Do I look pretty?

“Do I look pretty?” she asked.

“You always look pretty,” I responded. “And that dress is pretty too.”

I had a realization this morning, these come all too often anymore. As I navigate healing and existing in this world, I continue to unravel the layers of how I live differently than I say and love.

It started about a year ago, when she’d ask if she looked pretty. I knew in that moment that I wanted her to know that clothes or what’s on your body doesn’t make you pretty. I could see this stumbling into the future as attractiveness, worthiness being linked to how she looks in clothes. A sneaky not so hidden bit of diet culture, fatphobia, sexism, racism, all tied up in there. So I made a point to respond to her and acknowledge her own beauty as a normal everyday. She spoke the above words a few more times and each time, I responded with precision that she was always beautiful, pretty, cute.

However, recently, I realized that despite these efforts and as much as I was speaking out loud, my social conditioning had not yet transformed. She picked out some new clothes and my head was screaming that she looked so adorable in these new pieces. One, a blue dress sprinkled with pineapples, not only looked perfect on her but also reminded me of good pineapple memories in childhood and beyond. I heard my head say, “you look so cute today.” I caught myself, with confusion and frustration of how tightly this society holds me, and changed the message to what I really wanted to mean.

“That dress is so cute,” I said to her.

I keep thinking that if I change my mindset to not link her body to the clothes and instead comment on the clothes as their own piece, it will separate the attachment to self. Maybe undo a tiny bit of the “isms” associated with women in clothing. Really to do this for me too. So she can see it’s possible.

Because today, I am struggling as I need to shift my wardrobe. As I delve into intuitive eating, my body is changing. It will continue to change. And the challenge is to first accept that this will happen, and also to accept that I will need to change clothes as these changes occur. I feel stuck as I still link my own clothes to self-loathing, attraction, sexiness, worthiness.

“You look terrible in this. What are you thinking? This makes you look fat.* You look horrible today. What did I eat to cause this body? I need to exercise. No treats today…” and on and on and on.

This morning I remembered the pineapple dress. It came to me like a gift, a reminder that I can live differently. I said to myself, “Your clothes do not define you. You define you. Clothes simply adorn the beautiful being that never changes even when your body might.”

Thank goodness for that cute pineapple dress.

*I want to acknowledge that this statement is fatphobic. And, it’s what I am still working on and feels important to leave it and be honest. Our criticism of our bodies – thin fat, straight fat, small fat, or otherwise non fat bodies in this ways is fatphobic. Simply put, if we can’t see ourselves as acceptable, we can’t possible see others who are fat as such. I’m working hard to understand this and to unpack my own fatphobia.  

Rock ‘n Roll

Six years old had been an amazing ride. I am watching this little person start to sense and understand empathy. I am watching her start to see impact and feel guilt about impact she doesn’t intend. I am starting to see her consider her options, make choices and be a little less implusive. She is also learning to love out loud telling us how she feels more often than not.

And her personality is beaming.

Last year, her teacher told us that they thought she might be president one day. But that they weren’t sure if she’d be voted in, or if she’d just take it.

“That about sums up our lives parenting her,” I jokingly responded.

In her birth chart, she is an Aries sun and moon. This is a set up for someone who is powerful, leaderful, and impactful in this world. This with her Libra rising sign also creates the impression of serving the people, justice, equity, fairness. We see this in her, so many moments of every day.

Two days ago, she decided to write a rock song. I was an audience member and had to participate. On cue, I had to give examples of things that I didn’t think I could do, but I did anyway.

So she sings, and points to me.

“Birth!” I shout.

She laughs, and says “no, not that, something else.”

Momentarily miffed (if only she knew), I told her “climb a mountain.” She proceeded to sing how she climbed a mountain all the way to the top even though she didn’t want to, and was brave.

She pointed to me again.

“Swam a big relay race,” I exclaimed.

She sang about how she was nervous and scared and didn’t think she could do it, but then she won “FFFIIIRRRSSSTTT PLACE!”

Then came the ending of this song…

“There were things I didn’t really want to do, but I did them anyway. Because I always do what I want to do. I ALWAYS DO WHAT I WANT TO DOOOOO!”

This is my life people. She does what she wants to do. And is learning to love, laugh, live, play along the way. Whether or not she runs the world or runs her home or runs nothing at all, she will always do what she wants to do. And I am so grateful she is here in this life with me.

Eat! and Race!

My youngest is 19 months old, so it’s time to start talking about race. In our house, we believe that being race explicit is essential to understanding racism and oppression in this world and country. We also believe that colorblindness is harmful and we want them to untangle this problematic worldview in their lives.

Once, my daughter identified herself as “normal” when we were talking about race. Despite our repeated teachings, she is still absorbing the whiteness around her.

So we start young. And keep teaching.

There is a book we have called “Eat!” that was given to my oldest by our first pediatrician. It’s a story about messy eating and shows several baby faces covered in food. I love this book, one because they love it, two because it’s gender expression neutral, and three because it’s a wide array of skin colors.

This baby loves this book, seeing the baby faces, the messy food and meeting the eyes of other kids their age. We read the book and then we point out skin color. “This baby has dark brown skin. This baby has lighter brown skin. Look at your skin, see how it’s different. We call your skin white.”

Being race explicit does something so important for our kids. First, and foremost, it makes us a family who does not pretend race does not exist in this world. It’s a common belief among many white folks that if we just treat people as people, or if we just recognize that we’re all the same underneath, then we can change the world.

We believe that this can probably eventually be true. But right now it cannot. Our society, our internalized beliefs are rooted in skin color and race. Pretending to not see it, or trying to love through it means we are not seeing the racial oppression, or we are trying to love someone as a solution when they are telling us that they are actively being harmed. Not to mention, not seeing a person’s skin color erases their humanity. We are all linked to our ancestors, our cultures, our history. Many white people don’t do this well. And just because some of us don’t feel connection to our ancestors, tend to live ahistorically, and/or fail to identify with many of our ethnic cultures doesn’t mean others should do the same. White supremacy has also impacted white culture, teaching us we are the norm and that others should follow suit, or they are then less deserving. And the policies and practices have been and continue to be put in place ensure things are taken away, restricted, policed, or even manipulated to our benefit all to uphold white supremacy.

So we talk about race in this house because we want our kids to know these details and to name them.

At dinner the other night, we played a game with our oldest. She asked if we could take turns saying things that are real that we wish were not. I went first.

“Capitalism,” I said.

“What’s that?” she asked.

I can’t remember my exact response but it went something like this, “it’s where people make a lot of things to make a lot of money. Where money is important and some people end up having a lot more than others.”

She went next.

“Guns,” she said.

Then my partner, “Poverty.”

We explained this one too.

Next I said, “Racism.”

She didn’t blink and said her next choice. We mentioned climate change, cancer, politics, human trafficking, animal abuse, stealing, the system of police, etc.

We talked about some but she knew many already. We have taught her that the world has big things in it that hurt people, that white people hurt people, that our ancestors hurt people. And we also teach her that we can talk about it and work to make it better.

Next we did a round on what doesn’t currently exist but we wish it did. We got answers like being a kid forever, unicorns, magic, boss baby, captain underpants, etc.

At one point, my partner said “superheroes.”

“Superheroes are real!” she exclaimed.

We exchanged eyes and just let it be. Even though her superheroes might be spiderman or batgirl, she also knows there are real life superheroes too. She knows Harriet Taubman, Martin Luther King Jr, Angela Davis, Dolores Huerta, Frida Kahlo among so many more.

So if you’re also a white parent raising a white kid, talk about race with your kids. Without knowing what it is, how to see it, and it’s impact on the world, they won’t know how to contribute to change, their own growth, a better world for their future. If you talk about race, they’ll believe in racism. And if they believe in racism they’ll also believe in anti-racism. And if your strategic, they just might believe in superheroes.

Boundaries

They quit me. Just like that and it was over. One morning it was a refusal, and then another, and then another. They just kept coming.

Uncomfortable, breasts engorged from unexpressed milk, I wasn’t sure what to do. “Maybe, it’s a phase,”  I thought, “or maybe it was a strike. I’ve heard that babies can have milk strikes after a change, or from discomfort, or from pain, etc. I have just been out of town for two days, it must be a strike.”

I started to google. I found so many sites, all pointing me to a milk strike. Meaning that this would be temporary. I should just hang in there and keep offering. Even try nursing when they are almost asleep, or in a quiet room, or when they need comfort. So, I kept asking. They kept signing no.

A week later at the pediatrician, I asked for help. She told me that she hasn’t ever seen a baby this age, 18 months, go back to nursing after a week of refusal. She was probably right, but I googled some more just to sure. Then, I saw it.

A post from a nursing parent also seeking answers for their 18 month old. One day their baby had just said no. Expecting more advice on nursing strikes, I kept scrolling anyway. The first post was from a parent who said what I needed to here – “It sounds like baby has decided to stop, you should respect their decision.”

I knew in that moment what I had been doing. I had been holding so tight to nursing…for so many reasons…supposed health benefits, immunity, nutrition, nourishment comfort, and connection. I started to think back to the last few weeks and realized that they had been showing signs of being done. They were finishing early, not always really latching, refusing occasionally, and needing a song sung to them at bedtime in order to focus on nursing.

This worry, this trying to find answers, this googling was all for me. And I made a misstep in not respecting their boundaries. This baby of mine had made a decision. A big kid decision in their toddler-hood and I was refusing to hear it.

In this moment, I let go. Breasts still in pain, full of milk, probably because I held onto it emotionally.

I cried. Not just for the loss of nursing this little one who is growing so fast, but also because this is the last baby I will nurse. The ending was more abrupt that I expected, and it was not in my control. This was not a mutual decision. And it was never supposed to be.

I write this, still with sore breasts, a weary heart, but also a deep understanding of my misstep in teaching boundaries, respecting boundaries.

With babies, boundaries can be blurred as we as the adults have to make so many decisions when they can’t tell us sometimes. But this baby did tell me. They are making decisions every moment and I missed this one. Today, I forgive myself and I am also paying attention.

Still eating that piece of cake…and learning

Two of my most read blog pieces were about dealing with food and my kids. See them here and here. Writing is a way for me to put to paper, to the world sometimes, what is going on. And it’s a way to show my learning. Both pieces I wrote feel out of date, and ages ago. Both pieces show some of my own ignorance around food. And my own enticement by the food and diet industry.

Today, I am exploring, even choosing to do it differently. To see how this goes. I’ve found the movement of intuitive eating, which really is just eating. When I understood what it meant for me, I was in. ALL IN. The idea is simply that we eat to survive and that any type of restriction causes the body to go into stress and famine mode. It explains my deep obsession with ice cream, pizza, and “they take forever to bake” brownies. Seriously though, I may not be on an active diet but I restrict and enact rules about the food we eat every day. Here are some examples…

  • Food waste is unacceptable, finish your plate or eat it later…there are starving children in this world and we won’t waste when others don’t have. TRUTH: my eating has little impact on the food access for the rest of the world. We need changes in policy, capitalism, and humanity. And our composting gives this food back to the earth.
  • Meat and dairy are bad for you. You must eat less of them. TRUTH: My genetics, lifestyle, and environmental circumstance will kill me before any steak or glass of milk.
  • Sugar is a treat and is to be limited, controlled. TRUTH: sugar is energy, all of your cells need it to survive. And sometimes your body craves it because it’s fucking starving and needs energy to get through the next 10 minutes of it’s life.
  • My kids don’t eat enough…of this..or that…or in general. TRUTH: their bodies know better than mine after 37 years of restriction and obsession. Obsessing over their food is simply displacement for obsession over my own.
  • Weight equates health. TRUTH: I am now seeing how this is not true. That health indicator variations are found throughout us as humans no matter our size. That only 25% of health indicators are a result of our choices, the rest are out of our control. That the stress we put on our bodies through restriction is far worse for your health than Cheetos. Or Chips Ahoy. Check out Health At Every Size if you’ve never heard about it.

So here’s where I’m at…

Desperately trying to unplug all of the restriction I place onto my own body. And to do so, I’m eating unrestricted. And, I’m eating a lot. Normal amounts according to the healing process. But, I’d be lying if I didn’t say it’s terrifying. What if I gain all of this weight? Society might hate me, but I can love me. What if I get sick or have bad health indicators? Then I can look to my stress level, lack of sleep, and genetics.

As I eat, I’m deflecting restriction to my kids. And I’m trying to hold the fact that my restriction of them also makes them want to eat, a lot, right now too.

So what’s next? I’m healing this body of mine. And I’m letting things go for these kids right now. It’s ever present in my mind how to teach them better, but I’m giving myself a break for a bit. I know myself. If I let myself obsess over parenting, I’ll ignore the whole point of this…to heal me.

Which in turn sets the example for their own healing and a life hopefully free of food restriction.

Don’t worry, you might about my health or theirs. But know that we are simply allowing ourselves to eat. As Caroline Dooner says in The F*ck It Diet, our body doesn’t know we are dieting to fit into absurdly small jeans, it just knows to make you eat to live. And that means you should listen.

If you’re still worried, here are my parenting to dos for the upcoming months….

– make sure this house is in fact body neutral.

– never talk about bodies, talk about people

– use the word fat as a descriptor not as an insult, and absolutely not as a self-insult.

– to talk about food as neutral, food has no morality so it can’t be good or bad.

– shift our talks about food to discussions on lifestyle and nourishment, what fuels us.

– eliminate the notion of exercise for weight loss and emphasize movement and only in ways that we enjoy it and it makes us feel good

– wear whatever the heck we want.

– laugh, a lot.

– love ourselves deeply – These bodies are amazing. Our feet help us to walk everyday. That’s evolutionary magic. Our body fuels us to live, love, laugh, move, experience joy, pleasure, anger, sadness. Your skin feels the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the rain and the tickle of your toddlers kisses on your check.

Fucking amazing…

*So many resources are teaching me. Here are a few…

Bedtime apologies

I’ve done some deep diving into how I parent lately and thinking about what I’d want to share with others. One thing keeps popping up for me.

Apologies.

I wonder how many parents apologize to our kids. Society tells us that we are all knowing. That we are the guides, the teachers, the ones who keep our kids from becoming complete jerks. But so much of what is asked of us kind of turns us into jerks as parents, right?

For example, if I teach my kid something or we have an argument and I refuse to let it go because I have to be right because I am the adult, what am I teaching them?

I am no stranger to this situation…a day of chaos and fun, with loads of running, screaming, destruction, play, gets into this body of mine. I’m a relaxer. So much so that on my Mother’s Day write up from my oldest, she said that Mommy loves to “relax on the couch.” At first, I took offense, and then I was like yup! Daddy likes to play and Mommy likes to rest. Both important aspects to living, so I offer no apologies.

But since my body prefers more calm, after a day of kid chaos I am antsy. My skin is jumping and my emotions are running high, only tempered by my patience which is holding on as tight as it can. And, it can rarely last an entire day from wake until bedtime. No matter how much I work that muscle, it’s too much.

So bedtime. I despise bedtime. I actually love it when they go to sleep…hence the relaxing on the couch…but getting these kids to bed is my least favorite part of parenting. Absolute, 100% least favorite. There are moments I love, like cuddles, books, songs, bath time, brushing hair, talking about our days, etc. But when I say goodnight, it’s never goodnight. The baby has learned that they can yell for a few minutes and if I come back in it’s to simply say “it’s bedtime, go to bed.” And then our fight is usually over.

But putting a 6 year old to bed is an epic battle. Within 10 seconds of saying goodnight and walking away, literally the time it takes for me to walk from her room and sit down on the couch, she calls for me.

Sometimes it’s legit, like there is a mosquito in her room. But, usually it’s a quick onset of an upset tummy, she’s scared of the dark in her lit up room, she’s wants an answer to some intellectual question about life or physics, she wants more water, she misses Daddy, she can’t find a stuffed animal that is literally next to her head, she can’t reach a book that is 2 feet from her grasp, she needs tucked in again, or she wants “one more hug and kiss.”

This is when my patience says, “Nope, I’m done, it’s all you anger.” And I usually lose it. I just can’t do it. Sometimes, my patience hangs in there, makes it through. Other times I get frustrated, snap at her, or even yell. And you must think, “Oh it’s justified, what a ridiculous repeating process.” It is.

And also, she is 6 years old, being asked to sleep in a room all by herself. Far away from what she finds safe, away from the two people who she looks to as she navigates the complexity of the life of the day. Then, at night, suddenly she’s on her own. To figure out how to fall back asleep when a shadow scares her, or a weird noise wakes her up.

This is why this is so hard. Co-sleeping is not an option for us, for many reasons I won’t list. And also, I understand. And also I don’t.

So sometimes, I get frustrated and yell. And, the yells don’t match the crime. I get as equally mad at a request for another hug and kiss versus a request for a book that is within her reach.

My butt just wants the couch.

I then go to bed feeling like a complete jerk. She goes to bed thinking I’m mad. Don’t they say never go to bed mad? What if you’re the one who someone is mad at?

I almost always apologize when I feel my anger goes beyond normal frustration at bedtime. In fact, my most common apology is for yelling or getting overly mad at a simple request. When I apologize, I do make it clear that I am not apologizing for feeling frustrated. I want my kids to see emotions as normalized and feeling frustrated in life is normal. And, I also want them to understand that we also take care of people. So I apologize for the impact I create from my frustrations.

And I believe this is different than intention. Of course, I never intend to make her feel sad or upset, but I still do cause that. In the world of anti-racism work, we use this analogy – If I hit you with my car, I maybe didn’t mean to hit you with my car but your leg is still broken. We call it taking care of impact. So my apologies focus on impact. And they occur when I know that the impact doesn’t match my intention. I need her to learn this art of life. That just because you didn’t mean to do something, doesn’t mean that the other person then doesn’t have a right to feelings about it. And this is an essential lesson in how she will walk through life – well, I didn’t mean to have white privilege, but I do so I am paying attention to my impact.

So, how’s it working for me? Bedtime is still shit. But throughout the rest of our relationship it is liberating. I worry so much about what I say and do and whether or not it will screw her up for life. When I opened myself to apologizing to her, I have found that I feel little fear about messing up, or messing her up for life. Instead, I know that we can work together on this messy life and healing our way through the hard parts, as apologizing is a necessary part. And our kids are no less deserving.

The robin

“Mom, come quick, you have to see this bird. It’s so beautiful,” she said.
I was in the baby’s room getting them ready for something.
“Can I borrow your phone? I want to take a picture,” she asked.
I handed over the phone and finished what I was doing quickly to make it over to the window to see what she saw. “Right there,” she said pointing. “It has a bright, orange belly!” she exclaimed.
I peeked through out window down into our yard. By the white cement path, surrounded by blooming weeds and trodden soil, I saw the bird staring up at the house. A robin, searching in the goodness of the earth for grubs and worms.
My head did this – “It’s just a robin, they are everywhere.” I stopped myself from saying this out loud. I looked at her as she stood on the bench in front of the window, holding my phone just right, desperately trying to zoom in to get a picture that showed its orange belly. It was too far away for it to be in focus, but she took ten shots anyhow.
“It’s so cool,” she exclaimed.
“It is,” I agreed.
In this moment, I witnessed something I hadn’t seen in a while from her. A first interaction. I almost missed it. Almost made it so that her response was not fitting to the circumstance, inappropriate even. I almost smashed her joy in this simple moment of seeing a robin for the very first time. An ordinary, beautiful, life giving, earth sustaining robin who was sitting in our new yard posing for my daughter’s pictures.
In the days to come, we came to witness many robins in our yard. Several every morning and afternoon searching through the grass for their daily meals. Before a robin was simply a robin. Sometimes a reminder of my childhood, or even a reminder of a share from a friend about robins in their backyard. But now the robin is a sign of childhood, amazement, interaction, and first glimpses into the wonders of this earth.
Robins are a reminder to look closely, to see what the world is offering us, and to seek joy in the ordinary yet extraordinary life around us. And certainly to take joy in the joy of these little humans who make the effort and take the time to see and experience something new nearly every single moment.

Jelly beans

“Mommy, you should eat slower so you don’t eat so much,” she slipped into our dinner conversation.

I jumped, without thinking.

“We don’t tell people how to eat, not how much or what speed or their choices,” I sternly responded.

I wish I had replied more gently, made it a moment to share why. But I was angry. We don’t talk about things like that in this house. In fact, we make a point to try to make food simply a way to feed our bodies. We even have a night during the week where you get to choose whatever you want. And she’s chosen jelly beans and starburst. We think it’s important that she learns how her body feels and responds to food. That she listens to her desires and wants. I am trying to do the same, and without judgment. I want her to avoid the judgment as long as possible.

She’s doing great. If I push too hard, or we ask her to eat in a way that out of this alignment, she calls us on it.

“But my body is full”…”I am listening to my body”…”My body doesn’t like that”…”Mom, that’s not listening to what my body is saying.”

I am so grateful in these moments, woven in-between my frustration that she eats only a handful of things and is stubborn when trying something new. It’s clearly more than being stubborn, likely anxiety producing to eat something she is unfamiliar with. This same behavior is seen with new friends, new events, new after-school activities, new places. I let it go most of the time, allowing her to trust herself and feel it out.

I am doing my best to not be a health troll even though I feel responsible for her livelihood, her health. My doctor certainly makes me feel so asking what she eats and encouraging her to eat more things.

But health is a hoax. Well maybe not all of the way. But it is a way to control people, to make us feel like our individual role in health is the sole way to be healthy. But the truth is that this world is not set up for kids. In fact, it makes it very hard for them. Restaurants don’t serve healthy choices for kids, and I don’t want to pay three times the amount for her to try something new. It’s easier to pay for what I know she’ll eat. It hinders her risk taking, and my openness to her risks as her parent.

Jellybeans on her plate one day a week won’t ruin her health. And my words will certainly not deter her body’s language in telling her that they are delicious. This is the contradiction for all of us. You tell us it’s not healthy, but our body loves it. The sweet taste of chocolate ice cream as it kisses your tongue. The bubbles of soda pop tickling your throat. The scent of warm baked bread straight our of the oven. The satisfying creaminess of cheese in any form. It’s a lie to say these aren’t healthy. They aren’t by the medical fields definition. But maybe they are healthy to my mind. To my control to choose what makes me happy every once in a while. To choose food without shame, remorse, or thoughts of what people might think with every bite.

I was so mad when she questioned the speed of my eating. Not at her, but wherever that message came from. I suspect it won’t be the first. And honestly, I’m surprised it came at age six when so many six years are all too familiar with diet culture.

I know I’ll talk with her about it more in the coming future. My rage is not the answer in her early learning of the appreciation of food. And I need to learn myself what my body is telling. I’ve spent so long listening to doctors, people, media, strangers, that my voice has chosen to stay silent, tired of being shut down by all of the messages. Maybe when I can welcome back this part of me, can I then think about how to respond to my kid’s criticism of my eating. In the meantime, I’m just listening to what she sees and hears. And having jellybeans for dinner every once and a while.

Raising justice and healing me

I’ve been writing for two months and have shared very little. Unsure of what to say out loud. Unsure if it’s even meant to be heard.

In March, it became clear to me that my parenting was short sighted. I had been focusing on my kids so deeply that I was missing what I needed for my own being. Over the past six years, I have committed myself to authentic, deep, loving parenting. A type of parenting that looks at my kids as their own people in this world. People for me to get to know, to learn from, and to be in community with. At first, I thought I was meant to teach them. To show them all that is wrong with this world. And I started this journey in that mindset. But my wise little one would say to me…

“Can we stop talking about this?” or “Can we talk about something happy?”

Those moments were tough because things were happening the world. Opportunities to show the injustice, the oppression, the rampant violence in our society. But I didn’t listen to my own lesson.

I used to watch all of the videos on facebook of the violence in this world. Police shooting black people, strangling people of color, manhandling children. Photos of abused pets, abused children. News outlets showing overhead footage of today’s mass shooting. There was one summer where one video sent me into silence. I laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling. It was an opportunity to be the public voice, again. But being the public voice created crippling anxiety for me. I spoke to a mentor and friend. She reminded me that I don’t have to watch those videos if I believe what is happening. If something is reported – that a person was killed by a police officer or some white man with an automatic weapon shot a group of people, I don’t doubt it to be true. I know it’s true because I believe that in this country, we have rampant violence and entrenched systemic oppression and racism. I don’t need to see it to know it’s happening.

My kid was sharing the same. She believed me when I told her the ways of the world. And she was reminding me that she didn’t need to be reminded. She believed me the first time.

After that, I took to figuring out parenting by sharing my own perspective. Sharing my own feelings, thoughts, errors, love. I opened things up to a two-way conversation. I allowed her to bring things to me and to stop the conversation when she wanted to. And I started to focus on joy and the miracles of this earth. Talking about nature and the ways in how we choose to live.

In her Mother’s Day present this year from school, she not only listed me as 23 years young, but she listed that I am special to her because I keep her safe. This coming from an Aries sun and moon who lives in this world out in front or in first place everywhere she goes, is quite the compliment.

As her parent, this is who I want to be. I want her to feel safe with me and to be a constant. Someone who can be honest, raw, raggedy, and also so deeply loving.

But two months ago, I realized that a key piece of this was missing in my parenting. Really in my own relationship with myself. I was loving out loud for my kids, for others, but was not loving out loud for me. Simply put, I talk kindly about bodies but I do not treat mine well. I talk about what I love but my kids rarely see me do any of it. I talk about joy but I rarely show pleasure in this world.

One day back in March, I was sitting on my couch trying to figure out this turmoil in my body. My mind was crashing. I was stuck without a creative thought. In my mind, this feels dangerous. It’s an onset of anxiety, worries, depression. It’s the empty space that I avoid at all costs. I have feared this space since forever in this body. But I chose this time to listen. I was able to feel some profound trauma sitting in my bones. I wrote about it and I felt a bit better. Then, I kept writing. About loss, death, abuse, violence, harm, food, capitalism, oppression, sexism, all of it. All of the trauma wrapped up in my body poured out. It now sits in about 30 drafts on wordpress, waiting to see what I will do with it.

I turned to astrology for some guidance. I knew that my birth chart offers me the story of the energy in my life and maybe it has something in there to show how to work through this difficult part. See I am a Cancer sun and moon. I live in this world as a nurturer, lover, caretaker. Most of my life I live by giving energy out, being there for others, loving so deeply that I can shift the energy of a room. But it’s confusing because my energy is so wrapped up in yours. And, I can’t often find my way back to mine. But, I found it in March. It was empty, black, silent. Several meditations brought me to black, dark water. Some even nothingness.

Simply, within my natal chart, my sun and moon live in the house of death. A place where trauma exists, lineage, motherhood. A house where it’s likely that one’s mother had a difficult birth or you’ve experienced something close to death. A place where the trauma in your family is carried through your lineage, blood and bones to sit in your body. All of which is true. And, my chart offers something to me. That I am a person who can do something with this knowledge. That maybe I can be a person who holds this lineage of trauma and cares for it, maybe even works towards healing it.

The world around me is pointing to me, pushing me to find my personal power as a person, a parent. And I am realizing that I cannot do any of it without healing me. I am still unsure if I am meant to heal my lineage, as my acorn in only in its earlier stages of growth.* But it’s clear to me that I cannot be the parent, partner, person I want to be without some deep rooted healing and love for this body of mine.

I feel compelled to share some of this healing with you all. But I am scared. I am scared because it’s deep and raw and terrifying to share. What if what is trauma to me seems ridiculous to you? What if what I write triggers your own trauma and makes it so you never want to read my writing again? What if the people in the story read it and come for me?

And, I am scared because I do not live in this world as a single human. My experiences are interwoven with others. I was raised by two parents. Two loving, beautiful, brave, amazing people. Who just like me have made mistakes. I believe deeply that our parents’ errors are our lessons. And the same will be true for my kids. But I am scared that you will have an opinion of them when I think they are the greatest parents alive. I am afraid you will know who I am talking about and you will tell me I’m wrong. I’m afraid that I may be writing about you and you’ll hate me.

My coach, mentor, amazing friend Maureen…I hear her voice – “It’s not your business.” This leaves me with the thought – can I write honestly, from that raw, deep, dark place inside of me and still be the person who loves, nurtures and cares for you? Can I both hurt you and love you? Can I put your own body at risk in reading my trauma? Can I out the people in my life for their failures? Am I really the person to share these stories out loud?

I don’t know the answer yet.

But, I am working towards being the person who can openly show my kids what it’s like to pull back the layers of this body and to show who is really under there. It has to be a lesson to them that seeing their mother at her rawest can lead to their own freedom. That they will have that moment or moments too. And I can provide the reminder that they can survive. That we can survive. That even with all the shit that happens to us, it’s only a few sentences in our story. My trauma is not the core to my story. It’s a page in a chapter in the larger story of this life. My life.

“…My body is my home. My body is the place I can continue to return to. My body is where all the things that have ever happened me are remembered and held and I’m the only one who’s been through all that I’ve been through…it’s not just a space for trauma to happen to me and it’s not just a space for harm and it’s not just a space for oppressive ideas to be projected onto me…it’s actually my own.” – adrienne maree brown

So I’m still writing. Working towards sharing. Working to feel brave to do so – loving and healing through sharing. I expect you’ll hear some from me soon.

*In “The Body is Not an Apology,” Sonya Renee Taylor speaks of how we are all acorns. Acorns are born with a purpose as they always become an oak tree. I believe I was born an acorn, my purpose is within me and I am growing towards my oak tree, even if I don’t know what that oak tree looks like. 

Note: Maureen White is amazing, I am so grateful she is in my life as chosen family, a friend, a coach, and a mentor. Consider her, it’s worth every penny and every moment. https://www.maureenwhiteconsulting.com/ 

Small steps

The other day, I saw a post on facebook that I decided to share with my daughter. Here is the picture.

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I quickly noticed the issue and wanted to see if she did too. I showed her the picture and we talked through what it said. I asked her what she saw. She noticed that happy and proud seemed to be associated and that sad and angry were too. I asked her if she noticed the race of the kids in the picture and she said yes.

“What do you think about that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

So I offered her more, “What do you think about the fact that the black kids are angry and sad and the white kids are happy and proud?”

“I think that’s probably right,” she replied.

Patiently, I asked her why.

Her response, “White people don’t treat them so well, so I think they’d be angry and sad.”

Such a moment, in both validation, but also in missed teaching on my part. I told her that she is right, that they have every right to be angry and sad. And then I tried to explain to her that people already think black people are angry and sad, all the time. And if someone seeing this picture didn’t know so much about how black people are treated, then they might think that all black people are sad and angry for no reason at all.

I could see her confusion. And the complicated nature of trying to explain this was bouncing around in my brain.

I chose to simply say, “There are messages everywhere about how people are and this is an example of how we can pay attention to those.”

“Can I go play now?” she asked.

“Of course,” and she ran off.

I quickly realized an important piece of parenting that I am thinking about how to approach. I have taught her the reality, what exists. That is easy for her to grasp. In fact, she’s even pointed out things she sees as wrong or biased. But I haven’t taught her how to see it from a neutral perspective, or to see it in something that isn’t so obvious. And I’m wondering how to even do that. She is 6 years old. I cannot expect her to see this page in a book, raise her hand, and say “Um, teacher, this is racist.”

She actually encountered something similar recently when a book was read in class. It was “If I Ran the Zoo,” by Dr. Seuss. That book came into our house this part year because my parents brought a big pile of things from both mine and my siblings’ childhood. This book was included. When I read it with her, I pointed out all of the racism and stereotypes. We talked about what to do with the book. I wanted to throw it away. She wanted to give it away. I told her that if we gave it away, then the racism in the book would still be around and others might not recognize like we did.

We actually still have the book on our shelf. I’ve left it, it sits unread, for no reason other than we haven’t decided what to do with it. (Update, yesterday she brought me the book and asked me to throw it out. “It’s trash,” she said.)

Two days after they read this book in class for the celebration of Dr. Seuss’ birthday, she came to me and told me they did.

“Mom, we read the zoo book in school,” she said. She eyed me up, looking to see what I would do.

“Did you say anything?” I asked.

“No, we’re not supposed to talk during read aloud,” she said.

She waited two days to tell me because she was worried her teacher would get in trouble. With me, I presume. I told her I’d talk with her teacher and tell her that we think the book can be hurtful and that we want them to not read it again next year. That no one was meant to get into trouble. Instead, our goal is always to help other people sometimes.

So we reached out, and it all went well. I suspect the book won’t show up again for either teacher. I told my daughter the same and she seemed good with the outcome.

But in full honesty, I wish I pushed for a different outcome instead of just removing it. Because I actually think that this book is useful for a classroom full of nearly all white kids. It’s a teaching tool for anti-racism. But it’s not an easy request to ask a teacher to read the book and also point out the racism and harm. Without deep conversation and understanding between all of the parents and the kids. In this system anyway.

When my daughter saw that picture on facebook several months ago, I was worried about how to teach her to speak up. But now I’ve seen she has. She is still learning to find her own voice, and certainly under the thumb of authority in the systems she is now in. But she told me.

And I acted. As a parent, I am working to live as an example for her. A example of how we can make change in the world even in the small spaces we’re in like reading books in class or before bed. One thing I am learning is how going smaller can have a big impact. I’d like to think that her voice was maybe shared with a classmate, or that this post will make some of us check our bookshelves. Small ripples towards our freedom. And I’m also reminding myself that taking small steps also need to be steps towards the larger goal of liberation. For all of us.

*The picture at the top of the page was posted by a local Boston organization called Wee the People. They do such rad work and actually work with young kids to talk about racism. They also do parent workshops on how to take books and use them as learning tools even when we don’t like the content. Check them out, support them, and go to their workshops if you’re nearby.