget on my blog. First, I am tremendously impressed with myself that I managed to install said widget. Slight trembling, slight sweaty panic. Phew. Cut and paste, easy enough. Please don't out my technological ineptitude.

Second, I don't know much about High Calling yet- except that it's a function of the HEB Foundation- something that alone I will support having just experienced their amazing work in restoring and encouraging Christians @ Laity Lodge

Third, it appears to be a community of non religious Christian writers interested in communicating honestly and encouraging each other to do the same.

Obviously, I signed up. Feel free to click the widget and browse. You might find yourself signing up as well.

I've got a slew of poems to post. Coming soon.

Love, Cameron

new poem

Laity Lodge

There is something about this place.

We become like
one living organism.

Breathing in and out,
gathering close,
leaning toward

our common one-ness,
our made new-ness.

Grasping to lay hold of it.
Clawing out of the pit of isolation.

There is something about
the pockmarked moon rock,
the ancient limestone that is newborn,
yet grooved and layered like hardened lava.

You are baptized in the river
under the stars

Open up all the windows
and breathe
the air of potential.

Climb down the canyon
out of reach of phones
pets and children

Climb down the canyon
to the river,
to be transformed.