tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1544517280778540212024-03-14T10:34:00.023-07:00Fertile Ground, The ZineFor People Who Dig ParentingStacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.comBlogger289125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-26488548991259974192007-12-11T20:43:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:52:16.452-08:00Fertile Ground #16<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P5ARu47LhQie42hZZ9cKUafeefltvr7KD8-aQrv1IRkU9c1VAGMbh-Qb4epoeOMPA01_yXA-nRNr-DYIkN8niSJwAmPbtDefp39EB4hIPzb11hu5kLlOH3ygelwQ4p35cEXNt5uWTYE/s1600-h/cover16.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P5ARu47LhQie42hZZ9cKUafeefltvr7KD8-aQrv1IRkU9c1VAGMbh-Qb4epoeOMPA01_yXA-nRNr-DYIkN8niSJwAmPbtDefp39EB4hIPzb11hu5kLlOH3ygelwQ4p35cEXNt5uWTYE/s400/cover16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267597733746086786" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">INSIDE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FROM THE TRENCHES</span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/soil-chart.html">Soil Chart</a> by Stacey Greenberg<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/abraham-at-home.html">Abraham at Home</a> by Andria Brown<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">THE REAL DIRT</span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/its-family-affair.html">It’s a Family Affair</a> by Wendy Trenthem<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/adventures-of-nature-boy.html">The Adventures of Nature Boy</a> by Stacey Greenberg<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/perfection.html">Perfection</a> by Stephanie Chockley<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/end-of-innocence.html">The End of Innocence</a> by Kristy Alley<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/saying-it-loud.html">Saying It Loud</a> by Richard J. Alley<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FERTILIZER </span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/one-time-at-rock-n-roll-camp.html">One Time, At Rock-n-Roll Camp…</a> by Stacey Greenberg<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/all-roads-lead-to-mothersville.html">All Roads Lead to Mothersville</a> by Melissa Anderson Sweazy<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/build-it-and-they-will-come.html">Build It and They Will Come</a> by Courtney Miller Santo<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/meet-colleen-couch-smith.html">Meet Colleen Couch-Smith: An Interview</a> by Stacey Greenberg<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IN THE FIELD </span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/im-not-kidding.html">I’m Not Kidding</a> by Marrit Ingman<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-our-family-people-can-get-little.html">People Can Get a Little Testy Before Dinner</a> by Sarah Raymond<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/benjamin-franklin-discovers-his-own.html">Benjamin Franklin Discovers His Own Hands</a> by Leah Browning <br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/in-another-country.html">In Another Country</a> by Kristy Alley<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/play-therapy.html">Play Therapy</a> by Karen Wang<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">RUTS INTO FURROWS</span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/12/small-packages.html">FICTION: Small Packages</a> by Stacey GreenbergStacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-35984288469828863412007-12-11T19:48:00.000-08:002008-11-11T20:50:48.524-08:00Soil Chart<span style="font-weight:bold;">Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg<br />Photo by Maggie Louie</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhHOdVfT7RAD2avwFjUaNEVuZag94V0e4FaT8JmZziBzwKJ2z5vYaMwZo9vrJz7s97J1qjqAgIkIJWy3j-2pINwUepkyH3FMbNA61RY2QTTgpNVJ-7jXtR9Fl3MaTlDz7DoE2NrdP3EVQ/s1600-h/headshotbymaggie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhHOdVfT7RAD2avwFjUaNEVuZag94V0e4FaT8JmZziBzwKJ2z5vYaMwZo9vrJz7s97J1qjqAgIkIJWy3j-2pINwUepkyH3FMbNA61RY2QTTgpNVJ-7jXtR9Fl3MaTlDz7DoE2NrdP3EVQ/s200/headshotbymaggie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267628905054674562" /></a>We’ve been camping, we’ve been canoeing, we’ve been to the beach, we’ve been busy! When I said I was going semi-annual, I didn’t think I’d be scrambling to get out a second issue in December! I’m going to blame the giant lag time on moving. But even though I haven’t gotten a zine out since February, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing. When I’m not blogging, I’m usually working on a story for the Memphis Flyer, Memphis Parent, Health & Fitness, or Edible Memphis. I’m a regular household name around here! Ha! I even tried my hand at fiction for the annual Memphis Magazine Fiction Contest as you’ll see in the Ruts into Furrows section. (I’m afraid I’m the only one who’s ever going to publish my fiction.)<br /><br />On the home front we’ve been busy decorating and fixing things up to be nice and cozy. Even though we bought a house that didn’t need any work, we’ve had no trouble coming up with projects, both inside and out. The outside is going to break us I’m afraid. We have two giant gum trees that seem to dump something every season—pollen, gumballs, leaves, seeds, etc. If anyone knows a fun craft or recycling project involving gumballs please let me know!<br /><br />The monkeys are just as crazy as ever. Just after the last zine went out, Jiro broke his leg jumping off of a fence. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Satchel has thankfully remained intact. Speaking of staying in one piece, I made my return to the roller derby track December 1st—something I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to do. After almost a year of coaching and practicing, I finally got my nerve up. Now, I’m excited to get back in the action!<br /><br />With so much going on, it seems something’s gotta give. Sadly, I think it is this zine. Only time will tell. (A zine-making friend of mine once went five years without putting out an issue.) I do plan on doing a “Best of” issue that will be super fat. It will be mailed free to subscribers and should make up for the cost of the outstanding issues left on the subscription. Also you can request back issues to make up for any outstanding issues on your subscription. Just shoot me an email stacey@fertilegroundzine.com. <br /><br />Thank you for all of your support these last 5 years. It has really meant a lot to me! And remember, even though Fertile Ground may not show up in your mailbox, it is still online: www.fertilegroundzine.blogspot.com.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-32843596645535294262007-12-11T19:38:00.000-08:002008-11-11T20:48:16.457-08:00Abraham at Home<span style="font-weight:bold;">Abraham at Home<br />Essay & Photo by Andria Brown</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJKJ6dIaKqqh1dIyAxeXpNlwcrRWXTArD3wkZ3_xBH1c3cBybHc0mCZ84a4f7H5x3p6sRxzrnw68GAADwoLWnFCYqbzSd_d9WJrXYoWtEI51H7re-WNqrpih7PYT37Ue7JYD1gSX9pcs/s1600-h/abe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJKJ6dIaKqqh1dIyAxeXpNlwcrRWXTArD3wkZ3_xBH1c3cBybHc0mCZ84a4f7H5x3p6sRxzrnw68GAADwoLWnFCYqbzSd_d9WJrXYoWtEI51H7re-WNqrpih7PYT37Ue7JYD1gSX9pcs/s400/abe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267612667231117778" /></a><br />It was ten days after my estimated due date, almost a month past my personally expected due date, and I’d been in “pre-labor” for over a week. <br /><br />I went to bed around 11pm, feeling nothing physically stronger than my usual fatigue. But then I woke up about an hour later. And then ten minutes after that. And ten minutes after that. Still not convinced I was breaking out of the pre-labor pattern, I fought to go back to sleep, but then at 1a.m. I got the, "No, seriously" call from my uterus. Contractions were five minutes apart and after another half-hour, I couldn't lie down and be still during them. I got up and watched the clock for another twenty minutes or so and then woke up Jeff at 2a.m.<br /><br />Next I alerted the midwives. Since she had the furthest distance to drive, I called Andrea first. She answered the phone excitedly and asked, "Is it time?" It was thrilling to be able to finally say yes. She said she'd call Amy and head right over.<br /><br />Jeff was off to a slightly groggier start than I was. Maybe it was all the false alarms, or perhaps just the 97 minutes of sleep he was running on, but it took several reminders to get a pot of coffee made for the midwives (and him). He was in gear after about ten minutes, though, and we both spent the next hour puttering around, picking up the house, lighting candles, picking out music and contracting every 3-5 minutes (well, that was just me).<br /><br />When Andrea arrived around 3:15, we were in a very peaceful yet productive mode. I was resting between contractions, rocking back and forth to Julie London, and then up and circling the dining room table when they hit. The repetitive movement was my primary motivation, but it was also an instinctive desire to get away from everyone and into a dark, quiet room. Andrea checked my blood pressure and the baby's heart rate and position and said we looked to be in good shape all around.<br /><br />Amy rolled up about 4a.m., and she and Andrea set about getting things prepared. It didn't occur to me how much stuff they'd show up with, and it was pretty cool to see how they'd organized a mobile birthing center into a couple of carry-on bags. They both quickly adapted to the mood of the house and, although they did their work and carried on conversations, they moved and spoke smoothly and quietly, never interfering with my own rhythm.<br /><br />As the morning rolled on, Jeff asked if we should wake my mom (aka Cha Cha) up. I said no, since I didn't see much need for her to sit around and watch me hurt. I also figured it would be better for her to get as much rest as possible before Miss M arose and she had to entertain her for an indefinite period of time, even though I was thinking we wouldn't have all that much longer to go.<br /><br />Turns out, this was a good call.<br /><br />Not long after the sun came up, Miss M came stumbling into the living room. At this point, I was making noise during contractions, going from audible exhales to quiet groans. We'd prepared M as best we could for what she might see or hear during labor, and she didn't seem bothered by what was going on. She was very clingy to Jeff, though, so we decided to wake Cha Cha up and turn over child-wrangling duties.<br /><br />Contractions had been getting more and more intense during this interlude, and I finally hit the point where I could no longer complete my dining room table laps and had to just stand in one place, grab the back of a chair, and moan out my exhales. <br /><br />When I started doing this, Amy and Andrea started bustling around, clearing space around me and laying out all the waterproof materials. They'd been assessing my dilation to that point based on my circulation and the location of my uterus, so I figured they had a good idea that I was getting close. Looking back, though, I think they just wanted to protect the rug in case my water broke.<br /><br />I wasn't so much feeling pushy as just ready to be done with those really fierce contractions, and based on my sudden hot flashes and shakiness, I was pretty sure I was in transition. Glad that I'd thought ahead and closed the dining room blinds, I followed my urge to take off all restrictive clothing (i.e, all of it). This cued Miss M to take on one of her pre-assigned tasks, and she ran into her room and got a tiny little fan that she proceeded to use to cool me off. It was pretty damn adorable. For about 15 seconds, anyway. Then she got bored or freaked out or otherwise occupied and quietly went off with Cha Cha.<br /><br />Saying things are a blur from this point on isn't entirely accurate. They're more dark than blurry, owing to the fact that my eyes were closed 90% of the time. I stayed in the dining room for a short while longer, but I suddenly remembered how soft and comfortable the bed had looked when I passed it on the way to my 319th pee, and I spontaneously decided on a change of venue. The bedroom was clean and light and airy and seemed like the perfect place to be.<br /><br />I waddled into the bedroom and hoped that I could find a way to rest in between contractions. Problem with that plan, however, was that I couldn't get myself into any position other than standing or kneeling with my body straight up. Lying down just wasn't an option. Neither was being on my hands and knees, which I thought would help with the baby's position. I also became aware that, well beyond the intensity of the contractions, the pain in my back was getting stronger and stronger. Jeff resumed his post from Miss M's delivery, with his fists firmly pressed against the upper points of my pelvis. <br /><br />They kept checking the baby's heart tones as often as they could manage, and as time went on, just about the only thing encouraging me was hearing that strong, consistent beat. After wandering around the bedroom and trying several positions suggested by the midwives, including sitting backwards on the toilet, I found my most comfortable spot. This involved standing in our teeny bathroom, hands pressed into the wall and arms straight ahead of me, trying to create a straight line of energy between the pushing in my arms and pushing out the baby. The crucial part of this set-up was Jeff, who was stationed behind me with his hands pressing into my back. Because the bathroom is so small, he was up against the opposite wall (or so I thought; he later showed me that he was actually jammed up against the closet doorknob) so there was a lot more counter-pressure.<br /><br />Amy and Andrea were paying close attention to my energy level, and when I seemed to be wearing out, they were right there to encourage and coach me. When I thought I was about to tip over from hunger, Amy appeared with a spoonful of honey. When my legs started shaking from standing too long, Andrea suggested I try moving back to bed and trying to push from my side or back for awhile. Even though being in bed wasn't as comfortable for me, I actually found myself relaxing (or, more accurately, collapsing) and nearly asleep in between contractions. I also tried to keep focused by talking to myself, muttering words like "open," "release" and "strong."<br /><br />But my back. Holy hell, my back. There was nothing else going on in my body that rivaled the pain in my back. It was searing, like flaming knives stabbing outward. When I wasn't bellowing incomprehensibly, the only words out of my mouth were, "MY BACK MY BACK OH PLEASE MY BACK!" Jeff did his very best to accommodate my hollered requests, but I felt like I was taking up valuable energy and breath trying to detail where I needed counter-pressure when I should have been spending it on pushing. Andrea did suggest that I try holding in my urge to groan and focusing that effort on pushing instead, which did seem to help make the pushing more effective.<br /><br />Or so I thought, anyway. After all that work, I couldn't imagine that the baby was very far away. I kept waiting to hear, "He's close! I can feel the head!" but I never did. Every time they checked my dilation, I could tell that the baby was still very high up. Sometimes there was still a lip of cervix, sometimes not. I deliberately didn't look at the clock, but I overheard the midwives discussing the heart checks and Andrea said something about 10:25. When I heard that, I wanted to cry. Three hours. I'd been at this three hours and I wasn't even close. Andrea asked me to lie down so she could get a good check, but it hurt so badly that I flipped over and scurried over the edge of the bed like a startled spider. (You have to clearly envision my giant contracting belly for that to seem as impressive as it was.) I believe it was Amy who then said, "Well she's still got spirit."<br /><br />At this point, the baby was doing just fine, but I was feeling in distress. I fell to my knees at the side of the bed, in exhaustion and fear and supplication. I prayed. I choked back the urge to sob. The idea of a hospital transport flitted into my head, but I knew I could never make it sitting in a car for 20 minutes. I also knew that I'd be a very likely c-section candidate, especially after I gleefully accepted an epidural and all its back-numbing deliciousness. So some stubborn voice, way way back in my head, told me to just keep going. To trust that we were doing fine and that everything would be okay.<br /><br />I got back up and into the bathroom, mentally if not physically stronger. I felt a small increase in the effectiveness of my pushing, and with one particularly strong push, I felt the massive sploosh of my water breaking. As did Jeff, who was still stationed right behind me. I was somewhat encouraged by this change, mostly because it meant that something was happening. The midwives also noted that I'd feel a lot less pressure now that the bag of water wasn't trying to get out ahead of the baby. And they were right.<br /><br />But oh my fothermucking back. Andrea offered to try saline injections to relieve the pain, but having heard nothing but failing reports from other mamas who'd tried the same thing, I decided against it.<br /><br />I think it was about this time that Jeff pulled out the big guns. A few nights before, we'd watched Borat and, as much as I enjoyed the movie as a whole, there was one part that made me laugh out loud both when I watched it and any time afterwards that I thought about it. It was just one second of the movie, but it cracked me up. And I told Jeff that, when labor got unbearable and I seemed like I wasn't going to make it, that I needed him to duplicate that scene for me. So there in our bathroom, after 11 hours of watching me trying to squeeze out a baby, Jeff took it upon himself to cluck like a surprised chicken in a dropped suitcase. And in the middle of all that pain and frustration, I laughed.<br /><br />The laughing stopped shortly afterward, though, when Amy came in to check the baby and we all heard something we hadn't heard before. No one said the word "deceleration," but after all those previous checks, it was easy to tell that the baby wasn't doing as well as he had been. His heart rate was noticeably slower. This time, Andrea's recommendation that I lie on my side wasn't a suggestion. And this time, I didn't resist it. I knew my comfort wasn't the most important thing anymore.<br /><br />I got back in bed and onto my side. Jeff had my back, Amy helped support my leg and Andrea was applying compresses and trying to guide the baby's head. I'd rest for about 20 seconds and then groan, "Okaayyy," which signaled everyone to get into position while I pushed. I was still yelling instructions on where I needed my back pressed while I heard Andrea and Amy calmly encouraging my pushing. I finally felt like I was getting close, like the baby was really coming. This was the part I'd been anticipating for four hours.<br /><br />I pushed and pushed and pushed. I could feel the fullness of the baby moving down and without anyone telling me it was happening, I knew his head was nearly out. And then it was. The relief was so tremendous that I wanted to stop right there and rest for awhile, but the midwives kept calmly but firmly guiding me to continue pushing. Which surprised me a little, knowing that there’s often a rest period in between the delivery of the head and body, and that their general policy was against coached pushing. But I listened. Within a few more pushes, and with a feeling I can only describe as "blooooop," he was all the way out.<br /><br />And so, so quiet.<br /><br />My eyes were still closed. All I could hear was the midwives telling me to talk to my baby, call him by name, talk to him. Jeff's face was against mine, and I could vaguely hear him whispering that everything was fine, that the baby was fine. And we both called to him, "It's okay, Abraham. We're here. Abraham. Abraham. You're okay." I can't pretend I didn't think the worst. I thought what every parent thinks in that time when you're waiting for the crying to start.<br /><br />After a very long minute, we heard the cries we'd been waiting for, and the midwives placed his still bluish body on my chest. Andrea explained that his umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck. Twice. I didn't think there was a drop of fluid left in me after sweating for so long, but one heavy tear of joy and relief slipped from my eye.<br /><br />Amy stepped outside and told Cha Cha and Miss M, who had been out back playing in the inflatable pool, to come in and meet the baby. Damp from the pool and red from the sun, they both tip-toed into the bedroom. I'm not sure whose face was beaming more brightly, although Cha Cha had the reflective power of tears on her side. I'm pretty sure my mother hugged me, and I'm positive she told me how proud she was of me. I wasn't prepared for how much it would mean to share that moment with my own mother, and I was so fiercely grateful that she had the chance to be there. <br /><br />I held Abraham while the midwives assessed how I was doing. I coughed out the placenta a few minutes later and was feeling pretty good, all things considered. But they were concerned about my bleeding, which mirrored the situation after the three hours it took to push Miss M out of me. They dosed me with arnica, both to help contractions and to deal with the already gruesome bruise blossoming on my lower back.<br /><br />Again, the timing here is all a bit fuzzy, but I think this is when they checked the baby. They weighed him with the slingy-looking scale (I won the weight pool - 8lbs. even), measured out his little body (21" long, 14.25" head, 13" chest, 13.5" abdomen) and gave him an oral dose of Vitamin K. Because he'd spent so much time swimming around instead of descending, his head was a perfect little ball of a thing. He had a light dusting of dark hair, already threatening to curl. His eyes were blue, but a deep sapphire that seems likely to darken into brown but will be truly stunning if they stay as they are. He had a hint of his dad's chin cleft, just like his big sister. He was, quite simply, beautiful.<br /><br />During one of her checks on my bleeding, Andrea detailed the stickiness of Abraham's delivery position. He'd been posterior - face-up - but slightly turned to my left side. All he really needed to do was flip a quarter-turn to the right and he'd have been all set. But instead, he kept turning left. And turning, and turning. In what is called a "long arc rotation," he spun a full 360 degrees and ended up almost exactly where he'd started - still posterior. The only thing that keeps me from holding this against him his entire life is the knowledge that, in that big spin, he may have unwrapped one more loop of cord from around his neck. I don't think she was being at all dramatic or anti-hospital when Andrea said that this type of presentation was the most common reason for c-sections. She didn't suggest it, but I wholly believe that if I hadn't had this baby at home, I would have surely ended up in surgery.<br /><br />After yet another discouraging check on my bleeding, I reminded Andrea that I'd been catheterized after M's birth because I'd been too swollen to pee on my own. I gave her permission to try again (forgetting that I'd had a local anesthetic last time, due to being stitched up). It was not a pleasant minute, but it did the job. With my bladder empty, my uterus could contract and the bleeding slowed way, way down. I could see the relief on both midwives' faces, both because I was going to be okay and, I dare presume, because this meant they could get some rest.<br /><br />And, finally, that I could, too. With my baby at my breast, I laid in my own bed, with the sounds of my family around me, and went into a deep, bone-tired, blissful sleep.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-13082488412372431402007-12-11T19:35:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:37:37.789-08:00It's a Family Affair<span style="font-weight:bold;">It's a Family Affair<br />Wendy Trenthem</span><br /><br />Come February, we will have three children. Although we do tend to overanalyze things, this was not an easy decision to make. Our boys are currently 7 and 9, and we could be well on our way to the 'tween years without any more diapers, nursing, wakeful nights, preschools, and on and on. We tried to convince ourselves that two children are enough. They certainly cost enough. They are healthy and capable and keep us really busy. But our hearts wouldn't hear of it. So here I am, in my third pregnancy 10 years after my first.<br /><br />When you announce you are pregnant and you have older children, most people immediately ask if it was a surprise. How silly. We know how this works. It's too hard to explain casually that it's been a heart vs. head struggle for years, whether to have three. Family planning is not like vacation planning. It's more like playing God.<br /><br />My husband and I both grew up one of three kids, so that might explain our tendency toward three. But I also recently read that sometimes women will have just one more baby to put off being alone, or because they are not sure what to pursue career-wise once they are done with the childbearing years. Fortunately my career and family have meshed well even if I'm not raking in the dough. And please don't tease me that we're just doing this again because we're “trying for a girl.” Children are not collectibles. (But don't tell my boys that. They desperately want a sister.) <br /><br />I see a couple of major advantages to the large spacing. First off, it's far easier to do it now than when I had a one- and three-year-old. Two in diapers was big work. The three-year-old liked to try to pick the baby up by the head. We were exhausted for about three years. The close spacing is great now, as the brothers are friends and playmates. But three right together would have sent me to the funny farm. So, now that they're older, the boys can really be more involved. <br /><br />This new baby is really a family affair. Phillip and James have already read <span style="font-style:italic;">It's So Amazing</span>, the “facts of life” book by Robie H. Harris and Michael Emberley, so they know where babies come from. But to watch their mom go through pregnancy firsthand is a real lesson in the subtle changes that take place over nine months. <br /><br />They don't like it when I'm tired and ready for bed before they are. Needless to say, it's a lesson in patience, which thankfully gives us an opportunity for this giant change to sink in. They've been to the midwife with us to hear the heartbeat. And we have decided to find out the gender of this baby via ultrasound, mostly for the big brothers' benefit. At the ages of 7 and 9, they are very matter-of-fact about a lot of the biology. I think only our oldest, Phillip, really gets embarrassed about the idea of mom and dad having had sex. It's a bit more abstract for James, the seven-year-old. <br /><br />We're planning a home birth after two successful natural births in the hospital, but we're still discussing how near the guys need to be during the actual birth. They will definitely be involved and included, but we don't want them to be bored, worried, or made self-conscious by watching mom give birth. I am happy that they will be able to hold their new sibling right away, in the comfort of home. And it won't hurt if they urge their future wives to have a natural birth at home.<br /><br />The other practical advantages are obvious. Having only one helpless child, with two rather independent and helpful children will be easier. I don't presume to use my sons to take care of the baby, but clearly they will do more to help than be a burden. And the opportunity to help care for an infant and toddler is a great life experience. Not to mention the interesting life this youngest sibling will have, never knowing a world without Legos, Pokemon, and Nintendo Wii. <br /><br />All that toy crap notwithstanding, this baby will have two excellent teachers who will show him or her how to approach life with gusto and exuberance. They will read their favorite books to baby, sing him/her songs, and show him/her how to have fun without mom and dad (or even at the expense of mom and dad). They will get in trouble, however, for scaring this youngest with stories of monsters under the bed, the way I did with my younger sister.<br /><br />Yes, we'll have a kindergartener and a high-schooler. Yes, it will be harder to take the fun trips we'd just started taking to explore other cities like Chicago, St. Louis, and Austin. Yes, we'll need another chair to fit around our table for four (we recently solved the car problem with a six-seatbelt microvan). Yes, the big brothers are going to feel jealous (maybe even resentful and angry) and will have to adjust to lots of changes around the house. <br /><br />Every day will not be a picnic, but it isn't now. Life is about adjusting, accepting change. I hope that with this new baby, and with most everything we do as a family, we will equip our kids for life and all its changes, its ups and downs.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-77625681727010875132007-12-11T19:31:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:34:56.721-08:00The Adventures of Nature Boy<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Adventures of Nature Boy by Stacey Greenberg<br />Photo by Maggie Louie</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7hn-72Q7W2gWB-GAt8sOMEwp1_S18swTAHiZpxiBqN7nlDrAF_SoRVVLX64PW9k4UMw9H9atHgavXMKmeQ1f0y-ly6lBhS_Hqtlm8jq4MOHT-W0OLXnIhcwsTf_sD-e1ptPhyphenhyphen1b0sq3w/s1600-h/stacyfam6.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7hn-72Q7W2gWB-GAt8sOMEwp1_S18swTAHiZpxiBqN7nlDrAF_SoRVVLX64PW9k4UMw9H9atHgavXMKmeQ1f0y-ly6lBhS_Hqtlm8jq4MOHT-W0OLXnIhcwsTf_sD-e1ptPhyphenhyphen1b0sq3w/s400/stacyfam6.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267609241787657570" /></a><br />In Richard Louv’s book, <span style="font-style:italic;">Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder</span>, he defines Nature-Deficit Disorder as the cumulative effect of withdrawing nature from children's experiences. He says that it’s not just individual children, “Families too can show the symptoms -- increased feelings of stress, trouble paying attention, feelings of not being rooted in the world.”<br /><br />I come from a long line of city girls, but when I married a former forest ranger, and later gave birth to Nature Boy, I found myself spending almost every weekend hiking through the Old Forest trails of Overton Park. Frankly, if it weren’t for these weekly communes with nature, here in Midtown, it’s likely our resident forest ranger would have moved us all to Alaska long ago. The Forest Ranger and I are doing our best to combat NDD in our own lives.<br /><br />On our most recent hike, we were specifically on a hunt for lizards. Nature Boy, now age 5, needed a lizard. Bug box in hand, we set off down one of our favorite trails that opens up near the playground on East Parkway. As we made our way down the path, The Forest Ranger started off with his usual, “Remember when a bee stung you?” speech, reminding us of the time that I ran from a bee that eventually stung Nature Boy on the ear. <br /><br />“I’m completely over my fear of bees now—I’m in search of lizards!” I say. Before we can even really start looking for a lizard, Nature Boy has found a centipede and The Forest Ranger, who is now working as an Archaeologist, has found a small glass bottle dated 1927. Geronimo, my three-year-old, and I assist with the bug box and “ooh and aah” accordingly.<br /><br />A few steps later and we have a millipede! The Forest Ranger laughs as we try to get it in the bug box which is full of holes small enough for it to easily climb through. I’m totally over bees, yes, but I’m not so sure about this millipede. “It stings,” The Forest Ranger says coolly. We decide to let the millipede stay put.<br />Some new trees have fallen since we last visited and the boys waste no time climbing along them to check out the view. Geronimo spots some low hanging vines ahead, and they are quickly off to play Tarzan. (If the vines are hanging just right, The Forest Ranger and I get to play Tarzan, too.)<br /><br />We pass through to the road running near Rainbow Lake and turn right to circle back towards the Red Playground. Not two seconds later Nature Boy has spotted his lizard.<br /> “Look, Daddy!” he says as he points to a tree trunk. <br /><br />“Don’t grab it by the tail,” The Forest Ranger warns.<br /><br />“Why not?” Nature Boy asks.<br /><br />“Because it will fall off and the lizard will get away.”<br /><br />“Okay,” he says seriously and expertly grabs the lizard around the middle. “Mommy, I need the bug box!” he exclaims.<br /><br />I rush over with Geronimo at my side and we both congratulate Nature Boy on his successful capture. He is gleeful. “I did it! I caught a lizard! I’m going to catch flies at home to feed him,” he says happily.<br /><br />Yes, Nature Boy can catch flies with his bare hands.<br /><br />“But what will we name him?” I ask.<br /><br />“Lizzie,” says Nature Boy.<br /><br />He imagines that Lizzie will live a long, happy life in a box next to Hermie and Crabby, two hermit crabs that we bought at the beach “gift shop” in July. (In truth, we will let Lizzie go the next day.)<br /><br />Energized by the find, Geronimo is off to the Red Playground and Nature Boy is at his side. The Forest Ranger and I water the dogs and smile big at each other. The Old Forest is our sanctuary.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-25046497896820078792007-12-11T19:29:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:31:06.956-08:00Perfection<span style="font-weight:bold;">Perfection<br />Stephanie Chockley</span><br /><br />I am a firm believer that self-esteem is created by learning what you are and are not good at, and understanding how to deal with both of those realities. Self-esteem is not created by telling a kid they are perfect and shielding them from failure, which is a misconception I saw way too often back when I was an elementary school teacher. This philosophy was easy for me to apply to other people's children. Would I be able to practice what I preached once I had kids of my own? Eh. . . sort of. <br /><br />I am usually able to let my kids try and fail at things, as long as I know they won't get hurt. But I have a hard, hard time withholding praise for praise's sake. Because look at my children! They're perfect and gorgeous and perfect!<br /><br />I think having a boy first caused me to let my guard down a bit. I have told him he is the most beautiful boy ever to exist pretty much since day one. And that's okay for a boy to hear, because he will inevitably be told he is smart and strong and fast and all the other wonderful things boys hear just because they're boys. As he has grown, I have worked to compliment him on his good qualities and call his attention to areas that need improvement. Since his teachers tell me he's smart and helpful, I have no problem complimenting him on that. <br /><br />But Chloe—you just can't tell a girl that she's gorgeous every day of her life and not have it come back to bite you in the ass. So when she was a baby, I tried to temper the "beautiful girl!" exclamations with "and so smart and strong!" But really, what does a baby do to show you her strength of character? Not much, really—she just sits there, pooping and drooling and being breathtakingly gorgeous. So eventually I gave up, because I didn't want to lie, and just reverted to the beauty angle. <br /><br />And boy did I ever screw up. <br /><br />She's talking now, and I tried to use that as an opportunity to bolster her sense of self, but it might be too late. She's easily frustrated by things she can't do—way more than her brother ever has been—and she seems to rely on the adorableness thing rather than her vocabulary to (successfully) get what she wants out of us. <br />The nail went in the coffin this morning when, after refusing one pair of shoes in favor of another, she declared, "I cute!" <br /><br />Her elementary school teachers are going to hate me.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-31815559781365732602007-12-11T19:28:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:29:34.121-08:00The End of the Innocence<span style="font-weight:bold;">The End of the Innocence<br />Kristy Alley</span><br /><br />My oldest child is almost ten years old. I feel lucky that he has maintained his childhood innocence and wonder to an age that, if the media is to believed, is practically post-puberty for the average American kid. But I'm afraid this is the beginning of the end for some of that wonder.<br /><br />A few months ago, he started asking me very earnestly, "Mom, is the tooth fairy real?" I found myself torn between telling him the brutal truth and letting the magic go on just a little bit longer. It's not that the tooth fairy is such a big deal, but if the tooth fairy's a fake, what's next? How far down the path is it to Santa Claus? Yes, Virginia, he still believes in Santa Claus. At least, he did yesterday. All that may have changed by now.<br /><br />This morning, Calvin came out of his room on his own, before any of the other kids had woken up. He walked up to me grinning and drawing attention to a newly-formed gap in his smile where a loose molar had recently been. "Oh, you pulled your tooth," I said, smiling back. "Yep," he replied, "yesterday."<br /><br />It took a minute for that to sink in. I'd been duped! I knew this was something he'd been planning to do, based on veiled comments and his recent revelation that his best friend had lost a tooth the day before, but he had waited to tell me. As if I were possibly in cahoots with all the other parents, making clandestine phone calls at the shocking hour of 10:00p.m. to alert them to their children's tooth fairy sting ops. <br /><br />He didn't seem upset this morning, just satisfied that his plan had worked. He asked me what I did with all the teeth. When I told him not to spoil it for his siblings, he replied, "Well, you better give me a dollar then, because they're going to ask to see it." <br /><br />A little later, he came into the bathroom where I was doing my makeup and asked, "The next time I lose a tooth, can I put it under my pillow?"<br /><br />"You should have thought about that before you got in such a rush to figure everything out. Especially since the dentist said you're about to lose a bunch of teeth!" I said. I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him, though. I also couldn't help but wonder where his thoughts would take him over the course of the day. I know my child, and I know that this is going to be a big deal for him. One thought is going to lead to another. And even though I don't remember a single moment when I stopped believing in Santa Claus, and I know I was never upset about it, it kills me to think of him losing that magical idea. He has been one of the last hold-outs in his class, insisting on believing. And now that's probably over for him. <br /><br />I've always known that growing up is hard to do. I just never knew how hard it was to watch.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-35586901457133686512007-12-11T19:27:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:28:03.165-08:00Saying It Loud<span style="font-weight:bold;">Saying It Loud<br />Richard J. Alley</span><br /><br />When I was a kid in school, I recall taking field trips to Chucalissa Indian Village, where the high point of the visit was buying an authentic Indian arrowhead in the gift shop. We also went to the Pink Palace, when it was actually in the house, to see the shrunken heads. And, of course, there was the zoo when all it boasted was a fetid concrete box housing the lions, just a short walk from an island of monkeys.<br /><br />Today, I chaperoned Calvin’s class at the Rock 'n Soul Museum in the FedEx Forum. We walked there, his school being only a few blocks from this venue, and along the way there were impromptu history lessons given by Dr. Max on the Robert Churches, W.C. Handy and the history of Beale Street.<br /> <br />The museum tour begins with a 15-minute film on the evolution of blues to soul and rock-n-roll and it was great to see the kids' heads, from my vantage point in the back of the theater, bobbing and dancing along with Carl Perkins, Sam and Dave and Elvis. At certain points, too, they broke out and sang along on "Blue Suede Shoes" and "Respect." The tour was self-guided, each child and adult wandering around with headphones and an MP3 player that allowed its user to punch in a three-digit number to hear a narrator discussing a particular display or, most often, to listen to song lists on any number of juke boxes set up throughout the museum. The kids danced and strutted to everyone from Furry Lewis to Al Green, and it was great to hear them singing, with no thought as to their volume, along with "Say It Loud (I'm Black and I'm Proud)," "That's All Right (Mama)" and "Walk The Line."<br /><br />Music, and the history of Memphis music in particular, is a great catalyst for the discussion of civil rights, its history, and the proper way one human should treat another. The Rock 'n Soul Museum devotes much time in the introductory film to this cause and there is a large display on nothing but the Civil Rights Movement. But as I watched these black and white children, all of whom were born at the turn of this century, dance and sing together while laughing and helping each other with the given assignment, it occurred to me that all of the strife and tension and heartache of the last century is mostly lost on them. And that's a good thing, because it left their hearts and minds wide open to the music in their ears.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-60414644707310378472007-12-11T19:22:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:26:33.353-08:00One Time, At Rock-n-Roll Camp…<span style="font-weight:bold;">One Time, At Rock-n-Roll Camp…<br />Stacey Greenberg</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm15T6-DIMrAKwfbvRQI9BJ_rTxjf7PIvUxFgPU4sI_QLEBDRmArEshr5ckzBN4GEqlnFldYy33YGTdfprdbhYUI5D0PVCucmzASkhrhtnsaHY5PU9SPkHXZbaBfnc7C-x9Mgl1sqiSXg/s1600-h/DSC01253.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm15T6-DIMrAKwfbvRQI9BJ_rTxjf7PIvUxFgPU4sI_QLEBDRmArEshr5ckzBN4GEqlnFldYy33YGTdfprdbhYUI5D0PVCucmzASkhrhtnsaHY5PU9SPkHXZbaBfnc7C-x9Mgl1sqiSXg/s400/DSC01253.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267607120005594290" /></a><br />Inspired by the Rock 'n' Roll Camp for Girls in Portland, Oregon, the Southern Girls Rock & Roll Camp (SGRRC) was founded by Kelley Anderson in Murfreesboro, TN in 2003 to encourage more young women to become involved in music. The weeklong camp centers on each girl joining a band composed of fellow campers, then writing and rehearsing a song to play at a showcase for parents and friends on the last day. The camp also features live performances and panel discussions with local musicians and workshops.<br /><br />Last summer, SGRRC expanded to Memphis. Through the magic of the internet, Kelley asked me to teach the zine-making workshop. Since the camp was being held right across the street from my office, I replied with an enthusiastic yes.<br /><br />I have to admit that I was pretty nervous the first day, not knowing what to expect. Little boys—no problem. Girls ages 10-17—no clue. I ended up with four really sweet and talented girls and an awesome assistant, Jessi, who is a former camper.<br /><br />Monday we just sat around and got to know each other and talked about what a zine is. We had a whole stack of sample zines to check out, and I gave everyone a copy of Fertile Ground. Then I tried to explain why a mom might want to make a zine without mentioning words like homebirth, breastfeeding, or circumcision that might freak them out. Luckily, the latest issue was the Memphis issue, and I was able to convince them I was semi-cool with the details of breaking my leg in two places in the roller derby.<br /><br />Tuesday we busted out the box of art supplies and started making collages. Everyone was a little more relaxed and we had fun discussing what we wanted to put in the zine. I also talked to Chuck, the photography teacher, about getting some pictures of the bands that the girls were forming for the zine.<br /><br />Wednesday I was a bit panicked about not having any content, so I asked the girls to do some writing before we busted out the art supplies. I talked to Kelley to see if she could get the band names, members names, bios, and lyrics for me to include. No small task! No one could come up with a name for the zine so I shyly asked my group of budding hipsters in Ramones and Go-Go’s shirts if they had ever seen the movie “American Pie.” They nodded. “Remember how that girl was saying, 'One time at band camp'?" They nodded. "Want to call it that?" They looked around at each other and giggled in approval.<br /><br />"Maybe we could cross out the word 'band' and replace it with 'rock-n-roll'," Halle suggested.<br /><br />"Yeah, we could cross it out with red lipstick!" Allie said.<br /><br />Hoping to have a stapling party Friday, I told the girls they'd have to work on a few things at home so we could get everything laid out on Thursday. At lunch it occurred to me that everything we were doing was in color and that when I gave the girls free reign to pick out the style of zine they wanted to do, I never asked Kelley what our budget was for printing! <br /><br />Thursday I came in to find all of the volunteers looking very sleepy and hungover. Kelley, Jessi, and Nikki are in an old time country band called Those Darlins and they played at Murphy's Wednesday night. Chuck had stayed up late too. But it wasn't too bad--Kelley had most of the band info and Chuck had all of the pictures I needed on his computer. Once we got all of the band info together--there were eight total--we suddenly had lots and lots of content for the zine. And best of all, Halle made an amazing cover collage.<br /><br />We ran out of time, so Jessi and I ate a quick lunch and then finished the layout ourselves. Even though she is totally laid back and awesome, she agreed with me that we needed a table of contents and page numbers. I was very worried about coming off as totally anal!!<br /><br />Friday when I showed up for class, long-armed stapler in hand, I found out that the zine was still at the printer's. So much for the stapling party! Jessi had the great idea of making little envelopes and putting fortunes into them to wedge between the staples of the final zine. We had a great time doing this--especially me, the old dog learning a new trick. <br /><br />I left after lunch with a promise of a phone call by Anna, the director, as soon as the zine was printed. I planned to rush over and get it stapled before graduation later that evening. At about 4:45pm I got a text message that said, "They are all here, they are stapled, and they are all in color!" <br /><br />On Saturday at the Showcase, Kelley, the founder, actually said to me, "I got a chance to sit down and read the zine last night and it is the best one we've ever had."<br /><br />As awesome as the zine was, the real highlight of the camp was the Showcase at the end of the week. Inside the Gibson Guitar Factory, the lights were low, the room was packed with parents and friends, and you could feel the buzz in the air. There was no actual backstage, so campers were milling about all dolled up and you could tell that they were PUMPED. And NERVOUS as hell.<br /><br />First up was Squirrel vs. Ferret who sang an original song called "Frozen Sorrows." Two of my zinesters were on guitar and the lead singer had a great smile on her face the whole time she was up there. I seriously got goosebumps and almost started balling!<br /><br />The Country Gals featured a zinester on guitar. EVERYONE had been talking about The Country Gals all week. They were the youngest band--each girl is about ten--and they wrote a song called "Daddy Buy Me a Dancing Horse." They all made shirts with horses on them and the girl on vocals, Kierstan, came out in pigtails and said, "Daddy, come here!" before she started the song. She hopped up and down the whole time she sang. At one point she stopped and took three or four big breaths. It was so damn cute it hurt.<br /><br />Loveless was next, featuring a zinester on keyboards. Their song, "Broken Prince Charming," was great and the lead singer had a really unique voice. Her mom was jumping up and down in the audience screaming, "That's my daughter! That's my daughter!" It was hilarious. I can't wait to do that to Satchel and/or Jiro someday.<br /><br />Forgotten Blue featured the daughter of some good friends of mine who just happened to be standing next to me. I went back and forth from watching Flannery to watching her mom and tried to imagine the feeling. Flannery looked so grown up and cool. I had seen her throughout the week and did my best to be friendly without embarrassing her.<br /><br />Jessi's band, the Klassix, did an original song in the style of the Sherrell's. I was really glad that my friend Hope was with me since we went to high school and girl scout camp together. We both just looked at each other, shook our heads, and wondered what our lives would have been like had we had Rock-n-Roll camp! <br /><br />Ravad 74 ended the show with their very catchy and very well done original song "Unsinkable." (When I'm not singing "Daddy daddy buy me a dancing horse," I'm singing "I'm unsinkable/No one can bring me down/I'm unsinkable/I don't want you around.") Now, these girls really knew how to rock. Granted they were the oldest girls and one of the members, Audra Brown, already has an album out, but damn. If they don't become rock stars, I have no doubt they will at least join the roller derby!<br /><br />It was a really awesome show and an amazing experience overall. You really just had to be there. I'm so excited about the future of SGRRC and cannot wait until next year. I've got to find a way to take the whole week off so I won't have to miss a minute!Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-14515390860946694132007-12-11T19:19:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:22:03.258-08:00All Roads Lead to Mothersville<span style="font-weight:bold;">All Roads Lead to Mothersville<br />Essay & Photo by Melissa Anderson Sweazy<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wKCBSs3M5oxcZIr-kFMEEBSGaU7Xp5KXqz05MTebQ_iCvzXNJGcMZpABIqrcskf8aWfnU9pvsrQN56ClCLDN0pHgOYexfWAlAnmFJhW-uDcTJUPapN0_bhU2jddI2TPVKSU2v6Lbmgo/s1600-h/melissa2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wKCBSs3M5oxcZIr-kFMEEBSGaU7Xp5KXqz05MTebQ_iCvzXNJGcMZpABIqrcskf8aWfnU9pvsrQN56ClCLDN0pHgOYexfWAlAnmFJhW-uDcTJUPapN0_bhU2jddI2TPVKSU2v6Lbmgo/s400/melissa2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267605957808947794" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">January 2007</span><br />The friendly people on bikes and the moms pushing strollers and folks walking dogs past our window? The ones our realtor promised he saw everyday in front of our soon to-be new house at quitting time? Gone. Held hostage by an unusually bitter winter. Unusually bitter for Memphis. Totally in keeping with my rotten, lonely pregnant self. We’ve been in Memphis for six months. The psychic told me that six months would be all I needed to acclimate, but she saw the move in the cards. We were gonna be golden, she insisted. I wonder if she can sense my demanding a refund. <br /><br />I cry in supermarkets and fake smiles for the cashiers who coo over the bulge sticking out of my winter coat. They congratulate me on getting pregnant at such an ideal time, because, as I am constantly informed, I’m a walking space heater. But I am Californian, my blood thinned from 60 degree winters and pilates and therapy. I shiver at night, wrapped around Bob, my hated, constant body pillow companion. By day I wait for calls from the West Coast, playing the time change game. (My 11 is their 9 – surely they are awake?) I keep company with a pile of baby books that advise not to attempt major stressors while pregnant, like moving across the country from your support and leaving a city of palm trees and outdoor cafes and fabulousness for the loneliest spot on the block. I’ll keep that in mind for the next one.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">April 2007</span><br />Baby’s here. I’m feeling better. My girl and I watch old movies at 4a.m., chunks of refrigerated cabbage stuffed into my nursing bra to cool my tattered boobs. This is actually no small victory. For a week I was too scared to watch TV in the parlor because I was afraid a stray bullet might pierce the window and my baby’s precious head. How must new mothers in Iraq feel?<br /><br />I need to get a grip. I need to get out of the house. <br /><br />Fortunately for me, there is a store just blocks away called Mothersville. The name implies a city of mothers contained in one shop. I’m intrigued. I buy a nursing bra. <br /><br />The owner is quiet, enigmatic…but ooh looky here. She keeps a blog. She just posted a lovely homily to Vonnegut. A city of mothers and nursing bras and beautiful baby slings and witty scribes posting about one of my favorite authors. I’m doubly intrigued. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">June 2007</span><br />I’ve been assured the one and under playgroup is really for the moms. And the moms! There’s a mom from Atlanta by way of New York and a mom from Boston by way of Seattle. They have managed to make it out the door fully dressed with children who have not been maimed, or pierced by stray bullets. Amazingly, they even talk about having more children. And staying in Memphis to do so. Craziness.<br /><br />I keep reading the blog. The owner is selling the store, because she needs a break. Did I mention she is pregnant with her second child? I keep checking the blog. Nobody is commenting. Wheels are turning.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">July 2007</span><br />In playgroup, I bring up my intense fear of the kitchen floor, how my wicked mom brain shows me images of baby head meeting unforgiving concrete. How quickly my story is trumped – basement stairs, broken necks, a baby trying to nurse on an unconscious body. I am seriously starting to fall in love with these crazy-ass mothers. <br /><br />Several of us have been keeping the store open while the owner is out on maternity leave. People are stunned when I tell them it is on a volunteer basis. But it’s more than just a store, I tell them. I’m stunned to hear the words come out of my mouth. Something in Memphis has found my devotion. Everyone agrees, it’s more than just a store. It sounds corny, but it’s true. The store is about to be taken away from a city that needs different, away from the mothers that need a place to be crazy and smeared with spit up and still feel safe. We will do what it takes to keep it open.<br />What it takes?<br /><br />I want the store to stay open. But I hate retail. I’ve dreamed of running my own business. But there’s that whole being in the store for hours. Selling things. Not writing. But…<br /><br />A couple comes into the store on my last day to volunteer. They look dazed – I know that look. It’s the two pink lines burned into the retinas combined with an ill-advised first trimester excursion to Babies R Us. I’m thinking they are five weeks pregnant, tops. <br /><br />They do a loop through the store, touching slings and handling cloth diaper covers with confusion and awe. They leave without buying anything when they suddenly reappear. They are new in town, they explain, and it looks like they are gonna need an ob/gyn. I ask how far along. A few weeks, they wager. They haven’t told anyone, except me. I give several names, and they give me the most beautiful smiles in return. <br /><br />I officially become a part owner of Mothersville a few weeks later, because it’s more than just a store. It feels like home. <br /><br />Now about the color scheme…Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-14123940653141533012007-12-11T19:17:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:18:33.648-08:00Build It and They Will Come<span style="font-weight:bold;">Build It and They Will Come<br />Courtney Miller Santo</span><br /><br />Two years ago, when our little family first moved to Memphis, I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag, let alone to the nearest playground. But every week, I’d pick a new place and venture out a little bit farther and what I discovered was that Memphis has a tremendous number of places, events and activities for families. The problem was that not everyone seemed to know about all of the hidden gems.<br /><br />And that is why I’ve created Kids in Memphis (www.memkids.com). I’ve just started, but I hope Kids in Memphis will offer two things to families looking to explore their city. I thought a bit about putting everything in a list and photocopying, but then I realized this was the 21st century and it would be a lot more productive to share this information in a blog. Plus it allows me to keep it updated and fresh with reviews. <br /><br />Kids in Memphis is for urban parents who want know what our city has to offer their families. I want people to know what to expect before they attend an event or plan to spend the day at one of Memphis' many attractions. In addition to lists of places to go, parents can find reviews of those places with insider tips to help them have the most productive outing.<br /><br />I say, upfront, that I have some biases with the site. I'm not going to spend a lot of time discussing places outside of Memphis and because we live in Midtown, expect a disproportionate amount of reviews of Midtown sites (at least until I can recruit other reviewers). I also know that if I try to make the site all things to all people, it will end up a mess and not useful to anyone. So think of it as sort of the best of the options out there with insider tips.<br /><br />I'd really like to see Kids in Memphis become a community for parents to share their tips and reviews of places families can go in Memphis. This is really a labor of love for me, I'm not looking to make money or anything – I'll consider it successful if it encourages families to get out and be seen in Memphis.<br /><br />Help build Kids in Memphis! Contact courtney.santo@gmail.com.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-37478941595165891822007-12-11T19:13:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:16:50.635-08:00Meet Colleen Couch-Smith<span style="font-weight:bold;">Meet Colleen Couch-Smith<br />Interview by Stacey Greenberg</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Colleen Couch-Smith, 30, is an artist, restaurateur, mother of three (Brendan-13, Ian-5, and Ayden-2), and newest member of Memphis Roller Derby’s Legion of Zoom. I was really excited to meet her and thought you might be too.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stacey Greenberg: How long have you been a mama?<br />Colleen Couch-Smith:</span> I've been a mama for almost 13 years. I had Brendan when I was still in high school. I went to Hernando High in Mississippi. It was a total drag. I had Brendan when I was a senior. Teen moms are real common down there, but I was determined to incorporate my child into my life rather than change my course completely. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.<br /><br />When Ben and I got married, we knew we wanted another kid but wanted to wait until things settled down at the restaurant. Well you just can't wait for stuff like that because IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN! We tried for a whole summer to make a baby. It wasn't until sometime around 9/11 that I got pregnant. All that staying at home watching the news did the trick I guess. After Ian turned into a toddler, I swore I'd never have another child. I finally started to regain my composure as a person. I sent Ian to Montessori school, joined a gym, and was in full swing with Rock, Paper, Scissors. I was really making an effort to become Colleen. Not "Ben's wife" or "Ian & Brendan's mom." <br /><br />I was feeling incredibly sick and thought it was just unease about the life changes I was making. Then it dawned on me that I might be pregnant. Ben had recently been to the Burning Man festival and I swear he did some sort of sex voodoo while there. Let's just say I was extremely happy to see him when he got back. I can't say that I was happy about the pregnancy at first. It was a horrible time for me to be pregnant. But, I settled into it and ended up seeing a midwife instead of my OB. Brendan's birth was awesome only because I was ignorant about the process. Ian's birth was not a good experience and I knew I would not repeat it. <br /><br />Ayden's birth was one of the most incredible and happy moments of my life. How is that? She weighed 10 fucking pounds...no drugs. Luckily it was only a 3 hour labor with about 15 minutes of pushing. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SG: Tell me about your work life.<br />CCS:</span> I’m a bookkeeper at Tsunami, where my husband is the owner/chef. Every day is "Bring Your Kid to Work Day," which is a blessing and a curse. It's great to have them that close. They have amazing relationships with adults and they learn a little bit about being an entrepreneur. On the other hand, it sucks to have to have them that close. What normally takes me 15 minutes will take at least an hour when they are there. I handle a lot of calls for reservations during the day and often have to reassure the guest that the screaming kid in the background will not be here when they come to dinner.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SG: How did you get into illuminated sculpture?<br />CCS: </span>I got into illuminated sculpture a little by accident. I had loads of papermaking experience in art school. Allison Smith (who eventually became my sister-in-law) was my papermaking teacher at MCA. I majored in sculpture but papermaking became my true love, and through Allison's inspiration I found ways to use paper in sculpture. She made the large hanging lanterns at Tsunami and after a few years of staring at those lights I knew that I could do something like that myself. I've always wanted to return to doing my art. <br /><br />We opened Tsunami while I was still at MCA. Once I graduated I was working at the restaurant so much I had no time for anything but restaurant work. Poor Brendan! He spent most of his childhood evenings cooped up in the office, climbing on top of the walk-in cooler, getting into the bleach water...I should stop in case Child Services gets a hold of this! Anyway, I made a couple of attempts to "do my own thing" and it just never panned out.<br /><br />Then Kelly Myers (a.k.a. Kel Diabla, also a derby girl) and I became friends! She was on a similar path of self-discovery, and one night (over several drinks) we decided to start Rock, Paper, Scissors together. It's been a blast ever since. We both needed the kick-in-the-pants that only a partnership can provide. We feed off each other's ideas and work. <br /> <br />Recently I got an offer to apply for "That's Clever" (a show on HGTV about quirky artists). It would have been a great opportunity but they do not accept art duos. Needless to say I didn't respond...my work would be nothing without Kelly! <br />The other big event that lead to this was a generous gift from my father-in-law, Dolph Smith. Dolph started the papermaking program at MCA and once he retired he moved up to Ripley, TN. He had a full papermaking set-up in his studio. I would often make paper when we would visit. For one of my birthdays he gave a card saying that he would let me keep the papermaking equipment at my studio and he would come to me if he needed to make some. I think it took me six weeks to stop crying about this! Somehow we got it all down here. The beater (the machine that turns materials into pulp) is huge, heavy and damn hard to move. My studio is split. I have one in my garage and Kelly & I share a studio at my brother's garage. He'll probably kick us out sooner or later. We're slobs and he's not. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SG: So tell me a little bit about life in Hernando and what it was like being a teen-aged mom.<br />CCS:</span> Life in Hernando was boring unless you were the preppy jock-type. I spent most of my weekends in Memphis at Overton Park or the Antenna Club. When I got pregnant I was worried about how much it would change my life. But I faced it head-on and made it a part of the life I was already starting for myself. I was encouraged to drop out of school but saw no reason to. I stayed at the top of my class, kept up with the extra curriculars and headed to art school. Luckily MY family was supportive, otherwise I could not have done it. Brendan's dad was never into it and I saw no reason to force him to. It was his loss and we were better off without him. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SG: How is parenting different (or the same) the third time around?<br />CCS:</span> Parenting the third time around is definitely different for me because I have a girl. A headstrong assertive one at that! I get more and more careless, which is scary. Maybe inattentive is a better word. It's difficult trying to manage all three, but Brendan is my salvation. He can help with just about anything and is almost old enough to keep Ayden so that I can go to the store or something. He's awesome. Ian just keeps me laughing, and all he has to do is smile and it turns my day into a happy, sunny one.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SG: What's a "usual day" like for you?<br />CCS:</span> I don't have any usual days. I make my own schedule at work so I can go in whenever it’s convenient for Ben to keep Ayden. Typically I take Brendan to school at 7-ish and then try to go to the gym for rowing or weights. Then I tag team with Ben. He takes Ian to school around 8:30 and then tries to go to the gym. I usually head to work around 9:30 or 10 and Ben will take Ayden when he's done at the gym. Sometimes we meet up for lunch. It sucks going out with Ayden so we usually skip it or get take-out. I plug away at work until it's time to get Ian (Brendan walks home from school and has the afternoon to himself...something every boy should have while going through puberty). I grab Ian and then run errands for the restaurant. I don't get home until 6 or so on good days. Then it’s dinner-homework-bath-bed. It never fails that just when the kids are settled and getting droopy-eyed that Ben comes home! Of course they bolt out of bed to play with him for a "while." <br /><br />Sometimes I try to herd them back to bed but mostly I just give up and let Ben deal with it. I'm just a bitch that way. It's just one giant juggling act. Somehow, some way I make art. Most of my best work gets done at three in the morning when I can't sleep. Now that I've thrown Derby into the mix, I'm not sure which ball will get dropped first...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SG: Tell me more about combining parenting with being an artist. Do you involve your kids in the process or do anything particularly arty with them? <br />CCS:</span> My kids are very self-sufficient. Most of the time they are doing their own things. I rarely have to set them up with a project or something to occupy them. Brendan makes his own art. He makes these amazing sculptures and carves his own wands and swords. He is drawing these really unusual flowers at the moment. If he is around when I make paper, he will help me form sheets, press them and store them in plastic wrap. Seems like last Cooper-Young Fest he helped Kelly and I paint some of the finished lanterns and lamp shades. <br /><br />Ian is interested in painting right now. He typically just likes to roam around the studio when I'm working. If I'm in my studio at my brother's house, the kids will run around with the dog through the bamboo forest in the back yard. It's really nice over there, as long as the weather is nice and the mosquito population is down. <br /><br />Ayden's not quite there yet. She likes to "draw" on things but doesn't have enough self-control to be let loose with paint or crayons. I usually get a babysitter during studio time if Ben can't watch her. <br /><br />I don't necessarily lead them towards art but let it happen if they are interested. Ben and I want our kids to figure out their own paths...so long as that path does NOT lead to cooking or being an artist!!! I love to go out to art openings when I can to sort of reconnect with that world. I'm secretly hoping to run into someone who has the perfect art job opening. I do like to take the kids out to these events. It's great when they are into the work. The "Agents of Timbre" show was a HUGE hit for them and they were well-behaved. Other shows really push their limits...and therefore mine. I often have to leave, holding a screaming little girl and dragging a five-year-old who's trying to punch his older brother. It stresses me out but it's nothing that a hot bath, a huge glass of scotch and a "Wiggle's" marathon won't cure.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">SG: Are you serious about not wanting them to be chefs or artists? <br />CCS: </span>We aren't "serious" about it. Of course we want them to bloom into whatever career they chose. We just would hate for them to go through the hard times we have. Doing "your own thing" is challenging and at times heartbreaking. It's parental nature to want to protect your children as much as possible. Chefs get burned and/or cut at least once a week, they get insulted by grumpy food critics, they get complaints from customers, they work at a very fast pace under extreme temperatures. It tears me up to watch Ben go through it. I couldn't bear to see my children follow his footsteps. The art world is not anywhere near as bad as the restaurant world, but it has its ups and downs too.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-55869931208716720982007-12-11T19:12:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:13:06.924-08:00I'm Not Kidding<span style="font-weight:bold;">I'm Not Kidding<br />Marrit Ingman</span><br /><br />You know, next time you're at the post office, just send Fisher-Price their shit back. Because seriously, are you going to want to make a special trip later? Wait in the P.O. with a small person or persons to whom you are The World's Biggest Asshole Who Sends Their Toys Away?<br /><br />Here's the point at which, were I a better activist, I would say fuck you to conglomerate toy motherfuckers with toxic crap built in China with phthalates by people who live like slaves, but my sincere attempts to interest The Boy in tree blocks and silk squares have not been fruitful, so I have no soapbox upon which to stand. And I'm just going to come out and say I don't think the tree blocks really gave me that much to work with. I'm not saying they have to light up or teach French, but I couldn't polish that turd.<br /><br />As a child of the 1970s—the decade that brought you plastic fabrics and pressurized cheese in a can—I am drawn to Cool Toys Made From Synthetic Substances with Amazing Properties. I used to trip out on Shrinky Dinks. And what the fuck is in Shrinky Dinks? I'd probably have to spend an afternoon Googling before I let my kid look at a picture of Shrinky Dinks.<br /><br />But even then we kind of knew it couldn't last. That's part of why it was fun. We could not eat miniature sausages in a can forever; we could not loll about in petroleum polymers aplenty for generations to come. Kids were going to have to go back to rolling balls of lint across the floor with wooden spoons. I'm not saying we should start collecting our lint (unless you're into it) but I'm keeping an eye out for right-sized boxes.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-67216435630340441752007-12-11T18:09:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:11:32.566-08:00In Our Family, People Can Get a Little Testy Before Dinner<span style="font-weight:bold;">In Our Family, People Can Get a Little Testy Before Dinner<br />Essay & Illustration by Sarah Raymond</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlgNP6XRbsPTopXv09XIjZXifl_UtCNzTXJGIjkU478NIu7oiODTlefpvCQ-TDy6BNI0jOYjzZ78XNMx1Hikl22TjT9wt2UBIPsxLeTURWfwAZloXJbuNJUsQ9JFtAAQWUq7ELvyyMGs/s1600-h/pillowfight.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlgNP6XRbsPTopXv09XIjZXifl_UtCNzTXJGIjkU478NIu7oiODTlefpvCQ-TDy6BNI0jOYjzZ78XNMx1Hikl22TjT9wt2UBIPsxLeTURWfwAZloXJbuNJUsQ9JFtAAQWUq7ELvyyMGs/s400/pillowfight.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267603238055111858" /></a>“Can you straighten up the living room?” I ask my six year old. “Then we’ll have dinner.” I’m calm. Least I think I’m calm. <br /> <br />Sam and his friend made a fort from couch cushions. A jagged mass of pillows, strewn on the living room rug, was left behind. <br /><br />“But Tim made most of the mess. Why doesn’t he have to clean it up?” Sam asks. <br /><br />“Because Tim went home. Here -- I’ll help you.” I’m still calm.<br /><br />“But--” (Sam’s voice begins quivering and his sense of injustice mounts.) “This is Tim’s mess too. Why do I have to clean it up?” Tears well and hover behind his eyes as his rage gathers force. “When I go to his house, I have to help clean up.” Sam's voice shakes uncontrollably.<br /><br />“Every single time you go to Tim’s you clean up,” I clarify. I’m less calm now; snippy in fact. Also hungry.<br /><br />“Well most of the time I clean up.”<br /><br />“I’ve only asked you to put away pillows. I’ve offered to help.” I’m losing control -- not of my voice, but of my children and my need for them to be helpful citizens of our home. (And for Christ’s sake, my sister’s kids would have fed and watered and cleaned the stalls of eighty chickens on their farm in the time I’ve taken to beg my child to return cushions to a couch.)<br /><br />“I don’t think I should have to do it.” Sam draws the line.<br /><br />Years of training dissolve before me. Our children graduated from Livingroom Tidy Up years ago, and now this.<br /><br />“Sam,” (if you can talk about injustice well then so can I, Buddy) “Today I washed your clothes and folded them and put them away, and while I was there I made your bed and and now I’m making your dinner. I’m like your personal slave, Sam,” (okay so I’m a little melodramatic) “and all I ask is for you to put the cushions back on the couch--” My muscles are clenched; my voice strains higher from the impossible, horrific plight of a six year old who WON’T EVEN PICK UP THE FRICKIN’ CUSHIONS!<br /><br />And then Sam senses the height of my rage, surpassing far beyond his, and he snaps. He throws himself on a pillow (still on the floor, of course) and his tears -- reined in long enough -- gush out as he cries, “Mama!!”<br /><br />What? What now? <br /><br />“Remember the good times Mama! Remember the papier mache snakes we made together in the summer!” His body is a shuddering, heaving machine. <br /><br />I drop everything – my need for squared-away cushions, my desire for a respectable living room. Even my body drops. I fall on a cushion next to my son (they’re everywhere, so it’s easy), and I say “Oh Sammy, I do remember the good times. I loved making the snakes and I love you. I just want some help. Don’t cry Sammy Sweetie, please don’t cry. I'm sorry, Sammy.”<br /><br />We hold each other for a long time. Then, together, Sam and I tuck all the couch cushions back into their respective spaces. We resume normal breathing patterns and prepare for dinner.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-58848204058989451482007-12-11T18:07:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:08:34.170-08:00Benjamin Franklin Discovers His Own Hands<span style="font-weight:bold;">Benjamin Franklin Discovers His Own Hands<br />Leah Browning</span><br /><br />It's hard to imagine him this way,<br />in a yellow terrycloth sleeper with feet<br />and a duck appliquéd on the pocket.<br /><br />A chubby baby, minus the gray hair<br />and glasses, cooing to himself<br />as he maps out plans for the future:<br /><br />a clean diaper, a drink of milk,<br />a warm shoulder to curl up against.<br />All the good, true things of life.<br /><br />He, too, discovered light and shadows,<br />his own hands, the sound of his name;<br />later birds and trees and stars.<br /><br />Now here you are, almost three<br />hundred years later, replicating<br />his first serious experiment,<br /><br />one initiated long before he touched<br />the key to the kite string. Lying in the<br />cradle, he had a sudden comprehension<br /><br />of cause and effect, and a desire<br />to feel again that first electric thrill<br />of making his mother smile.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-73586974032270767012007-12-11T18:06:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:07:22.484-08:00In Another Country<span style="font-weight:bold;">In Another Country<br />Kristy Alley</span><br /><br />Recently, Calvin, my nine-year-old, has been spending a lot of time playing with a kid who lives around the corner. Not around the corner in a house like ours, but in the big house. In the neighborhood for which our street was planned as a convenient abode for the domestic help.<br /><br />The other day as we were driving home from school, he said to me "I think G's friend who lives two doors down is from another country, because he's always playing that game with the stick that has a net on the end."<br /><br />"Lacrosse?" I asked.<br /><br />"Yeah, Lacrosse! That's it!" I tried to keep the laughter out of my voice as I said <br /><br />"Baby, that's not because he's from another country. It's because he's rich." Calvin thought about that for a minute and then asked tentatively, "Can only rich kids play Lacrosse?"<br /><br />"No," I replied, beginning to wish I hadn't said anything, "it's just a sport they really only play in private schools." He didn't ask any more questions, and I was left to wonder what he thought about things like money and wealth. Had he not noticed the differences between his friend's house and ours? I know that he must have. But maybe in his mind, those differences were inconsequential, or just proof that they chose to buy a larger house than we did.<br /><br />When I told this story to Richard, he laughed and said that kid might as well be from another country; the country of money. It was funny, but at the same time I felt a niggling little worry that we were letting bitterness seep in and infect our kids' attitudes about their place in the world. My parents are solidly middle class now, but they both come from poverty and, for good or bad, they passed on some of that poverty mindset to me. Time, experience, and education have remedied most of that, but I'm still aware of how our attitudes about money can spill over into the way we raise our kids.<br /><br />I would be lying if I said we don't struggle financially. But at the same time, I can honestly say that I believe I live in incredible luxury. If I feel the need to compare what I have to what someone else has, I feel unfairly fortunate. I don't know what it's like to watch my kids go hungry, or to feel helpless when they get sick because I can't get medicine. I don't have to keep them in the house all day because of constant gunfire in the streets. We tuck them into warm beds at night knowing that in the morning we'll send them to a good school where they have every opportunity they need to learn and grow. <br /><br />All of us are happy and healthy and our house is full of love and laughter and warmth. Bursting at the seams, maybe, but in such a good way. And that's what I want my kids to think about as they figure out how all of that works. We might daydream of things we'd like to have, but I can't really think of a single thing we need.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-82203033710350246792007-12-11T18:02:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:05:53.886-08:00Play Therapy<span style="font-weight:bold;">Play Therapy<br />Karen Wang</span><br /><br />I've worn out another perfectly good pair of pants, my last good pair, in fact. The knee ripped open, as it always does, while I was playing on the floor with my five- year-old son. We were driving the cars in his toy parking garage, and he was telling me where his little people were going: to the theater for a concert, to a bookstore, then back home. He was re-enacting things that we had recently done together, transferring his ideas, memories and feelings to his characters. I had never seen him do this before. I was witnessing a developmental leap. All those ruined pairs of pants were paid for in that moment.<br /><br />I think most adults underestimate what playing with a child, giving a child full attention for short periods throughout the day, can do for the child's health and development. When I explained to my sister that we planned to pursue one-on-one play with our son as his primary therapy, she told other family members that we had chosen to do “nothing” for our autistic son. I'm not sure I would have believed in the benefits myself without seeing them firsthand in my son Malcolm. He was an unusually active, alert baby, often fussy and anxious. I was looking for ways to balance his intense emotions and energy. I knew instinctively that the balance had to begin with our mother-child relationship. I sought out activities that brought peace and joy to us both: long walks, singing, reading, puzzles and balls. But my son was still missing out on something big; at 19 months of age, he was having panic attacks and could not tolerate any length or type of separation from me. To relieve his anxiety, Malcolm needed to learn the most basic social skills from the ground up, and the only people qualified to teach him this were those to whom he was most attached, his parents.<br /><br />I remember my husband once saying, “Malcolm has work to do. Play is his work.” Play is the most important thing that happens in our house. Everything, and I mean everything, comes after it. We don't cook or do housework unless we can find a way to involve Malcolm playfully...laundry, dishes and vacuuming are all standard “games” around here. I recently started buying cheap cans of shaving cream after becoming annoyed at the filthy bathroom counters. “I want to make a mess,” Malcolm said to me one rainy afternoon. “Yes, we can make a big mess in the bathroom!” I gleefully responded. He helped me put away all the shampoo bottles and toothbrushes first, then I handed him the shaving cream. Because of his fine motor delay, I had to teach him how to press down on the button to release a fluffy cloud of shaving cream – but he was a motivated learner. Within a few minutes the counters, sink and cabinet doors were covered in shaving cream and we were both sporting “Santa Claus beards.” We “painted” each other's arms, traced words on the snowy surfaces and clapped our hands to make the foam fly around in a surreal wintry scene. <br /><br />There was an academic method to our giddy madness. I had read about using shaving cream to reduce my son's sensory issues; I also wanted to create a new situation to stimulate conversational and emotional exchanges, eye contact and shared attention. My scheme worked: Malcolm was giggly and chatty, and far from fearing the squishy texture of the shaving cream, he explored and fully enjoyed it. He kept looking up into my eyes to share his excitement and happiness, and I felt my heart ready to burst from his sweetness. When the can of shaving cream was finally empty, Malcolm announced that it was time to clean up. We wiped everything down with damp washcloths and watched the thinned-out froth dissolve down the sink. The bathroom sparkled for the cost of 67 cents and a dash of imagination, but all I saw was the spark between us.<br /><br />All children work out their fears and questions through play, and it can be difficult to find the answer they seek. Sometimes Malcolm gets stuck in a repetitive pattern (often representing his anxiety) that needs to be playfully disrupted. One day he was repeating a story over and over: “Once upon a time Malcolm was crying because the pool was closed.” He turned to me and asked me to re-tell the same story. I held him gently so that our faces were almost touching. I kissed him softly and said, “Once upon a time Mommy ate Malcolm's ear. (nibble) Once upon a time Mommy ate Malcolm's nose. (nibble) Once upon a time Mommy gave Malcolm a raspberry. (big raspberry on the tummy) Once upon a time Malcolm gave Mommy a razzzzzzberry.” Laughing, he collapsed in my arms, comforted at last.<br /><br />If shaving cream and raspberries are the mortar, then beanbags are the cornerstones of play therapy. My little monkey-boy was bouncing off the walls and climbing the bookcases by the time he was 10 months old, but he always became calm and attentive when his body sank down firmly in his big red bean bag. Every time I saw bean bags chairs and giant pillows on clearance, I bought more. We began making bean bag towers and forts, playing pillow catch and, at the end of the day, sitting back and listening to music together. Before we knew it, the family room was decorated entirely in a “Hot Wheels-Bean Bag” motif, devoid of any other furniture.<br /><br />Last night, sitting cozily in our bean bags, my husband and I talked about Malcolm's play goals for the week, and my assignment was to work on building block towers with him and to act out certain scenarios with the towers. But when we woke up this morning, the rain had finally stopped and the sun was shining. Malcolm and I snuggled under the covers to read some books, and after breakfast we walked through the wet grass and mud to the park. (I was wearing a pair of pants with a small hole in the right knee.) Before school, my son drew a picture of his best friend and his best friend's little brother, and he asked me to invite them over to play. <br /><br />When I dropped off Malcolm at preschool, he made me promise that he could ride his bike “around the block the long way” if it wasn't raining after school. At 3:30, the weather was glorious, so Malcolm raced ahead of me on his bike, smiling and pointing out everything that interested him, occasionally pausing to allow me to catch up with him. In my mind I saw the clinical textbooks stating, “The autistic child is unable to co-ordinate eye contact, verbalization and gestures simultaneously; he may speak in a monotone and his face may bear a flat affect.” I laughed aloud at the thought. When my husband came home from work, Malcolm greeted his dad with a hug, gazed into his eyes and said, “Malcolm is happy today.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Resources for play therapy:</span><br /><br /><blockquote>· <span style="font-style:italic;">Playful Parenting</span> by Lawrence Cohen, Ph.D. (www.playfulparenting.com). The author explains how one-on-one play enriches the development of all children.<br /><br />· <span style="font-style:italic;">The Child with Special Needs or Engaging Autism</span> by Stanley Greenspan, M.D. (www.floortime.org). Dr. Greenspan recommends following a child's interest and lead in play, then gradually introducing new patterns into play. This method is widely practiced for children with developmental disabilities.<br /><br />· <span style="font-style:italic;">Relationship Development Intervention with Young Children</span> by Steven Gutstein, Ph.D. and Rachelle Sheely, Ph.D. (www.rdiconnect.com). This type of therapy follows the same developmental model as Dr. Greenspan's Floortime, except that the parent leads the child through each playful exercise. Special emphasis is given to the development of “episodic memory,” the integration of emotion, cognition and past experience that allows individuals to adapt to new experiences. All of my bean bag games come from this book.<br /><br />· <span style="font-style:italic;">The Out-Of-Sync Child Has Fun</span> by Carol Kranowitz. This book is full of messy ideas to help children with extremely high or low sensitivity to texture, taste, smell, sound and light. I found the shaving cream idea here.<br /><br />· <span style="font-style:italic;">The Joyful Child </span>by Peggy Joy Jenkins. The author writes in a New Agey, hippie style that may grate on some people's nerves, but her point is that joy is tangible and contagious. The first song my son ever sang was “I Am Happy” from this book.<br /></blockquote>Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-87769696354002577972007-12-11T17:43:00.000-08:002008-11-11T19:01:25.744-08:00Small PackagesFICTION: Small Packages by Stacey Greenberg<br />Photo by Melissa Anderson Sweazy<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsfnmuw8-G2tcREmKhfF_pumMq5imX6fYK7s5UZZbSM_2UPFYaaXaMMYvseicYlnZvWUEcN2lFGIyeDr4UrSinkiThydGhXFWrv-U6ob8Z0p9WwcKf_YUh_nNQkH-4pQFSDftPXGPpUPg/s1600-h/melissa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsfnmuw8-G2tcREmKhfF_pumMq5imX6fYK7s5UZZbSM_2UPFYaaXaMMYvseicYlnZvWUEcN2lFGIyeDr4UrSinkiThydGhXFWrv-U6ob8Z0p9WwcKf_YUh_nNQkH-4pQFSDftPXGPpUPg/s400/melissa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267600522231529666" /></a><br />Catherine was barely pregnant with her third child and hadn’t told her husband Tim yet. The pregnancy was unplanned, and although she was sure he’d be thrilled for number three, she was having trouble saying anything out loud.<br /><br />After having Phillip and James in close succession, it had taken her over six years to lose her “baby weight” and regain her personal identity. She wasn’t really sure if she could do either again. What if it’s a girl? Where will she sleep? Catherine thought as she rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. They had just moved into a two bedroom house on the east side of Overton Park. Two bedrooms! <br />Right now, Tim was in the backyard weeding his enormous garden and the boys were alternately riding their bikes and skateboards on the parking pad in back. The phone was ringing and although Catherine generally screened calls to the home number (her friends called her cell), she happened to be standing right next to the receiver.<br /><br />“Hello?” she barked, assuming it was a telemarketer. Tim hadn’t had a chance to re-register them on the “Do Not Call” list.<br /><br />“Can I speak to Catherine?” A sexy male voice asked. Catherine hated it when they tried to trick her by only using her first name and sounding extra nice. “This is Catherine,” she said.<br /><br />“Hi, uh, did you ever live at 1009 Central?” the sexy voice asked.<br /><br />“Yes,” she answered not knowing where this was leading. “In college.”<br /><br />“I live there now and today I received a package with your name on it.”<br /><br />“Really? How strange,” she said.<br /><br />“It’s from Carnival Country,” he said.<br /><br />Catherine hesitated to admit that she ordered from them often. She couldn’t understand how the package had gone to a house she lived in so long ago. It would make more sense for it to have accidentally gone to the house she and Tim just moved out of. Then she laughed a little to herself realizing that she had lived in three different houses all within a mile or two of each other for most of her adult life. Had she not spent two years abroad after graduating from college, she might think of herself as boring.<br /><br />“I’m leaving for my yoga class in a few minutes. I can come by and get it,” she said suddenly feeling quite forward. She quickly added, “You can just leave it on the porch if you want.”<br /><br />“Sure, no problem,” the sexy voice said warmly and hung up.<br /><br />Inexplicably, Catherine felt a rush. How nice of him, she thought. He must have looked her up in the phone book or called information. She tried to think of what she would do in a similar situation. She’d probably just cross out the name, send it back, and never give it a second thought. Or, more likely, the kids would get a hold of it and they’d end up keeping whatever was inside by default.<br /><br />Catherine quickly changed into her yoga pants and matching tank. She brushed her silver streaked hair, checked her teeth in the mirror, and sprayed herself with Vanilla Mist. Tuesday was her day. She did yoga and then went out for late night sushi with some of the women in her class. (They had a very innocent, yet fulfilling, flirtation going on with one of the waiters.) If it weren’t for Tuesdays, Catherine might lose her mind. <br /><br />Soon I’ll have to switch to pre-natal yoga and non-alcoholic beer, she thought as she opened the back door. But I’m not giving up raw tuna. “Honey, I’m going to yoga,” she called out to Tim. “I’m taking your car.”<br /><br />“Okay,” he said as he gently unwound bindweed from the Roma tomato plants. “See you later.”<br /><br />“Be good,” she called out to Phillip and James. They came running over for hugs. <br /><br />“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said as she kissed them. The best part of Tuesday Night Out was getting to come home after the boys were already sound asleep. <br /><br />Catherine had never been able to say no to their pleas for “one more book” or “a few more snuggles.” It was often past ten o’clock before she got any time to herself. She pushed thoughts of a new baby permanently attached to her breast out of her mind and headed towards the car.<br /><br />Her old house on Central looked very palatial from the outside, but inside it was broken up into several different apartments in varying stages of disrepair. She shuddered to think of all the damage she personally caused.<br /><br />In college, Catherine and her roommate Robin had befriended most of their fellow residents and thrown wild parties on a regular basis. It wasn’t uncommon to see people sleeping on the porch or to find random pieces of broken furniture in the front yard. Catherine and Robin had become popular after a party highlighted by Catherine sitting naked on the hood of Robin’s Civic while she drove around the block honking. <br /><br />Was that really fifteen years ago? Catherine marveled. Sometimes when driving the boys home from school, Catherine would point at the big house and say, “That’s where Mommy used to live before she met Daddy.” Even though she just lived a few blocks away now it was like living in a whole other world.<br /><br />Catherine was surprised to see that there were no chairs on the porch, as that was where she and Robin spent the majority of their time. Looking around it didn’t seem like there was much furniture in any of the apartments—just a lot of wood scraps and other debris. She peeked through the window to find that most of the rooms had been gutted. There was no package in sight. <br /><br />She took a deep breath and gently knocked on the door. She heard footsteps and then felt a blast of cold air as the screen door flew open.<br /><br />“Catherine?” A man in paint-splattered Carhartts and a moist white t-shirt asked. He had a level in one hand and a small, cardboard box in the other.<br /><br />She smiled and nodded.<br /><br />“I’m Richard. Here’s your package,” he said as he held it out to her. He had bright blue eyes and dark hair. Despite his obvious prowess, his scruffy beard and wire-rimmed glasses made him seem more bookish than burly. His voice definitely wasn’t the only thing sexy about him.<br /><br />“Thank you,” she said, staring. “Most people wouldn’t have bothered tracking me down.”<br /><br />He gave her a good once over and said, “You weren’t very hard to find.”<br />Catherine turned her head so he wouldn’t see her already rosy cheeks ignite. “So, are you fixing this place up?’ she asked.<br /><br />“I guess you could say that,” he said modestly.<br /><br />“To live in or sell?” she asked eagerly. Am I flirting?<br /><br />“Both—I’ll live here until I can sell it.”<br /><br />“Wait, do I know you?” she asked, suddenly feeling like she had seen those blue eyes before.<br /><br />“Maybe,” he said playfully.<br /><br />Now she was embarrassed. She had a terrible memory for names and had forgotten many acquaintances after learning a new language and culture in Prague. It was like her brain ran out of room. Several years of baby-induced sleep deprivation didn’t help. <br /><br />“Did we go to school together?” she asked.<br /><br />“Sort of,” he grinned.<br /><br />Nice teeth.<br /><br />Hot and bothered, she said, “Dammit, who are you?”<br /><br />“I told you, my name is Richard.”<br /><br />“And…” she prodded.<br /><br />“I used to hang out with a guy who dated Robin for awhile.”<br /><br />Catherine wracked her brain. Robin had a lot of boyfriends. “Bill?” “Bingo,” he said.<br /><br />She stared at him some more and tried to picture him without the beard. “Oh my god, you are the Egg Man!” Catherine now clearly remembered sitting on the kitchen floor doing Tequila shots with Robin, Bill, Richard and some other faceless people. They took turns microwaving eggs until they exploded. “You were fun.” I wonder why we never hooked up, she thought.<br /><br />Richard reached up and grabbed the door frame to stretch his long arms. Just under his t-shirt sleeve Catherine could see some small tattoos in a row—a heart, a spade, a diamond, and a clover. He saw her staring, and said, “Those are tricks up my sleeve.”<br /><br />Coming from a long line of bridge players, she laughed and said, “I really like that.”<br /><br />“Mind if I ask what’s in the package?” Richard asked, grinning. <br /><br />She looked down and examined the box. “It’s a marshmallow gun,” she blurted out, not feeling embarrassed at all.<br /><br />“Really?” he asked, curious.<br /><br />“I bought it for my kids,” she said. <br /><br />“Kids?” he asked.<br /><br />“Yep, I have two.”<br /><br />He looked impressed. “And a husband?”<br /><br />“Yep, but just one,” she said.<br /><br />“Anyone I know?” he asked.<br /><br />“Actually no,” she said. “Tim’s from Oregon. We met in Prague.”<br /><br />“And you convinced him to move to Memphis?”<br /><br />“Can you believe that?” she smiled.<br /><br />“Actually, I can,” he said.<br /><br />Is he flirting back?<br /><br />They stood looking at each other for a minute, not quite sure where to go from there. Catherine was torn between thanking Richard, racing to her yoga class, and giggling over drinks with the girls and inviting herself in.<br /><br />“You know what? I’ve got some marshmallows,” Richard said finally.<br /><br />“Oh you do, huh?” she smiled, secretly thrilled at this turn of events. Steadying herself against the railing, she asked, “Do you have any beer?”<br /><br />“Yep,” he grinned.<br /><br />Feeling like the Catherine who used to live in that big house, she said, “Get the marshmallows and the beer and follow me.” As she climbed into Tim’s Jetta she knew she could never have pulled this off in her minivan.<br /><br />***<br /><br />By the time Catherine cruised into Martyr’s Park she was starting to lose her nerve. “Let’s go sit on the bluffs and watch the barges go by,” she said.<br /><br />“Let’s climb on the bridge and pelt a train with marshmallows,” Richard replied.<br /><br />She looked up at the bridge. Robin had convinced her to climb it a few times, but it always scared her. She took a deep breath and said, “Okay.”<br /><br />Catherine tried to appear confident as they approached the chain link fence, but her eyes gave her away. Having one last beer with the Egg Man seemed innocent and fun. Scaling a chain link fence in order to dangle on an old bridge above the Mississippi seemed foolish, if not downright dangerous.<br /><br />Richard held out his hand, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”<br /><br />She looked at his strong arms and imagined them around her waist.<br /><br />“Don’t worry,” he said, still holding out his hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”<br /><br />Catherine took his hand and was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to get over the fence. She ran towards the beams, exhilarated. <br /><br />They walked over to a spot on the narrow pedestrian path on the side of the tracks. Catherine sat down cross-legged and started opening the Carnival Country box while Richard cracked open a couple of Newcastles.<br /><br />“Here, see if you can figure this out,” she said, handing him the red and blue plastic gun. <br /><br />He handed her a beer in exchange. “Cheers,” he said with a smile.<br /><br />“Cheers,” she said, clinking his bottle with hers.<br /><br />While Richard fiddled with the gun, trying to get it loaded with marshmallows, Catherine started interviewing him.<br /><br />“So, why aren’t you married?”<br /><br />He laughed. “I am…for a few more days anyway.”<br /><br />“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, mortified.<br /><br />“Don’t be. I’m not,” he said.<br /><br />“What do you mean? What happened?”<br /><br />“Let’s just say that I’d much rather be fixing up that old house on Central than trying to put my sham of a marriage back together.”<br /><br />Catherine suddenly felt very self-conscious. “Look, the train!” she said, now happy to see it coming. “You got that thing loaded yet?” she asked.<br /><br />Richard nodded, and quickly demonstrated how to pull back the lever and shoot the marshmallows. Catherine took the gun, one hand on the front grip and one hand on the back, and assumed some kind of Rambo stance. When the train came by she started shooting marshmallows in a rapid fire succession.<br /><br />“Oh no, I’m out of ammo!” she yelled over the sound of the wheels a few seconds later.<br /><br />Richard grabbed the gun and the marshmallows and quickly reloaded the magazine. He tried to hand the gun back to her, but she screamed, “You try it!” He held the gun up to his shoulder like a rifle and methodically shot a marshmallow in the center of each passing car. <br /><br />Catherine watched him until he ran out of ammo, then motioned for him to grab the backpack and follow her. The sun hadn’t set all the way but the wind was starting to pick up. Richard walked up next to Catherine and pulled her close to him. The train was making too much noise for them to talk so they just kept walking.<br /><br />When the train passed, Catherine gave Richard a squeeze and said, “I think I need another beer.” Richard obliged. They stopped walking and sat down near the railing. They swung their feet over the edge, still embracing. Catherine watched the water rushing by.<br /><br />“You’re even prettier now than you were in school,” Richard said.<br /><br />Catherine wasn’t good at taking compliments—at least not on her looks. She decided to believe that Richard really meant what he said. She swallowed her beer fast and felt her head spin a little. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, looking up at him.<br /><br />Richard slipped his hand in her shirt and his tongue in her mouth. Richard’s mouth was soft on hers. His tongue touched the inside of her cheek, then he took the edge of her lip between his teeth. Catherine was breathing fast, leaning into him. She felt Richard’s hand slip inside the cup of her bra; he rolled her nipple gently between his thumb and finger. Catherine made a small, low noise.<br /><br />“Relax,” Richard whispered and she realized she had been gripping his forearm very tightly, her eyes squeezed closed. She opened them a little, the world coming slightly back into focus. <br /><br />She was on her back looking up at the edge of the “Welcome to Arkansas, Home of President Bill Clinton” sign hanging above the bridge. I’ve definitely crossed a line. <br /><br />Catherine thought of the time when Phillip was learning the states in school and very patiently tried to teach them to James. He had his own way of talking and pronounced Arkansas as “arky-saw.” Tennessee was “tennis seat.” The boys would love it up here. Not that I’d let those wild monkeys anywhere near here! she thought. Maybe I should bring Tim...<br /><br />Richard was kissing her neck now, and it felt good. Even so, Catherine gently pushed him off of her and kissed him on the cheek. She ran her fingers through his hair like she might run them through one of her son’s and smiled.<br /><br />Richard smiled back as he felt the wind change direction.<br /><br />“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I had the strongest urge to run as far away from my family as I could today, but now they are all I can think about.”<br /><br />He reached for another beer, and handed her one too. “It’s okay,” he said. “I think I know what you mean.”<br /><br />“You do?”<br /><br />“Yeah,” he said, sighing.<br /><br />“It was fun seeing you again,” she said, hoping to save some face.<br /><br />“You too. I bet you are a fun mom,” he said graciously.<br /><br />I am. She looked at the full beer in her hand and remembered what sent her reeling in the first place. “I’m pregnant,” she said, happily, and a little louder than she expected.<br /><br />Richard looked at her, then at her stomach, and said with a laugh, “Well, that was fast!”<br /><br />She grinned, thankful that he was being a good sport.<br /><br />“Let’s get you home,” he said.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Catherine had pretty much decided to erase Richard from her mind. She felt a little embarrassed, not to mention guilty, about their encounter and preferred to pretend that it had never happened. She was sure that he thought she was a total tease. Or prude. Or worse.<br /><br />Friday, when she came home from work, Catherine was somewhat startled when Tim asked, “Who’s Richard Webb?”<br /><br />She could feel her face go white. “What? Who?” she asked, confused.<br /><br />“A Carnival Country package came with Richard Webb’s name and our address.”<br /><br />“Oh,” she said, exhaling. “That’s weird.”<br /><br />Catherine walked over to the package to see for herself. Was it just a bizarre coincidence? Did Richard want her to look him up? Was someone at Carnival Country playing a trick on her?<br /><br />“Maybe he used to live here or something. I’ll send it back on Monday,” she said to Tim, who didn’t seem too concerned about the fate of the package.<br /><br />Catherine couldn’t sleep at all that night. Maybe she would drop the package off at Richard’s house tomorrow—tempt fate: if he was there she’d go inside, kiss him one last time; if he wasn’t home, she’d just leave the package by the door, try to forget about all of it. <br /><br />When Phillip and James came running in to her room on Saturday morning, she was too tired to get up. “Go turn on one of your shows,” she pleaded with them as she buried her head under her pillow. She and Tim still hadn’t found a curtain for the window over their bed.<br /><br />Catherine tried to go back to sleep, but Phillip and James’ rumblings kept her awake. She liked to try and imagine what all the noises were. Clearly they had turned on the television and found an episode of “Ben 10” that she DVRed for them. She was pretty sure one of them was attempting to get cereal. When she heard Phillip say “Get the scissors!” to James, she was mildly alarmed. She hoped they wouldn’t cut up anything too important. As she tried to visualize all the things piled on the entry table, she heard the distinct sound of bubble wrap being jumped on. The package!<br /><br />Catherine bolted out of bed and ran into the living room. She tried to sound stern when she said, “Phillip! James! What are you doing? That’s not ours,” but she was secretly glad to have a reason to look inside the box.<br /><br />“Look, Mommy!” Phillip said as he held up a pair of goggles. “Bug eyes!”<br /><br />“Cool!” said James as he dug into the box and pulled out another pair.<br /><br />“There’s lots of them!” Phillip exclaimed. “Daddy! Come look!”<br /><br />Tim came padding in to see what all the excitement was about. James had his goggles on and said, “Look, Daddy! I’m a bug!”<br /><br />“Me too!” said Phillip, now wearing his goggles.<br /><br />“Everything is multiplied!” James said.<br /><br />Catherine loved that her five-year-old just said the word multiplied. She put on her glasses and said, “Look, I’m a bug too!”<br /><br />Tim was laughing now. “Do I get a pair?”<br /><br />Phillip handed him a pair and they all stood in the kitchen giggling. “Bugs have compound eyes,” Tim said. “They have hundreds of little corneas. Each one provides the bug’s brain with one picture element.”<br /><br />“Cool,” James said.<br /><br />“I have a great idea,” said Phillip. “Let’s get dressed and walk over to the trails and wear our bug glasses!”<br /><br />Overton Park was the main reason they never moved more than a mile away. Every Saturday and Sunday for as long as she could remember, she and Tim had packed up the dogs, and later the kids, to hike along the old forest trails. Spring, summer, fall and winter. Rain or shine. It was their sanctuary.<br /><br />James picked up the box and turned it upside down to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. A fifth pair of goggles fell out. “Look! Another pair!” he exclaimed.<br /><br />Phillip picked them up and asked, “Who’s going to wear these?”<br /><br />Catherine put her hand on her stomach and looked at Tim. He raised his eyebrow and mouthed, “Are you serious?” Catherine blushed. Then she looked at Phillip and James, said “I bet I can get dressed the fastest!” and raced towards her bedroom in her bug goggles.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-19077751395320053692007-03-10T21:25:00.000-08:002008-11-10T19:30:06.989-08:00Fertile Ground #15<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZT6FmoqqjYsLS-Ra6P51qH3Q_ATi_NopORjCHZBq62U0AP7QlR-AUKNOuiqPRI4qSXI-K4rsONgxWF79n2E_FF031umUPpJs8hsXRyXRf6OYbshZSLHgDVK-aaAYhFC5LQ_1NY9DYZY/s1600-h/FG15cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZT6FmoqqjYsLS-Ra6P51qH3Q_ATi_NopORjCHZBq62U0AP7QlR-AUKNOuiqPRI4qSXI-K4rsONgxWF79n2E_FF031umUPpJs8hsXRyXRf6OYbshZSLHgDVK-aaAYhFC5LQ_1NY9DYZY/s400/FG15cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267223524185159874" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">INSIDE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FROM THE TRENCHES</span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/soil-chart.html">Soil Chart</a> by Stacey Greenberg<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/alternative-birth-story.html">An Alternative Birth Story</a> by Stephanie Chockley<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/my-bonus-baby.html">My Bonus Baby</a> by Kristy Alley<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/many-faces-of-c.html">The Many Faces of C</a> by Elizabeth Alley<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">THE REAL DIRT</span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/urf-birth-of-blog.html">Urf! The Birth of a Blog</a> by Richard J. Alley<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/people-in-your-cyberhood.html">The People in Your Cyberhood</a> by Andria Brown<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/ten-reasons-why-memphis-is-better-than.html">Memphis is Better than Portland</a> by Courtney Miller Santo<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/memphis-to-z.html">Memphis A to Z</a> by Shiloh Barnat<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/fridays-after-school.html">Friday After School</a> by Shannon Dixon <br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/peeling-onion.html">Peeling the Onion</a> by Vanessa Ross<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">FERTILIZER</span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/meet-kate-crowder.html">Meet Kate Crowder</a> Interview by Stacey Greenberg<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/greet-robby-grant.html">Greet Robby Grant</a> Interview by Stacey Greenberg<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IN THE FIELD </span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/codepink.html">CODEPINK</a> by Naomi Van Tol<br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/02/children-are-natural-protestors.html">Children are Natural Protestors</a> by Amy Banbury<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">RUTS INTO FURROWS</span><br /><a href="http://fgzine.blogspot.com/2007/03/diary-of-injury-from-roller-girl-to.html">Diary of an Injury</a> by Stacey GreenbergStacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-47584887492840553772007-03-10T19:26:00.000-08:002008-11-10T19:27:54.645-08:00Soil Chart<span style="font-weight:bold;">Soil Chart<br />Stacey Greenberg</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunod7Ia8iJsvUB0E1yhP0JIjUUHnW7y1A43lp3DpCio12iGTI5lhxmgFXyjYB-og7OQoIXDfGhJt2yxNUMJ2vMvQGQQG8BQ0-6X9DuLVawlSKdTEZKfe9cOx4dPIFBSn_kFHTpOnmQIw/s1600-h/xraybefore.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 329px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunod7Ia8iJsvUB0E1yhP0JIjUUHnW7y1A43lp3DpCio12iGTI5lhxmgFXyjYB-og7OQoIXDfGhJt2yxNUMJ2vMvQGQQG8BQ0-6X9DuLVawlSKdTEZKfe9cOx4dPIFBSn_kFHTpOnmQIw/s400/xraybefore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267236387729907442" /></a><br />Despite claiming that I was going to only do the zine every six months in the last issue, I had really planned to have #15 out by December 15th. Then I broke my leg in two places in my inaugural roller derby bout on December 9th and had to have surgery. But thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, I am almost fully recovered. Read my “Diary of an Injury” on page 36. It doesn’t have all that much to do with parenting, but these days I get as many inquiries about roller derby as I do about my monkeys. (Who, by the way, were extremely sweet while I was injured and unable to do much of anything.)<br /><br />I am happy to bring to you issue #15, the Memphis issue! For the first time ever, all of the contributors are either from or living in Memphis. This is by no means a comprehensive look at our fine city, but I think it gives a taste of what life is like here. As much as I love shipping this zine off to mamas across the country (and on occasion across the globe), one of my goals in starting this zine was to help build a community of like-minded parents in my very own backyard. After almost five years of parenting, I feel very blessed (as we say in Memphis) to know so many awesome parents. Not only do I know them, I get to see them almost everyday—at school, at the grocery store, at the playground, at my house, etc. <br />Speaking of…we’re moving! Please note the new address on the back and send all of your packing and organizing tips my way! I plan to have #16 out in a few months. In the meantime visit www.fertilegroundzine.blogspot.com.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-68403242813697439732007-03-10T19:23:00.000-08:002008-11-10T19:25:23.224-08:00An Alternative Birth Story<span style="font-weight:bold;">An Alternative Birth Story<br />Stephanie Chockley</span><br /><br />Some time after the “stuck-at-nine-and-a-half-centimeters-so-you’re-going-to-need-a-C-section” birth of my first child, I retroactively educated myself on the whole process. One night I explained to my husband all of the things that had gone wrong. “. . .and so basically without the pitocin my labor would have progressed more slowly so my body would have had time to dilate properly and I probably wouldn’t have needed the C-section,” I concluded with conviction. “So you will want to try the VBAC next time we do this?” my ever-supportive husband asked. My reply was just as full of certainty as my diatribe, “Of course not!” <br /><br />It’s fair to say that I do not thrive on uncertainty and spontaneity. I try really hard to go with the flow, but even when it appears I’m doing a good job of it, the inner me is struggling to relax. Waiting on the baby to arrive was pretty hard on me in that regard. It wasn’t about my physical discomfort or the anxiety of what was in store- it was about not having it on the schedule. Not being able to plan my maternity leave to perfectly maximize my paid time off. Not knowing what day relatives would come to my house. Not knowing. So while I’m officially opposed to scheduling unnecessary C-sections just for purposes of planning and keeping order in your life, I was not about to turn down a semi-reasonable excuse to do so when I got pregnant a second time.<br /><br />Also, I am a total fraidy-cat. I’m scared of everything. During my first labor experience, I had already told my husband that at the first hint that anything might go wrong, I was willing to be cut open. Because what if the baby got stuck? Umbilical cord around its neck? Upside down? Sideways? What if I ripped open to my tailbone and pooped out of my vagina for the rest of my life? Add to those fears the (admittedly small) possibility that the scar tissue from my first C-section might rupture, and I’m knocking on the surgeon’s door before the pee has dried on the EPT. Even though surgery should be infinitely scarier than the amazing, natural act of childbirth, I was willing to give myself over to it in a heartbeat. Probably because it can be planned for. They draw a line where they’re going to cut. They control the pain. They have a better handle on the baby’s condition. The certainty of the decision to plan a repeat C-section wrapped around me and made me feel safe. That was definitely something I needed amid the craziness of pregnancy.<br /><br />I found myself disappointed, though. Not that I had made this decision - I was relieved and actually happy about that! But why was I willing to settle? I know people who work with midwives or have their baby at home in the bathtub or at the very least don’t get an epidural. I wish I was the kind of person who wanted that experience, but I’m just not. I wondered if maybe I would regret the decision later. “I hear second babies come out pretty fast- maybe if I go into labor before my date, and if I’m pretty far along by the time we get to the hospital, then maybe. . .,” I limply threw out one night over dinner. Chip just looked at me and smiled his knowing smile. “Whatever you want to do,” he replied, knowing better than I did that it wouldn’t happen that way. And it didn’t. And it turns out I’m perfectly fine with that.<br /><br />My due date was March 22. We scheduled the C-section for the afternoon of Thursday, March 16. The Saturday before, I suddenly had high blood pressure. Since it was the weekend, my doctor’s office was closed and I had to go to the hospital. At one point I heard the nurse talking to the on-call doctor, “. . .since she’s already scheduled for Thursday. . .” “No!” I said to myself, and then to everyone within earshot. I had concert tickets for that night, and stuff to do around the house on Monday after Connor and Chip left for the day. I hadn’t even had a day off work! I didn’t have the cushions on my glider rocker re-covered yet! Many tears later they let me leave, promising to see me Thursday. I stayed home that night sulking while Chip went to the concert without me, but I was glad to be back on schedule. I cleared my to-do list by Tuesday afternoon, and looked forward to relaxing all day Wednesday. <br /><br />But Tuesday night when I got in bed, I realized I was in labor. I tossed and turned for a few hours, checking the time of my contractions and making sure it was really happening. I had an unreasonable fear that I would cause a lot of commotion getting my mom over to stay with Connor and heading to the hospital, only to be embarrassingly sent home with some Tums. I felt I needed to be sure. Pretty soon I was, but I let Chip sleep awhile. I figured it would be good if one of us did. Around 1:00 a.m. I shook him a little. “It’s time,” I whispered. “Really? You ready?” And I was. I had a fresh mani-pedi (Don’t judge me-it was a gift!), there was a newly upholstered chair in the nursery and clean sheets on the guest bed. We called Mom to come stay with Connor, and she arrived in minutes. I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to warn Connor, but I knew it was best to let him sleep. He knew it was happening this week and he was excited about it. He’d be happy to wake up in a world where he was a big brother.<br /><br />We arrived at the hospital and I was monitored in all the appropriate ways. The contractions were strong and closer than I had realized, but I hadn’t dilated much at all. We called Mom and Chip’s parents to let them know it was happening. The on-call doctor came to see me. Dr. King! He did my first C-section. “Um, doc? Not to knock your work, but my previous scar is somewhat asymmetrical. Dr. Miller said we could fix that?” No problem. One more thing checked off my list. (My list of neuroses, that is!)<br /><br />They wheeled me in, alone, to administer the spinal block and get me ready. I concentrated on trying not to move my immovable legs and asked repeatedly, “When can Chip come in?” I found myself more frightened of the surgery than I had been the first time, when it all happened much faster. I narrowly averted a panic attack after giving in to my instincts and trying to move my leg- the nurse talked me down from it and reminded me that it would all be worth it in just a few minutes. In came Chip, and it was on. No, I don’t want to watch. Yes, I know I’ll feel pressure. Just do it! In that moment all you want is to hear that baby cry, no matter how she’s getting out of you. And minutes later, she did. I exhaled and begged them to get her to me. “Hi Chloe! I love you!” I said through my tears. Although I wish I could have nursed her right then, I knew I would be able to soon enough. So, I relaxed a bit and watched them go about the business of welcoming a newborn. Nine pounds four ounces? At 39 weeks? Suddenly I was really glad I hadn’t tried that on my own. It wasn’t long before the three of us were in a room together, watching Chloe gleefully suck the skin right off my nipples. I hadn’t done it in my own living room, but I had done it and I was proud. And it was nothing to be ashamed of.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-67969014486361029402007-03-10T19:18:00.000-08:002008-11-10T19:22:21.735-08:00My Bonus Baby<span style="font-weight:bold;">My Bonus Baby by Kristy Alley<br />Photos by Heather Ashley</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEygJhJN_sHWqRSZdSXv-JKu9xnHkJLK7i6C_gv8k3gZPXWIRVLv_REibQWsn1716eHTyjEVsMIVVIB0oYrRi3EK5Tv6ofeRaVbl0HVaNPEOKvryNpqzBoBoGX9QIAbMGzN4ytowuCcA/s1600-h/clara1.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEygJhJN_sHWqRSZdSXv-JKu9xnHkJLK7i6C_gv8k3gZPXWIRVLv_REibQWsn1716eHTyjEVsMIVVIB0oYrRi3EK5Tv6ofeRaVbl0HVaNPEOKvryNpqzBoBoGX9QIAbMGzN4ytowuCcA/s400/clara1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267235028220980290" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkVGym0ykIFu0KR3Dv0n9IR-r-FxhG0BnxswtEhn_sVpSOyAyP7lxZ4O-_GLPOw_Qdj7EthoKjhmDiRvz5EaNDh0bNsEgDjbkAjss4cZUBed6ITqty0sBNBjBp-PSdG6S4B1yTfR-XyY/s1600-h/clara2.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkVGym0ykIFu0KR3Dv0n9IR-r-FxhG0BnxswtEhn_sVpSOyAyP7lxZ4O-_GLPOw_Qdj7EthoKjhmDiRvz5EaNDh0bNsEgDjbkAjss4cZUBed6ITqty0sBNBjBp-PSdG6S4B1yTfR-XyY/s400/clara2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267234897151532242" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DfdPAuc4TRyEU14aKeI7sMgFp0B7suuVs3hp_c0kRpbksn_7P2sg8MpQs6kVsuUq-Vl_cN8ISL2Ne9Eu_FB9l2C3sEk0GwATiN8dkDWroq8gcXls1x7LOgKkKDrJzeGtFIYvfQKIlSg/s1600-h/clara3.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DfdPAuc4TRyEU14aKeI7sMgFp0B7suuVs3hp_c0kRpbksn_7P2sg8MpQs6kVsuUq-Vl_cN8ISL2Ne9Eu_FB9l2C3sEk0GwATiN8dkDWroq8gcXls1x7LOgKkKDrJzeGtFIYvfQKIlSg/s400/clara3.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267234786426698882" /></a><br />Saturday morning, the kids and I slept in while Big Daddy got up and went to work. I never thought I would consider 8:45 a.m. "sleeping in," but now it seems absolutely decadent. I heard the boys get up and turn on cartoons as Genevieve rooted around a bit in my bed and then looked up at me with her best "am I not the cutest baby alive?" smile. <br /><br />The lady Somerset generally does not show her face before 10:00 a.m. on weekends, but this day she came padding into my room and crawled up into bed with the baby and me. The three of us snuggled and chatted for a little while until gradually the boys drifted in asking about breakfast. Sugar is the rule for our Saturday mornings, so Calvin and I made our favorite, chocolate croissants, and we all took them out on the front porch to eat.<br /><br />The older three soon felt cartoons pulling them back inside, leaving Genevieve and me in relative peace. She likes to alternate between sitting in her exersaucer and rocking with me in the porch glider. While she practiced standing and reaching in the saucer, I gorged on chocolate and The New Yorker, reading a short story, a couple of poems (one good, one bewilderingly not good), an article about Bill Clinton's working post presidency, and a fascinating article about a WWII era sociological movement called Mass Observation. Somewhere in there, Genevieve fell asleep in the crook of my arm and I put her back in bed.<br /><br />I sat there, rocking and reading and eating with my kids drifting in and out and the baby doing her baby things, and I tried to hold the sweetness of the moment in my mind. There were years when time seemed to be suspended in babyhood, when months seemed like eternities and I thought I would never see the end of diapers and sippy cups and “Blues Clues.” I never had baby fever. I lived for the day each one of them would walk and talk. Babies are sweet, but we had kids because we wanted kids. We became parents with visions of biking with them, going camping and canoeing, not of cribs and mobiles and pushing a stroller. Not that there weren't good things. Babyhood has its moments, but for the most part, I have wanted to kiss the ground as each child turned four, because the journey to that point has just about worn me out. Then one day, I realized I couldn't find clothes to fit Calvin in the toddler section anymore. Joshua was talking clearly and sucking his thumb less. Somerset, who was then our "last baby," potty trained and finally weaned on her third birthday. It felt like the end of an era, and it was bittersweet.<br /><br />Two weeks later, I got pregnant. I have to confess that I was devastated. There was a time when I wanted a fourth baby, but then I had Somerset only fourteen months after Joshua. We decided that three was enough. We worried that we were pushing our luck. We had three healthy kids, why tempt fate? It was a hard decision for me, but once I decided I was done having babies, I felt good about moving on to the next stage. As it turned out, having babies was not done with me. When it started to dawn on me that I might be pregnant, I responded with strong denial. There was no way. I was so sure that I would never be pregnant again that I couldn't even wrap my mind around the possibility. I've had two miscarriages, so that always feels like it could happen again. I didn't want to miscarry, but I knew it could happen, and if it did, I would know that the whole thing just wasn't meant to be. The thought of starting all over with a newborn was just overwhelming to me. Then one day, I guess about a week (a very looong week) after I figured out what was going on, I saw blood. I walked into my kitchen, leaned back against the counter, and cried. It was crazy, I didn't even want to be pregnant, but at the same time, I felt like I had just lost something very real. I thought in flashes of everything that would never happen for that baby. I felt like I had wished away my chance to know one of my kids.<br /><br />Happily, the blood turned out to be only a little implantation spotting. The baby was fine. I felt so relieved, but I still worried. I'm not the anxious type, and when irrational thoughts pop up, I usually shut them down immediately. But one day when I was driving the kids around, I looked to my right and saw a woman pushing what looked like a six-month-old baby in a stroller. A thought flashed into my mind with such force and certainty that it was almost as if it had been spoken aloud: "I'll never see this baby like that." I pushed it away, but the feeling that it was true was hard to shake. I never said a word to anyone, but through my whole pregnancy, some part of me was just waiting for the worst to happen. I did not allow myself to think about how it might go down, but I couldn't stop believing that it would. So when I was finally in labor and the nurse noticed that the belt monitor was not picking up the baby's heartbeat, that part of me just sort of detached and said, "So this is how it's going to happen." My incredible nurse, Marta, moved swiftly and expertly as she attached the internal monitor, rolled me on my side, put an oxygen mask on me, and unhooked the bed from the headboard so she could tip me on my head. As she moved, she calmly explained what she was doing and how it would get more oxygen to the baby. It all happened so fast, and I was able to listen to her, but at the same time part of me was thinking that this was how I would lose my baby. I don't know if it was the guilt over not wanting to be pregnant, or just hormonal irrationality, or what, but it felt so real at the time.<br /><br />Ultimately, my fears were unfounded and Genevieve was fine. She came out looking blue as Vishnu, screaming soundlessly, and when they laid her on my chest I said, "Are you sure she's ok?" They assured me she was fine, but I was still shaken. Then my doctor held up a length of the umbilical cord between her hands and said "Look, a true knot." It was tied in a perfect knot but not pulled tightly enough to cut off the blood supply. Only two weeks later, I would learn that the baby of a friend's acquaintance was stillborn because of a knot in the cord. But my baby lived, and she was beautiful and perfect and she relaxed in my arms the moment the nurses brought her back to me. She rested her head on my chest in a way that said so clearly, "Yes, you are the right one." I could write a million words and never be able to describe what I felt at that moment.<br /><br />So, finally, with my fourth and definitely last child, I have been able to enjoy having a newborn. When she cries, I feel sympathetic but not like my own emotions are tied up with hers, which is how it always felt with the others. I do not feel like my head is going to explode. Ok, sometimes I do, but that's usually when I'm trying to do something else that seems important at the moment. Most of the time, I just hold her and smell her crazy hair that stands straight up, laugh at her babbling screeching baby sounds, smile at her smiling at me. She is indescribably sweet, and so much sweeter because I know now how fast it goes. I know that I wasn't even expecting her, my bonus baby, and she came to me through sheer luck, and before long she will disappear into the child she's bound to become.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-20721228741074860522007-03-10T19:16:00.000-08:002008-11-10T19:18:15.069-08:00The Many Faces of C<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Many Faces of C<br />Elizabeth Alley</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfFK5hOB6k-9fM-Y0YyjofYS_om-m8_aEofZVsAHwVrQLkgxG4RjbVpw8izuaneDWR1ivDrVu9k8ExKP_c_x4aKwgz-mvrpvV-Q_qvaleHoA-PLodDf3wdLSvSGsdqigb3P0bickH648/s1600-h/manyfacesofc.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfFK5hOB6k-9fM-Y0YyjofYS_om-m8_aEofZVsAHwVrQLkgxG4RjbVpw8izuaneDWR1ivDrVu9k8ExKP_c_x4aKwgz-mvrpvV-Q_qvaleHoA-PLodDf3wdLSvSGsdqigb3P0bickH648/s400/manyfacesofc.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267233895709208162" /></a>Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-54247879863168442462007-03-10T19:14:00.000-08:002008-11-10T19:15:53.123-08:00Urf! The Birth of a Blog<span style="font-weight:bold;">Urf! The Birth of a Blog<br />Richard J. Alley<br /></span><br />Why would a person start a blog? Narcissism. At some point a person believes that what he or she has to say is so interesting, so poignant, so goddamn witty that he must share it with others. And that others will necessarily enjoy it. That’s why I began Urf!, because I’m just so witty. That’s not entirely why I started it, of course. As the father of four young kids of varying ages, I am always amused by the silly things they’re saying or doing, or trying to say and do. These stories I would invariably email to my mother or sisters. I decided it would be easier to put them in one place, along with current photographs, for them to visit and to really feel a part of our lives no matter how far away they were.<br /><br />Urf!, a term my then-three-year-old daughter would use to vent her frustration, was begun on March 31, 2006, with the post What is Urf!? I wrote online for about 10 days before telling anyone, posting almost every day. I needed to make sure it was something that would hold my attention before attempting to hold anyone else’s. I received positive feedback in the form of comments and email once I went public, and the URL was forwarded from family to friends to people I’d never met before. I’m a frustrated writer at heart and having someone read what I’d written – and like it – turned out to be just what I needed, what would propel me to write more, whether online or in my own composition book. It also helped me gain access to a community in Memphis that I wasn’t even aware I wanted access to. My wife owned a parenting store for a couple of years and, through that entity, she became close with a group of women and their families. Kristy’s Friends, that’s who they were to me. I knew of them, but didn’t really know them. Once she told them about Urf!, and they read it, they began to comment and email their thoughts on various posts and topics. Stacey Greenberg and I discussed using a post as an essay in this very zine. Instead of hanging out as individuals with kids, we started getting together as families and have all become close, a sort of extended family.<br /><br />I consider myself to be a good father, though with room for improvement, but writing about the kids every day changed the way I looked at, and even interacted, with them. I began listening more closely to what they were saying and how they were saying it, always looking for that next hook to build a post around. They had become my muses. Suddenly I saw humor in their stubbornness, questions, eating habits, and even their arguments. I instigated conversations just for the reaction and dragged others out longer than I normally would have just to see where they’d lead. They usually led to one of the kids rolling their eyes at me, and that in itself was worthy of writing about. Urf!, as I’ve said, is a funny term of vexation, and that’s exactly what fatherhood is to me - a series of frustrations punctuated by intense moments of silliness and laughter. Urf! became my place to document and share the good times as well as the not-so-good.<br /><br />My grandfather was the editorial cartoonist for The Commercial Appeal during the 1940s, 50s and 60s, and during much of this time he also penned a daily comic strip called The Ryatts. In this comic strip, he documented the antics of a family of seven, the parents and their five children, based on his own family. It was brought to my attention recently that that is what I’m doing. I’d never made that connection before, but it’s nice to find this link to the past; to think that, though I don’t have his skills with a nib and ink, I can still paint those pictures, convey that humor, in my own way. Hopefully in a way that will resonate with other parents, other families.<br /><br />The blog also became a sort of archive or record book for me. My thinking is that when my kids grow and have kids of their own, reading Urf! will be akin to flipping through that old family album we always look through at my grandmother’s house. There will be some actual photos, but most of what is there will be drawn with words, some embellished, some silly, but hopefully with enough truth and feeling that they and their own children can be transported back to this time in their lives. It’s done the same for me. I find that I’m not only interested in writing about my kids’ childhoods, but my own as well, attempting to draw a parallel between our experiences at times and a contrast at others. I’ve written heartfelt entries about my family, knowing full well that they were being read by those people, and that has unexpectedly opened up lines of communication that may not have been there otherwise. <br /><br />My kids don’t yet know about Urf!. I’ve kept it from the oldest, the only one who can read now, because it’s not time for him to read it. I’m not ready for them to know just how funny they are to me, how parents laugh at their children even when they’re exasperated by them. If that happens, we, as parents, lose our edge and the whole system breaks down. I also fear that if they know they’re being written about, and that people are reading it, then they will begin acting for it and I want them to be as natural as possible. The time will come for them to read it, and I look forward to emailing them the URL wherever they may be. Away at college, on scholarships, hopefully.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154451728077854021.post-48857039658664244912007-03-10T19:13:00.000-08:002008-11-10T19:14:25.715-08:00The People in Your Cyberhood<span style="font-weight:bold;">The People in Your Cyberhood<br />Andria Brown</span><br /><br />It’s always a little awkward to admit having met someone online. There’s still a little bit of a stigma, the assumption that the parties involved had such a deep social delay that the only way they could come together was through the safe, flaw-hiding, digitized middle ground. <br /><br />Even more awkward, then, to admit that pretty much one’s entire social circle stems from an online source, but I’ve slowly come to realize that I owe most of my daily interaction with other parents to the mighty Internet. In fact, I wouldn’t be on this page today if it weren’t for the HipMama message boards. <br /><br />I met Fertile Ground’s own Stacey (or staleyg, as she was better known to me) while I was pregnant with Miss M. I’d been a fairly active message boarder before then, since I was telecommuting from a home office 600 miles away from my nearest three-dimensional co-worker. So when I got pregnant, I sought an online community that would cater to my personal parenting leanings. The board went through changes and the community wandered from one site to the next, but I kept tabs on staleyg and after nearly a year of virtual communication, we discovered that we lived less than 2 miles away from each other. A chaotic but enjoyable smoothie date between Pregnant Mom and Toddler Mom ensued, and pretty soon we were in regular contact, both in person and online. <br /><br />One day I got an email from Stacey saying, “Hey, have you seen this store Mothersville? It’s really cool, you should check it out.” And since Stacey was my guide to all things cool in Memphis, I of course went right away. I discovered not only a store, but a community resource offering pre-natal yoga, childbirth classes and a full schedule of groups for new mamas. I immediately signed up for everything, and after slinking in six or eight times, I finally got the nerve to start talking to the owner, Kristy. And talking. And talking. And talking. <br /><br />Looking back at the end of my pregnancy and my first year of motherhood, my most distinct memories are of sitting on the couch at Mothersville, among Kristy, Stacey and a revolving group of other new moms, talking, joking, advising and dishing about our lives. But even in real life, the virtual was still a factor. Most of the moms had found Mothersville through online research on slings, cloth diapers, or attachment parenting. We set up an outside playgroup and, naturally, emailed each other the meet-up details each week. The Internet was our lifeline in the often isolating world of new parenthood.<br /><br />As time went on and children grew, trying to coordinate our social lives got even more complex. We outgrew playgroups or our maternity leaves ran out and our regular contact got less and less frequent. Since I was working 2-3 jobs, including the new ownership of Mothersville, I no longer had the free time to devote to the constantly active nature of message boards, and as each month passed, I was drifting even further out of touch with the women who had been my companions on the maternity journey. <br /><br />And then, like a pixelated miracle dropped from the cyber-sky, my salvation arrived in the form of a blog. Fertile Ground Zine: The Blog, to be precise. Suddenly I had a way to keep up with the almost-daily doings of at least one other mom (guess who?), and thanks to the magic of blog comments, it was even interactive. Maybe I didn’t have the time to send regular emails, but it wasn’t so hard to read a funny post and then blurt back a couple sentences in reply. In fact, reading the comments from other people was half the fun of the blog itself. It’s like Stacey was telling a story and the rest of us were sitting around the table, goofing around and interrupting (like she loves!) and sometimes even agreeing with her. When Stacey expanded her bloggertoire to include Dining with Monkeys, and then opened it up to guest bloggers, the community interaction was even stronger. More local parents joined the blogosphere on their own and we formed a curious little pack: grown folks who rarely actually saw each other but still kept tabs on the regular goings-on of everyone else. <br /><br />I didn’t realize how much this phenomenon had affected our social scene until we were at a birthday party at Kristy and Richard’s house (Sassy Molassy and RJA of Urf!, respectively) and Stacey mentioned that, despite standard birthday party conventions that usually just drag mothers to such events, Warren felt comfortable coming because “he felt like he knew everyone through the blog comments.” The feeling was collective as we all sat on the porch and drank beers and joked with each other as if we’d just been talking the day before, even though it may have been a few weeks since we were all in one (actual) spot. <br /><br />Of course, those multi-week spans very rarely occur anymore, because there’s generally a Dining with Monkeys convergence to attend or an impromptu park date set up thanks to the wonder of cell phone text messaging. We used technology to come together, and now we use it on daily basis to create our own virtual neighborhood. We can’t walk out our front doors and holler hi at each other like our own mothers and their friends, but we’ve still found a way to connect our high-speed lives.Stacey Greenberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14716896540454461639noreply@blogger.com0