Sink or Swim Parenting

I remember learning to swim at the YMCA, slipping gently into the cool water, clinging to the wall as my coach gently encouraged me to swim toward him.  "You can do it," he said.  "Just let go, and move your arms and legs just like we practiced."

I trusted that he wouldn't let me drown, and that he wouldn't get angry, or worse, turn his back on me, if I forgot what we practiced, or if I was too scared or self-conscious or distracted to do what I was supposed to.  And he rewarded my trust by catching me, steadying me, and encouraging me to go further.

 My uncle taught his daughter to swim by throwing her in the deep end when she was five, and telling her she could figure it out.  Her eyes bugged and her face turned purple as she splashed, reaching for the wall, too scared to cry until she reached the wall, and then she couldn't stop crying.

My cousin and I both learned how to swim, but we also learned a lot more.  I learned that there were other people in the world that I could trust, who would help me if I needed it, and who would encourage me to meet my goals and to go even further.  She learned that she had to take care of herself, because no one else was going to help her, especially not the people she loved.

I was lucky that my mother hired a coach to teach me to swim, because my father had the same parenting philosophy as my cousin's father.  When I needed help, as a child, a teenager, and even as an adult, my father thought I should just know what to do, and turned his back on me.  "Tough love," some call it.

Withdrawing love is not "tough love."  Love is an exchange of positive energy, of happiness, encouragement, comfort, trust, and time.

I am lucky that I grew up exposed to adults who didn't buy into the "bully them into behaving" paradigm, because I grew up knowing there was a better way, and slowly but surely, I taught myself what my parents should have taught me - that I deserve love without conditions; that there ARE people in this world that I can trust; and that there will always be someone to help me when I need it, even if it's not the person that I expect.

My Birth Story (Excerpt from my thesis, "Birth of a Mother")

My Birth Story – Excerpted from my memoir, Birth of a Mother

Me as a newborn with my proud parents.

     "I spend a couple of hours in the tub, alternating positions from reclining on my back to squatting, to lying on my tummy, getting restless. My three hundred and twenty pound body does not fit as well in the deep plastic tub as I would have liked, and I start letting my legs hang over the sides to stretch my calves and feet to keep them from cramping.
     As endorphins and other hormones flood my body, relaxing me, opening me, and preparing the way for my son's entrance, I want nothing more than to go to sleep. After every rush, I relax against the tub and close my eyes, feeling like I could start dreaming if I wasn't afraid I'd drown in the meantime.
     The nausea hits me without warning. Then my entire body feels flooded with restless energy, even though I simultaneously feel heavy and unable to move. The sensation suddenly morphs into feeling like my body is about to split into two, or explode. I remember from Gaskin's books that just before the pushing phase, mothers “transition” into it by experiencing feelings ranging from nausea and discomfort to panicking and losing confidence in their ability to survive the birth. To relieve the tension, and head off the panic, I facetiously announce, “Well, this must be transition, because I feel like I'm going to die!”
     As Kelli and Maggie burst into laughter, Kelli's assistant, Kristie, walks into the room, also laughing. “I knew she'd make me laugh as soon as I walked in the door!” she says, grinning at me.
     I appreciate Kristie's presence in the next moments, first because she rubs my feet while Rose puts a cold washcloth over my eyes, and Maggie has me sip more juice from a straw. Transition passes, and my body moves itself into squatting position without my conscious effort, and with the next rush, my bellow turns into a grunt, and I find myself pushing.
     Kelli looks up from knitting my son's hat and stares at me a moment, before asking, “Am I going to finish this in time?”
     My laugh is cut short by another rush that ends in pushing.
     I'm vaguely aware of my sister running around, helping the midwives and encouraging me, following their lead. I hear her telling the men in the other room that they need to watch the way they feel or think, because I might pick up on their worry or tension, and my heart overflows with love and pride for her, but I am too far gone in labor-land to tell her so.
     The urge to push is relatively weak at first. I roll onto my side, my other side, to my hands and knees, squatting and leaning over the tub, and squatting and leaning back against it. The last three positions feel best. A couple contractions even find me on my back, because my legs are cramping, and my feet are wrinkled and numb, yet throbbing. Someone rubs my feet and calves at some point, which feels like a wonderful release of blocked energy.
     After pushing for what feels like twenty minutes, Kelli checks me with her fingers, and finds a little bit of cervix still holding back my son's head. She pushes at it while I bear down, and it's much easier to figure out what muscles with which to push when I can feel her fingers. We get the last of the cervix away in that fashion, and the endorphins are making me crave sleep again. I hear myself saying, “a nap would be heaven” after every contraction, and finally, I decide to move back to my bed so I can rest between pushes without inhaling water.
     In a flurry of activity, all the ladies run around me, moving the birthing stuff back into the bedroom on the other side of the house, while Kelli helps me out of the tub. I notice my birth team blocking view of my body from the men as we make our way through the house, and feel like that was thoughtful of them, though I couldn't care less about being seen naked right now. Before I went into labor, I had a birthing outfit picked out, but once labor really started, naked was the only way I wanted to be. I am no longer ashamed of this large, incredible body, the body that conceived, housed, nurtured, and protected my baby as he grew.
     On the bed, I discover that lying on my side makes the contractions hurt, so for the most part, I stay in the chest and knees position, which lets me rest between contractions and almost sleep. I feel so out of it that I can't figure out how to sustain the pushes to move my baby out.
     I become frustrated, and the sound of the men talking in the other room distracts and irritates me, so I ask Rose to shut the door, not realizing that Dolphin is standing in the hallway.
     Kelli says, “How about we move you to the birthing stool, and let gravity help?”
     I stare at her like she's speaking in tongues for a moment, and when my foggy brain finally deciphers her question, I say, “Okay.”
     The birthing stool looks like someone turned a rocking chair on its side, but cut off the chair part, and then cut handles into each end of the curved runners. It's sturdy, though, and gives my birth team much more room to help me. Maggie and Kristie help me spread my thighs as far as they will go, and Kelli kneels between them, while Kristie contorts herself on the floor with her head under my butt to keep a hot compress against my perineum with one hand, and wipe away fecal matter with the other. They are all my heroes, and I am grateful at the matter-of-fact comportment of these experienced ladies, keeping me confident in my most vulnerable moments.
     On the birthing stool, with Kelli's assistance, I finally figure out how to push effectively, and then how to sustain it. I ask Kelli to use her fingers to guide me, so I can focus on pushing against them. I smell clary sage oil punctuated by occasional whiffs of my own feces at different points, and feel impressed all over again at how efficient the ladies are at keeping me clean and the floor and bed covered. I am so grateful that I feel so comfortable with them that I can poo on them and not feel bad or embarrassed about it.
     They know I can do it, and encourage me over and over. Incredibly attentive and intuitive, they know what I need and want before I do, half the time. Rose is also a huge help, just by helping them. She becomes an active member of my birth team, even though she's never witnessed a birth before. I could burst with pride for her.
     […]
     In the last fifteen minutes, the pushing urge becomes all consuming. I grunt louder and longer than I ever have before, pushing until I think I can't possibly push anymore, surprised when my body adds an extra, stronger push at the end of what I thought was all I could do. My throat is raw and I taste mucus from the grunting, as if I'm coughing up phlegm rather than vocalizing as I move my baby's head down my birth canal.
     I don't feel the infamous “ring of fire” when he crowns, just an itchy, stretchy feeling. My birth team sets up a mirror so I can see his head, but my glasses are still in the kitchen, so I reach down and touch him instead. His head feels like a slimy hairball, and I almost laugh, but suddenly, I can't think or do anything but push. My body totally takes over. His head comes out, and Kelli wipes his nose and mouth, then turns slightly to put down the cloth, whirling back around just in time to catch my baby as he shoots out of me, seconds after crowning. I almost laugh again at the wide-eyed expression on Kelli's face, which is the only face close enough for me to see without my glasses.
     But then she puts his warm, slippery body on my belly, and I cradle him to me, and the rest of the world ceases to exist. His head is covered in short brown hair, looking darker in the birth gore. His eyes are dark and almond-shaped, his nose flat and round, his lips full and perfect in his scrunched up, beautiful face. He could be any ethnicity in this moment. He is the entire human race, the past, present, and future. He is the entire universe, my universe, the overwhelming precious answer to every prayer I'll ever make.

Confession time...

I've been feeling pretty ashamed of myself since last night.

Ten years ago, while I worked on my MFA but before I started my eight years of thesis hours (no joke,) I had a couple of classes, one fiction, one poetry, in which we volunteered at the local homeless shelter and taught some of the "residents" creative writing techniques.

We learned a lot about life that semester, about pedagogy, and about human nature.  The couple of months I spent homeless, I got to hop from a bed in one friend's house, to a bed in another, while people I knew and trusted watched my son and other friends drove me around town helping me search for jobs, aid, and more permanent shelter.  I had a whole posse of mamas watching my back, all peers, most of whom I barely knew before all this happened, and thanks to them, my son and I never had to sleep in a shelter, or beneath the open sky.

The people we taught that semester were not so fortunate.  They had no real friends or generous acquaintances to help them.  They had no family, or their families turned their backs on them.

That semester, listening to these amazing people tell their stories using the techniques of storytelling and poetry that we taught them, changed me forever.  Perhaps someday I'll be able to better describe it.

The thing that stayed with me most after that class was my professor, Terry Thaxton's, lecture about how many homeless people are treated as if they are invisible.  All they want is for someone to SEE them, to recognize them as human, as beings deserving of acknowledgement, respect, and compassion.

And then, last night, I was busy trying to write and organize at Starbucks, getting the Moody Mamas Support Network going on Facebook...totally ignoring the homeless man who came in and sat on the couch across from me.

When he was walking past me, his hand hit one of the chairs and my table and he said, "ow!" then, "Sorry!"

I threw a half-assed smile at him without taking my eyes off my computer screen as I typed, and muttered, "No problem..."

He stopped and stared at me for a long moment.  At the time, I thought he was trying to see what I was typing, and I turned my back to him ever so subtly more.

After that long moment, he sat down, commenting loudly to himself about the food he had in a bowl smelling bad, he definitely needed to throw it out, good GOD that stank, definitely bad, stinks stinks stinks...

I was getting irritated because he was distracting me, so I picked up and went home to finish writing in the car.

It wasn't until after I went to bed that I realized what happened, and what I'd done.

That man so desperately wanted someone to see him, to look him in the eye, to recognize that he was there.  I'm actually crying right now because I feel so bad that I was so absorbed in my own world that I couldn't even spare him a full-on smile.

This isn't him, but he looks similar.  I think.  *hangs head

Next time I see him, I'll make sure to look him in the eyes and ask him how he's doing.

Even if it means giving up some of my writing time so he can talk.

I owe the world that much.

Why I, personally, have chosen to NOT vaccinate my son.

I could write a book on this subject, but there are already decent books out there, and I doubt anyone would listen to someone without a PHD in medicine anyway...lol

I am not going to quote statistics or books or articles here...everyone is fully capable of doing their own research.  I will recommend Dr. Sear's book on vaccines because he talks about each vaccine individually, and I know many mamas who have chosen to selectively vaccinate or follow his delayed schedule, which works for them.

So, I'll start by saying that before I conceived my son, I believed what I had been taught - that vaccines were good, and that people who refused to vaccinate their children were either ignorant, or religious zealots, or both.

Then, I met my midwife, and through her I met many happy, healthy families who chose to not vaccinate.  During my journey towards my un-medicated, painless, joyful home birth, I learned to trust my body, to trust my instincts, and to question every belief I held.

My first question about vaccines was, "do they work?"  And the answer I found was, "sometimes."  Booster shots are necessary because vaccinated immunity can wear off, or never take; whereas true immunity, from exposure to the actual disease, usually lasts a lifetime.

Our immune systems are not separate from the rest of the systems in our body.  One of the flaws of our medical system, and of science in general, is that they look at pieces and bits and try to extrapolate what they learn about the bits to the whole.  Another flaw of the medical system is that it focuses on treatment rather than prevention.  Yet another is that healthy people simply don't go to the clinic or the hospital anywhere near as often as unhealthy people do.  Doctors, nurses, and other medical workers live in a world full of disease and damaged systems, usually of anonymous people that they see once a year or less when they are healthy.  They don't look at the body as a whole, they look at symptoms and do their best to deduce a diagnosis and treatment.  And they get it wrong.  Often.

Vaccination is supposed to be about prevention, but it doesn't always work.  The best way to prevent disease, and to recover quickly from it, is to keep the immune system and the body strong with enough sleep, enough water, enough nutrients from whole foods, enough exposure to the sun on a daily basis (approximately 20 minutes plus time for our bodies to absorb the vitamin D our skin produces before showering,) limiting sugar, animal products, and other processed crap, and enough exercise.  The medical world would rather sell insulin pumps than teach type 2 diabetics how to eat and exercise properly, for many reasons, and many people would rather pop pills and even get shots and surgery than change their lifestyles.

Vaccines are dangerous.  That has been proven without a doubt to my mind.  There are far more deaths and serious complications resulting from vaccination than there are deaths or permanent injuries due to the diseases vaccines are supposed to protect us from.

Herd immunity is a dangerous myth.  The idea that every one should be vaccinated to protect the few who can't be is flawed.  First, it relies on the idea that immune people can't carry a disease that they are immune to.  That is false.  Recently vaccinated people are far more dangerous to people with compromised immune systems than an unvaccinated person could ever be.

Even if we did eradicate all the disease that we vaccinate for (which we CAN TREAT,) different diseases would replace them.  We already have terrifying superbugs that we can't treat because of the excessive use of antibiotics, antivirals, and other drugs.

It also promotes the idea that unvaccinated children are disease factories, which is ludicrous.  My son is almost two and a half years old, and over his lifetime so far he has had a stomach bug for 48 hours, and a cold twice for 24 hours or less.  Meanwhile, I've had all of my shots, and before I went vegan, I was sick for two weeks out of every month.  Since I've changed my diet, I have only been sick for 24 hours or less two or three times - still more often than my son.

Unvaccinated children get sick less frequently than vaccinated children, especially if they are also breastfed.  Breastfed babies have their mother's immune system until their own immune system fully develops, around age 2.  That means, whatever we are immune to, they are.  And often, our breasts will give them the antibodies they need even when our own immune systems fail to do the same for us.  Nursing mamas often get sick while their babies remain healthy.

I also learned that diseases were already on the decline before vaccines were introduced, and in some cases, vaccines caused the incidences of certain diseases to increase.  Nutrition, clean water, and hygiene improved before vaccines were invented, and were already helping people's bodies fight the diseases.  Studies that "prove" vaccines are effective don't take other lifestyle or environmental factors into account.  They often are funded by groups that profit from the use of vaccines.

The most frightening thing is the preservatives, known carcinogens, toxins, and things that we don't know exactly what effect they have...in quantities too high for comfort, injected into the bloodstream of developing infants and toddlers, whose tiny bodies and high metabolisms make them much more susceptible than adults to adverse reactions.  And the vaccines we have now have not been around long enough to know what effect they will have in the long term.

From every thing that I have researched, it is my belief that the chemicals in vaccines, combined with the toxins in our foods, our environments, our clothes, our cosmetics, sunscreen, bug spray, soap, our water, the very air we breath, combine to weaken or wreck our immune systems, and disturb the chemistry of our blood and our brains, leading to an increase in every single problem a human can have.  Diabetes, Multiple Sclerosis, Cancer, Lupus, Autism, Depression, ADHD, and diseases we are giving new names to every day are constantly on the rise.  KIDS have all this stuff now!  The amount and frequency of vaccines has increased dramatically in the last twenty years, and so has the amount and frequency of health problems of the children who are injected.

One thing I have learned is that there is never just ONE cause.  But some things, when eliminated, can make a world of difference.  My son and I eat nutritious whole foods, organic when possible, drink plenty of liquids, limit the amount of toxic chemicals in our air and on our skin, get exercise outside every day, and give our bodies enough sleep, keeping them as strong as we can.  That's working for us, as it works for many, MANY other families.

I'm not anti-vaccine - I think they have their place.  In countries with poor access to clean water and nutritious food, and available treatment, vaccines can help.  But this isn't one of those countries, and vaccines have no place in my family.

How did my thesis defense go?

A thesis defense for the MFA in Creative Writing at UCF is a requirement for graduation that can only be performed once.  If I fail my defense, that's it.  Bye bye, eight years of my life, way too many student loans, and all my hard work...and no degree to show for it.  When I started the program, my thesis adviser told me that a committee usually would not let a student defend unless they felt the student was ready to pass.

I couldn't sleep last night because I was so excited and nervous.  After 8 long, chaotic years, and two previous failed attempts at scheduling a defense, I would finally be taking that irrevocable step.  My committee didn't contact me other than to say they received my complete draft, Birth of a Mother, and my adviser didn't even confirm that.  I sent off my most recent revision a full day later than I was supposed to, and I felt like the last two chapters and the epilogue especially needed more work.  Worse, I'd only gotten feedback from my adviser on the prologue and the first two chapters, so my revisions of chapters 3 on were just me, all me, and that was pretty damn terrifying.

I'd also invited everyone I knew to attend my defense, and I worried about embarrassing myself.  I headed to Orlando this morning with my heart pounding, chanting, "They wouldn't let me defend if they didn't think I was ready..."

Aiden had his hat and his blankie, so he was ready.

This is going to be a super long post if I chronicle the whole day, so let's skip to the start of my defense.

I went in expecting my committee to tell me that I had a lot of work to do, but if I could pull it off in a week or so, they'd consider signing my form so I could graduate.

Aiden started us off by climbing on the conference table and saying, "Hmm!"

My committee members laughed and asked if they could have him at every defense.  Satisfied that he had everyone's attention, Aiden then explored the room, occassionally demanding food or assistance from me, but not disrupting, not really.  He was more like an accent, or punctuation.  Which is fitting, since he was the inspiration for my thesis.

My adviser started by saying that my work passed the turnitin.com check, as if there could be any doubt! lol  Then she had me read aloud a selection.  I chose to read the scene where I revealed my pregnancy to my then-boyfriend, and then the father (a different man.)

Then the questions started.  My adviser asked questions about what I found to be the most challenging techniques as well as subject matter, and other questions designed to reveal what I knew about non-fiction writing, writing in general, and what I learned from the program and the project.  My fiction teacher and my poetry teachers both complimented me on my work and asked me how I came up with the structure, what research I did, how I could expand on what was already there, and both surprisingly spent a lot of time complimenting both my thesis as well as my previous work.  My poetry teacher remembered me guest speaking in her domestic violence class seven years ago!

After the question and answer session, my committee sent my guests (my two best friends, my mother's best friend, and a good mama friend,) Aiden, and me outside so they could deliberate.

After a few long moments, my adviser came out and congratulated me on passing.  My fiction and poetry committee members signed off on my form, and my professor promised to sign off on it after I make the revisions we talked about during the discussion.  Then we all exchanged hugs, they gave me marked copies of my revision, and we all went our seperate ways.

My two best friends and I went to Chipotle for lunch, where Aiden ran around, happy to be free of the car and stroller.  That was when I saw the note from my fiction committee member:

"Ashley, let me first tell you that I was absolutely floored with joy reading this.  The life you write about is far from pretty at times, and yet, this is such a life-affirming testament to love that I can barely stand to read it as a TEACHER.  I just want to read it, experience it.  That's a sure testament to your talent.

I told my wife, May, about this and read a short excerpt, and she is dying to read the whole thing.  And believe me, May knows quality better than I.  She sucked at English and is a nurse in cardiac care.  So if your story catches her attention, this promises a great readership beyond the workshop confines.

Bottom line: you are one hell of a writer.  I do think the story could/should be expanded a bit - not too much, but closer to 200 pages I think.  I've marked some obvious spots, but I trust your instincts.

As is, you could send this off NOW and get interest from agents and publishers.  I love it, love you for writing it."

I almost cried reading that!  I walked into my thesis defense expecting to be scolded for turning in sub-par work, and was instead told by all three committee members both aloud and in writing that though my ending could be stronger, my thesis is powerful, compelling, beautiful, and something that needs to be published!

Letters to My Younger Self - Three Rules to Live By

Dearest youngling,

Listen to the words of someone who's gone through things you will hopefully never go through.  I'm going to lay down some ground rules for your life.  If you follow them, your life will be a million times more wonderful than mine has been.  This is just the first three...more will definitely follow!

Rule Number One: NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR YOUR FEELINGS.

Your emotions are the mechanism your spirit uses to tell your mind that something is good or bad for you.  If you feel good about something, trust that.  If you feel bad, something is wrong.

It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks about your feelings...your feelings are yours.  They are your private language with the part of you that is also God, the part that loves you unconditionally and wants you to be happy and healthy.

No one gets to tell you how you should feel.  Which leads me to...

Rule Number Two: NO ONE CAN MAKE YOU FEEL.

No one makes you mad.  No one makes you sad.  No makes you feel dumb.  Thinking that others can make you feel gives others power over you.

But that 2 year old made his mother mad, you say?  Does a 2 year old really have power over a grown woman?  Only if the grown woman decides that the 2 year old should be in charge!  You are responsible for your own feelings; and pretending otherwise is making yourself a victim when you should be the hero.

So if you feel angry, accept that you feel angry, and find the real reason why.  You aren't angry because that person said something mean.  You are angry either because you are afraid that person is right, or because you feel out of control and want to control the other person.  Which leads me to...

Rule Number Three:  YOU CANNOT CHANGE ANYONE EXCEPT YOURSELF.

If you are not happy, figure out what's wrong, and change yourself.  You will never find another person who can make you happier than you can make yourself.  You know you better than anyone else ever can.

You can't make another person care about the same things you care about, but you can find other people who are more like you.  You can also examine those things, and see how important they really are to you.

You will change throughout your life.  The only constant in this universe is change.  So you have to decide whether you are going to change for the better, or for the worse.

Love,
Someone Who Wishes She'd Known These Things Decades Ago

Beacon

During a lovely, fun, feel-good Litha celebration with the other ladies of the house (resident males were on the road, playing video games, and taking an incredibly late nap,) I prayed for inspiration and creativity among other things.

And here is the first poem I have written in many months, nine months I believe, composed mainly in my head as I watched Elmo in Grouchland with my toddler. :D



Beacon
by Ashley Rae Curran (if you steal this, invisible faeries will cause malfunctions in all your electronics until you repent and give credit where it is due. Just so you know.)

Though layers of darkness
block the stars, the moon, the sun;
though the fat, the lies, facades
drape like salted bandages over festering wounds;
though doubt, shame, hate
reflect in every window, every mirror;
I choose to be a beacon,
radiating love without limits,
guiding the willing towards the light;
offering hope,
for peace, for joy.