My family and I are just getting back into the swing of things after a big wonderful wedding weekend (such big adventures can be tiring for tiny boys!).  Upon returning home we ate some lazy meals, watched a movie or two, went hunting for our camera (we left it at my parents house), and got the house somewhat in order again.

And now the week begins.  I love Monday mornings.  I love the return to the day-to-day routine, the fresh beginning of a week spread out ahead like newly tilled ground.

I love Monday mornings.  I love my work, and I believe in my work.  Caring for a child.  Buying food from people who care well for the land and its creatures.  Praying.  Praying to learn generosity.  Praying to learn thankfulness.  Practicing the craft of thrift.  Practicing the art of sales resistance.  Making mistakes.  Making yogurt.  Trying to keep the dishes done and the floor clean.  Trying to keep up with correspondences.  Failing often.  Nursing.  Knitting.  Tending my body and this tiny patch of earth I inhabit.  I believe our small, daily acts such as these are the truest form of activism.  I believe they are a vocation.  I believe they are my calling for this time and place.

I am reading Sex, Economy, Freedom & Community by Wendell Berry again, for the fifth(?) time since I bought it just over a year ago. I often think about that passage I quoted in that post about using the health of one’s community to chose.  People are usually surprised that I don’t use a breast pump (which in itself says a lot).  Aware that it is a very personal decision, they usually don’t ask why, and I am grateful for that.  My choice not to pump came after reading this article passed on to me by a coworker (I hadn’t thought much about it before).

I think having the option to breast pump is a wonderful, wonderful thing.  It gives so much freedom to women who love their work and can take care of their family (and themselves!) best by working away from home and providing good care for their babies during the day.

But what about the women working at Woodman’s who can hardly afford to take their much needed, but still unpaid, maternity leave?  What about women who can afford neither quality day care nor staying home to take care of their infant themselves (Imagine how different this country would be if all women got nine months paid maternity leave like women living in Norway recieve)?  Pumping is not a substitute for paid maternity leave or on-site day-care.  Giving mothers the ability to work is good, but that allowance often turns into requirement.  And those bearing the brunt of that are the low-wage workers.  I wish it weren’t that way.

So I breastfeed.  And on very rare occasions of great importance (for example, standing up in my best friend’s wedding), I use formula.  I know that this decision doesn’t make any difference to policy makers or CEO’s.  But that small act of saying no to something that makes me pay dearly (not just from my wallet) for what I already have (the ability to feed my child), seems very good.

If you have any thoughts about small acts, sales resistance, motherhood, pumping, breastfeeding, comment away.  I hope this fresh week ahead begins very blessed.

-Lindsey

February 19, 2007

Just one dollar (two for both of us) bought an afternoon of summertime, canaries and orange trees.

(thanks for the suggestion, Bri)

Today, Reed took an honest to goodness nap.  A real nap.  A nap longer than half an hour.  A nap at home.  Not in the car.  Not on a walk.  A nap outside of my arms.  Off the rocking chair.  Just him sleeping.  On his own.  Two (two!) hours.

I made a pot of tea and pulled out my journal.  I sat and wrote and then wrote some more and edited my novel.  What a treat it was to sit down and write with the sun on the streets and quiet in the house.  It was like having coffee when you haven’t had it for a while and you really really want coffee.  Coffee tastes so good when you really really want it.  So does writing.

It’s a shame no one will likely ever read this book.  I am growing to like it.

February 12, 2007

It’s official. I am engaged to Adam Lloyd Whitlock: owner of my favourite smile. I am super excited.

A lot of people are a bit confused about why it’s so fast. I don’t have any superb, dynamic reason to give them them, I just know that I’m not confused about it. I feel content. I feel sure. I really like that.

I’m stoked to share life with this guy. He’s wonderful.

Today is snowy.  Not December snowy: the sort of snow that makes you want to strap on a snowsuit and jump and run and roll in it.  It is February snowy: the sort of snow that you want to watch from the warm side of the window with some cinnamon rolls in the oven.  It is a perfect day for books, baking, and baby’s cheeks.  It is a day for afghans, for balls of wool yarn, for poems and journals and making Reed laugh.  I am so grateful for days like today.  This is a good life, and I am thankful to be able to stay home most days and care for my son.  It suits me, the quiet, the simplicity, the walks and pots of simple food.  Money is tight (as usual) but especially on days like today, with plenty of coffee on the stove, a fridge full of nourishing food, a well-rested body, and a happy, healthy baby, I don’t think I could be any richer.

Here’s a bit of a poem I have been enjoying:

…But harmony of earth is Heaven made,
Heaven-making is promise and is prayer,
A little song to keep us unafraid,
an earthy music magnified in air

-from A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997 by Wendell Berry

Tonight I made oeufs en meurette while drinking wine.  Its amazing how delicious eggs on toast can be when you add wine.  The experience reminded me why I put number 63 on the list: wine has a way of bringing out joy in food and friends and life.  And nothing makes me want to drink more joyous wine and eat more joyous food than this book.

Reed doesn’t take to napping easily.  He would rather look around and smile and play until he is severely overtired and grumpy.  Getting him to sleep can be amusing, stressful, funny, frustrating, meditative, sweet, restful, and any combination thereof.

So, I have taken to drinking a calming herbal tea I learned to make from this book while nursing the little one before trying to get him down.  I don’t know if it’s the smell that settles him in, if it effects the milk, or if it just relaxes him through me, but it does seem to have an effect.  Either way, the tea is very pleasant and very nice to take whenever you want to wind things down. Catnip is more known around here for the effects it has on cats, but it has a much longer history of human consumption.   Don’t buy it from your pet store, but look for it where loose herbs and teas are sold (try a local co-op or alternative health store or just grow your own).  In humans, rather than creating a wild euphoria, it is quite sedative.

1 part chamomile
1 part fennel seed
1 part catnip

Steep ten minutes.

So, the lentils I tried sprouting never really sprouted.  They just got fatter and fatter and fatter for two weeks and then were relocated to the compost pile.  I don’t know if the lentils were old and dead or if it was too cold.  I suspect the former.  And the dress I bought was only just okay, so I’m sending it back.  I also baked a loaf of bread that was very very far from perfect.

I don’t really mind failing once and a while.  What would be the fun in life if I did it all perfectly the first time?

The library is at its best when the sun is just beginning to set and the houses aren’t quite sure whether or not to turn on their lights.  It is busy there, quiet and busy with kids home from school and adults home from work.  People aren’t lingering, they are moving and making nice noises: walking, turning pages, zipping backpacks, scanning books.  Sometimes, I go just to hear it, with no intention of checking anything out.  I go and walk the aisles with Reed strapped to my belly.  We just watch and listen and run our fingers along book jackets while it grows darker outside and more houses turn on their lights.

95% of the time I love being a mom.  I mean, the entire act of motherhood.  I love  Reed’s face in the morning.  I love watching him get stronger and bigger and wiser.  I love watching him watch the world.  I even love the less shiny things:  rocking back and forth with him as he cries and cries while the sun comes through the window, waking up with him in the night, washing diapers.

The other 5% of the time it is usually cloudy outside.  Adam is gone.  And Reed probably hasn’t had a good nights’ sleep.  And then he most likely didn’t stay asleep for more than a few minutes in the morning.  And then by afternoon he is so tired all he does is cry.  And in the evening, it is more like screaming.  And I still love being a mom, I guess, in that 5%.  But I am irritable and grumpy and just want to wash my hair.  Reed, please let me go wash my hair. And all I can do is pray the prayer that has been finding its way to me since day one, “God, please teach me to be a mother.”  It’s a prayer that God always seems ready to answer.  God is also a mother.  But despite all prayers and answers, I am still irritable and grumpy and frumpy.

But, eventually night does fall.  Even on days like that.  And the babe does sleep.  And within a few short hours of quiet, I have forgotten the endless crying and yelling and and rocking.  And I’m just looking forward to his smile in the morning.