- In Search of a Second Opinion (Nov/Dec 2005)
- Nighttime Parenting (October 2005)
- Back to School (September 2005)
- Building Community, One Mama at a Time (July 2005)
- Mothers and Daughters (May 2005)
- Mairamou (April 2005)
- Hangin' with the Dads (March 2005)
- Sex Toys and Threesomes (February 2005)
- Kindling (January 2005)
- Taking the Purple Cow to Mothersville (July 2004)
- My Son, The Little Jew with the Foreskin (April 2004)
- Machinery I Have Loved (October 2003)
- Confessions of a Cloth Diaper Drop-Out (April 2003)
Showing posts with label Stomping Ground. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stomping Ground. Show all posts
Stacey Greenberg
STOMPING GROUND:
In Search of a Second Opinion
I was a “good girl” growing up. I did what I was told for the most part and didn’t ask a lot of questions. In college I quickly learned that the way to get good grades was to tell the professor exactly what s/he wanted to hear. I was a “go with the flow” kind of person with very few expectations.But when I got pregnant, something changed. I started questioning everything. I’m sure it is a typical maternal response, but I found my newfound inquisitiveness somewhat thrilling. Formerly unused parts of my brain started to flutter and tingle, much like the baby growing in my belly. I shocked a lot of my friends and family by having a homebirth, not vaccinating, and doing other things that aren’t deemed mainstream.
I was lucky to find a family doctor who supported the homebirth midwives and parents who chose not to vaccinate their children. Between Dr. Cool and the information (and people) I found on the Internet, questioning authority soon became second nature to me--especially when it came to my children’s health.
This summer, after weeks of coughing fits, combined with what came to be known as the “cough/puke maneuver,” my three-year-old son was diagnosed with asthma. I was devastated. We have no family history of asthma. I am the anti-smoking Nazi. Second-hand smoke does not come near my offspring. However, we do have several pets and my husband discovered unknown mounds of dust lurking under large pieces of furniture.
Dr. Cool decided to treat Satchel aggressively with a steroid shot and Singulair, but after a few weeks of taking it, I didn’t see much improvement. The fact that Satchel wasn’t getting any better made me a little crazy. I had Warren take him in to see Dr. Cool again, but he ended up seeing the nurse practitioner instead. He came home with a prescription for a decongestant and an antibiotic. Frustrated, I e-mailed Dr. Cool.
Hi Dr. Cool,
You diagnosed Satchel with asthma, gave him a steroid shot and handed me several samples of Singulair. When they ran out, you called in a prescription for me, even though I expressed concerns about whether it was working. You asked me to try it for a few more weeks and keep a chart. I did both.
Satchel has continued to cough and even wake up in the middle of the night and vomit several times a week. He also vomits in the evening and in the morning. There is a coughing fit followed by vomit at least once every other day, if not more. He does not seem to be gasping for air when he coughs, but the cough will not go away. Sometimes he makes some really bizarre noises while coughing.
Warren brought him in yesterday. Erin said she heard no wheezing and prescribed a decongestant and an antibiotic. He doesn't appear sick and has not slowed down in any way over 8+ weeks. I would think if he had a bacterial infection, it would have worsened over the past few months.
I am really frustrated and I just want my child to stop coughing and puking everyday. Please advise.
Thank you,
Stacey
****
Stacey,
I would be frustrated also. The antibiotics are a good idea for such a difficult situation. I would finish that course. Get my nurse to help set you up for chest X-ray if he has not had one. I think he will need to see an allergist or a pediatric pulmonary specialist after the x-ray, even if it is normal. It sounds more like asthma than anything, but should have been responsive to our aggressive therapy.
Dr. Cool
***
Dr. Cool,
Thanks. I will call and set up an appointment for an X-ray. Should I give him the decongestant or go back to the Singulair?
Stacey
***
Stacey,
I like giving him the decongestant, the antibiotic and the Singulair. But, if you see the allergist or pulmonologist, discontinue all meds for four days before appt.
Dr. Cool
***
I really didn’t like the idea of pumping my three-year-old full of multiple, possibly unneccessary, medications. I called the allergist, who was very nice. He said I should go to the pulmonary specialist first. He gave me a name, number, and offered to call on my behalf if I couldn’t get an appointment within the week. I was quite pleased until he said, “Has your son had his DPT shot?” When I said no, he replied, “Well then, we really need to get him in fast.”
That freaked me out enough to google “diptheria” and “pertussis.” After reading a few pages, I was 100% convinced that Satchel had pertussis (a.k.a. whooping cough). Instead of freaking out, I was elated. Now, most people might expect a mother to be upset by the news that her offspring has whooping cough. Not me. The smoking gun, I thought. Now we can cure him!
I called Warren to tell him the good news. “It’s whooping cough,” I told him happily. “We’re off to the pulmonary specialist now.” I felt like Super Mom. I fought for answers until I found one and now I have a same day appointment with a specialist! I thought.
After filling out numerous forms, taking various tests, and talking to a number of nurses, Satchel and I busied ourselves wiping each other with sterile alcohol swabs until Dr. Lung walked in and asked, “So what brings you here today?”
“Whooping cough,” I happily announced.
Dr. Lung looked skeptical. “Is he up to date on his vaccinations?” he asked.
“He hasn’t had any vaccinations,” I chirped.
Dr. Lung looked appalled. “Why not?” he asked.
Uh-oh. I put on my I'm a serious, smart mom face. “My husband and I chose not to vaccinate our children for various reasons with the support of our pediatrician, Dr. Cool,” I said.
His face relaxed a little. “Ok, let me take a look,” he said. He listened to Satchel’s breathing, looked in his mouth and ears, etc. “How long has he been coughing?” he asked.
“Three months,” I said. And then I went through the whole game of “is it asthma or is it an infection” that I’d been playing at Dr. Cool’s.
He listened patiently and then asked, “Is anyone else in the house sick? Is there a family history of asthma?”
“No and no,” I said.
“Whooping cough usually only lasts a couple of weeks,” he said. “And everyone in the house would have it.”
My face fell.
“But, I don’t think he has asthma either. I don’t hear any wheezing,” he said.
That cheered me up a bit.
“I can just look at his face and tell you it is allergies. See these dark circles under his eyes?” he asked. I nodded. I always thought of the dark circles as shadows cast by Satchel’s impossibly long eyelashes. “We call those ‘allergy shiners.’ And he has a lot of mucous draining down his throat—enough to make him cough and even vomit.”
Next we had a discussion about whether or not Satchel would allow me to shoot a nasal spray up his nostrils once a day. Then Dr. Lung said he was going to prescribe an antibiotic. “Why?” I asked.
“We know it isn’t whooping cough, but just in case it is, Zithromax will zap it.”
“Okay, so you ‘know’ it isn’t whooping cough, but you want to treat it anyway?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’m also prescribing Zyrtec for allergies.”
“Then can he stop taking the Singulair?” I asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “Let’s get him well and then we’ll start taking away medicines.”
“Thanks,” I said looking for the exit, tallying the medications I was supposed to give my 35 pound child in my head. I dutifully dropped off the prescriptions at the pharmacy, but I told myself that I would get more information before actually giving any of it to Satchel.
I called my boyfriend, Dr. Vaccine, and set up an appointment for the next week. "It's not pertussis," I dejectedly told him, "Or asthma," I added a bit more perkily.
I entered into an e-mail debate with Dr. Cool and tried desperately to get him to say Satchel didn't need to take all of the medications, but he didn't. (Even though I liked questioning authority, I also like to appear cooperative.) After much back and forth I finally wrote him and reminded him of his earlier e-mail that said, “But, if you see the allergist or pulmonologist, discontinue all meds for four days before appt.”
I talked to my doctor friend, my midwife friend, and other parents who all seemed to agree that I had amassed an awful lot of medications for Satchel’s cough. “Definitely don’t give him the antibiotics,” they all advised.
Something inside me still believed it might be whooping cough so I decided to give Satchel the antibiotics anyway. Then a funny thing happened. Satchel stopped coughing and puking and really seemed fine. I was thrilled and confused. By the time our appointment with the allergist rolled around, I wondered if we really needed to go. Since he had been so nice on the phone, I opted to take Satchel “just in case.”
Dr. Vaccine's office was full of extremely nice people who didn’t make us wait at all. I was actually startled by how fast Dr. Vaccine came in the examination room. The nurse conducted the allergy test and the entire staff was amazed at how calmly Satchel handled being poked 20+ times with a stick.
We discovered that Satchel had an extremely mild reaction to mold and dust. Dr. Vaccine suggested covering our mattress and pillows with a special cover and then, like Dr. Lung, prescribed Nasonex and Zyrtec. (To his credit he did say the Singulair seemed unnecessary at this point.) This time I didn’t even bother dropping off the prescriptions.
I feel good about not blindly accepting the asthma diagnosis and not dispersing unneccessary medications, but I wonder if all of my questioning did more harm than good. I dragged Satchel to six different appointments with three different doctors and then didn’t listen to anything any of them told me. The only thing I did listen to was the “it isn’t asthma” part, which I guess is all I really wanted to hear in the first place.
I am really glad that Satchel has returned to good health, even though I don’t know exactly why. I still believe it is important to question authority, but I am going to have to come to terms with the fact that not all questions have answers.
*********************************
Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
Nighttime Parenting
I was exhausted and up way past my bedtime. Midnight—what was I thinking?
I buried myself in the covers that had been kicked to the bottom of the family bed. My one-year-old and my three-year-old were occupying the entire top half—each had his arms and legs outstretched as if he had fallen asleep while making a snow angel. I desperately hoped I might go unnoticed for a few hours before one of them woke up and I had to start my nighttime parenting shift.
Jiro must have smelled me because less than fifteen minutes passed before he was rooting around, his lips puckering up for my milk. I moved to the top of the bed and started nursing him. Usually a few minutes of nursing is all he needs, but he seemed restless. (I had thought he was so cute at dinner—stabbing beans with my fork and carefully placing them in his mouth one by one. Beans!)By 1:30am, I was still awake, very much wanting to scream. My nipples were aching and I desperately wanted to sleep, but since I was contorted in a half-twist maneuver that allows me to nurse from both breasts without moving, 90% of my body weight was resting on my battered left butt cheek. The throbbing, a result of months of this maneuver, kept me from dozing off.
I should have known better than to stay up late in the first place. By the time I finally got out of the office, picked Jiro up at daycare, got Satchel from Montessori, cooked some pesto, cleaned the kitchen, played Legos and airplane, got them both clean and in their jammies, read books, and nursed and rubbed them to sleep, it was almost ten. I needed some time to myself. I needed to work on my zine. I needed to watch “Kept” on VH1.
As I nursed Jiro, I took deep breaths and tried to think of how far I had come. I was on week six of my husband’s eight-week archaeological dig in the tick-infested Mark Twain National Forest. I don’t know which of us had the harder job, but we each seemed to envy the other’s position. I dreamed of having a bed all to myself in a hotel room somewhere far away and he lamented missing Satchel’s swimming lessons and Jiro’s new tricks.
I listened to Satchel coughing in his sleep, wondering how long it would be before he was awake too. Having one baby awake in the middle of the night is annoying, having two is debilitating. Thankfully, Jiro released my nipple and I rolled over. I should have waited because my small movement was enough to rouse him again, and he started kicking his meaty little legs up and down—his prelude to a scream. I’m going to kick and scream too.
More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.
Last summer my husband had a sixteen-week dig, and I had a newborn and a two-year-old. That’s when I really earned my stripes. Things are a little easier now—I have a routine in place and a cleaning woman who comes every other week—but not getting enough sleep throws me off course. Last summer I was on maternity leave and could nap during the day if I needed to. Now I have to use precious vacation time if I need to stay home and catch up on my sleep.Besides how many times can you tell your sixty-five year old boss that you are sleep-deprived or that you had the worst night ever before she just thinks you are a complete slacker? At least the boys get to nap at school.
Despite the pain in my ass, I started to doze off. However, my slumber was quickly interrupted by a loud thud. I heard Satchel crying from the floor. I went around to pick him up and to try and soothe him. Of course, Jiro woke up the minute I moved and started crying. Crying in stereo. I’m the one who should be crying!
I got everyone back in bed and reluctantly nursed Jiro some more. I refused to look at the clock and I tried not to think about the day ahead. Usually I look forward to Fridays and my husband’s weekend visits, but he called at dinner to say he was coming down with something—maybe Strep, maybe Lyme’s disease. He had Strep in December (during my only vacation of the year) and was a wreck. For a week he walked around with his hand on his head, presumably to hold in his brains, and his throat looked like a musty cave lined with maggots feasting on raw, regurgitated meat. I was already feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to take care of three people! I want someone to take care of me.
After a moment or two of silence, Satchel started whimpering. Dammit! I screamed inside my head. “I need to sleep!” I screamed outside my head. Insulted, Jiro started whimpering too. I jumped out of bed, banged my fists on the duvet, then stomped my feet up and down (picture Jennifer Beals in “Flashdance”) while half-yelling, half-grunting at the top of my lungs. I’m a maniac and it shows.My tantrum was over before it started, and I felt both better and worse. Needless to say, I scared the crap out of the boys. There was a brief moment of silence as they watched me in horror, but now the speakers were threatening to blow.
Calm down, breathe, stop thinking about the time.
I had to pull myself together—my kids weren't purposely trying to make me a zombie. I’m sure they’d rather be asleep too. “I’m sorry,” I said in my most reassuring voice. A weekend of playing nurse, waitress, and cruise director won’t be the end of the world. “Shhh…Everything is okay…Shhh…How about some cough medicine?”
To avoid more crying, I picked Jiro up and carried him to the linen closet to search for the medicine tote. I grabbed it with one hand and flung it on the bed before I could lose momentum and drop it. I gave Satchel the recommended two droppers full, and then gave one to Jiro for good measure. We crawled back in bed, but Satchel had already started up again. "My pee pee hurts!" he screeched.
I should have seen this one coming. Somehow he got three of the world's itchiest mosquito bites (chiggers?) on his testicles while playing outside. His testicles! I really did feel for the little guy. “You want some pink medicine for your pee pee?” I asked."Yes," he said between screeches and scratches.
I picked an increasingly cranky Jiro up again and went on a hunt for the Calamine lotion. I instinctively maneuvered around the toys scattered on the floor, and just missed bumping into an errant tricycle thanks to the light coming from the microwave clock. Two-thirty am! I remember when that meant last call. I was tempted to reach for a beer in the very back of the fridge, but saw the sought after pink bottle sitting on the kitchen counter.
"Ok sweetie, pull your pants down," I instructed as I came back in and reached for the light.
"Don't turn on the light!" he whined. Putting Calamine on a three-year-old's testicles in the dark while holding a pissed off one-year-old is not easy.
"You're spilling!" he cried. Deal with it kid.
"It's okay, that will make it feel extra better."
"No it won't!" Back to the reassuring voice.
“Do you need to go potty?” I’ve got to get ahead of the game.
"Yes," he said, sniffling. "But don't turn on the light!" Normally I wouldn’t trust Mr. Three to pee in the dark, but I was tired and I knew Selma was coming to clean in the morning.
Another reason I have to get up early.
I got everyone back in bed. More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.I needed to put everything in perspective. Worrying about a good night’s sleep is actually a luxury. I’m sure mothers in Iraq have much weightier concerns. For that matter, mothers on the other side of town have much weightier concerns—some of my clients have four, five, six or more kids they are raising on their own with just a SSI check. Get over it.
I heard a whisper, "Mommy...MOMMY...rub my back..."
Why didn't I Ferberize these children? Why am I still breastfeeding? What is wrong with me?
Satchel went back to sleep with minimal rubbing, but Jiro was still awake despite having access to the all night titty bar. I was ready to tear off my nipples and throw them across the room. When do I get to say “goodnight” and have the boys scamper off to their bedrooms, not to be seen again until morning?
Jiro, aware that he had center stage again, crawled on top of me and happily bounced up and down on my bladder. As mad as I was, I couldn’t help laughing. With his newly shaved head (don’t ask) and his big grin, he looked like a giant infant. How about some Orajel?
I took him to the back bedroom where he and I sleep when my husband is in town. Sometimes just a change of scenery will calm him down. I tried my best to rub the magic salve on his gums. He did not like this. I tried snuggling him, but he didn't like that either. Our bed is strategically placed in the corner, so I pretty much had him trapped. O.K. scream then. I'm going to sleep.
I rolled over and he screamed his lungs out for about two minutes. Then he grabbed his blankie and thrust his body toward mine and got very still. I readjusted a bit to give my ass a break and then he sat up, alert, like he was just humoring me. I pressed the indiglo button on my watch: 3:45am. Oh my god.
I wanted to cry. So I did. Right along with Jiro. Five minutes later we both fell asleep. Moments later Satchel came running in the room with his blankie. "Mommy..."
"Get in," I whispered.Now the three of use were snuggled up together in the double bed, while the king-sized bed sat empty in the other room. I was pinned down with one boy in the crook of each arm.
Screw it, we’ll just sleep in.
And we did.
All the way to 7:00 am when my husband called six times on two different phones to let me know he was on his way home.
***********************************
Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Back to School
Recently we were invited to the first ever Anthropology alumni party at one of my former (childless) professor’s houses—the professor we all feared in school. Even though I received my Master’s in 1999, I always feel like a bumbling student in her presence.The invitation to the party clearly said, “Bring your spouse, children, friends, and a dish.” My spouse, also an alumni, and an excellent chef, really wanted to go. I hesitated to bring my rambunctious toddlers (ages 1 and 3), remembering from past parties that Ms. Professor had a lovely home filled with handmade furniture and fabulous Oaxacan folk art. “Do you want me to call my mom and see if she can watch the kids while we go to the party?” I asked Warren as he filled a black, fish-shaped platter with BBQ sushi. My three-year-old’s ears perked up as he smiled and said, “Party? I want to go to a party!”
When we arrived there were about ten people in attendance, and they were all over the age of thirty. My one-year old spent about two minutes clinging to me until he discovered a very cool Sharper Image type light with illuminating hairs protruding from the kitchen island.
“Please honey, no touching…” I pleaded in front of several nervous onlookers.
“Oh it’s fine,” replied Ms. Professor. Hmmm…is she for real? I wondered. The boys wasted no time committing themselves to an in-depth study of the light. They stroked and yanked it, flipped the on/off switch on and off, etc. I took a deep breath and looked for the beer.
The hairy light eventually lost its appeal and they headed toward the stairs. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. You get the point. It was actually the best place for them since there was nothing to break…um, except a bone maybe. I wanted to redirect them to the living room, but was wary of the alluring array of plastic cups filled with assorted liquids.
As soon as my husband placed his beer on the table, my one-year-old leapt from the staircase and started a full run towards the coffee table. Warren let him suck on the bottle (which attracted more than a few stares) while I tried to interest him in his sippy cup (that I naively filled with organic milk at the house), but he catapulted it across the room in disgust. Meanwhile my three-year-old was busy climbing on the exercise bike that was doing its best to hide behind the sofa.
In the split second it took me to look Satchel’s way, Jiro grabbed a cup of orange soda off the coffee table and poured it down his face, shirt, shorts, legs, shoes, and onto the floor. Ms. Professor was nowhere in sight and several people grabbed napkins to assist with a quick clean up. I took off Jiro’s shirt, exposed his most excellent belly to everyone’s delight, and made a quick run to the car for an extra shirt. Little Buddha caused everyone to instantly forget the orange soda incident. I actually received numerous compliments on being such a competent and prepared parent. Just by having an extra shirt!
I started to relax a bit. By this time there were several other kids running around. Oddly enough they were all girls. Two of them were dressed in their Sunday best and acted like perfect little ladies. A cute five-year-old sat at her parents' feet eating broccoli, celery, carrots, assorted fruit, and BBQ sushi. The only other toddler made her way around the room informing guests that she had taken her shoes off all by herself.
As I was chatting with some old classmates in the kitchen, I noticed an assortment of really cool animal figurines on the drink table. I picked one up, a lizard with jeweled eyes and a wiry body, and went over to my two children who were again happily playing with the hairy light, and pretended like the lizard was going to bite them. Satchel immediately lit up, and like a normal three-year-old, attempted to grab the lizard out of my hands. At that point the magnitude of my error dawned on me. They were rapt by a host approved “toy” and I interrupted them to garner interest in the Oaxacan folk art that was busy playing dead.
My professor’s husband was only a few feet away, pretending to be Mr. Carefree, but I knew better.
“Uh, honey, um, don’t touch the lizard, it’s just for looking,” I said ineffectually as I put the figurine behind the Sprite. Before I could even let go, Satchel was right my heels, reaching for another figure—a brightly painted wooden dragon. I was starting to sweat.
“Honey, those aren’t toys. Don’t touch them,” I said firmly, feeling like a complete asshole.
I turned away for a split second, instinctively, to check on Jiro, when I heard a crash. I saw detached wings, a foot, a tail, and several Anthropology alumni silently heading for another room. I threw myself on the floor and prayed that the pieces would somehow snap back on, but when I saw shards of wood, I knew there was no hope. I gathered the pieces, told my husband to take the boys into the living room, and went in search of the professor’s two favorite students (who had suggested she throw the party in the first place).
Paige was talking to a nearby group about filling out a survey. “Paige, I need you now,” I said from across the room as I clutched the pieces of the dragon behind my back. She came over, took one look at what I had in my hands and freaked out. (Not the reaction I was hoping for.)
“Oh my god, we have to tell Mr. Carefree, because if Ms. Professor finds out from him, she’ll take it better,” she blurted out as she shooed me into the pantry.
“No, we have to hide the evidence and pretend like it never happened!” I said.
“Let me find a bag. And Jamie. Stay here,” Paige instructed as she ran out of the pantry.
Meanwhile I prayed my husband was keeping the boys out of trouble.
Paige came back with a garbage bag. “It’s clear!” I cried.
“It’s all we’ve got,” she said. “I’ll hide it in the back, and then we’ll tell Ms. Professor later.”
I liked this plan. “Will you tell her who did it?” I asked.
“We’ll just say it got broken,” she said.
“Good plan,” I agreed, relieved.
Just then Jamie came in. “I’ll glue it back together. She’ll never know.”
“Ooh, I like that plan too,” I said, somewhat high. My adrenaline was pumping.
Jamie, the best hostess ever, said, “This isn’t a kid-friendly house and she should have put that stuff away if she was going to have kids over.” I listened and nodded enthusiastically.
“I mean, those figurines look like toys! And that antique bike she has in the front room is the next thing that’s going to break!” Jamie continued.
I was laughing at this point, buoyed up by my co-conspirators. We left the pantry feeling as though everything was completely under control. I went in search of my husband and the boys. I found them in the living room.
Playing on the antique bike.
"Who wants cake?" I asked. They looked at me, looked at the bike, and then looked for cake.
"Come on," I said. "This way..."
I plopped them on the floor next to all of the sweet little girls and let them eat cake. As they happily shoveled it in their mouths, I watched as the crumbs started to pile up on the fancy carpet. Jiro unknowingly rubbed some icing in with his butt as he scooted closer to his plate. I realized that nothing was safe in this house. I was exhausted from the never-ending damage control and told Warren we needed to make an exit soon.
I found Paige again and told her we were leaving. "You're not going to tell Ms. Professor until after the party's over, right?" I asked, fearing a scene after our departure. (I pictured us frantically trying to buckle the kids in their carseats before peeling out of the driveway as Ms. Professor ran out of the front door to lecture us.)
"That's the plan," she said.
"Okay, I'll call her tomorrow and apologize,” I said. Or send an email…
Jamie came over just then and said, "Don't worry. I told Mr. Carefree..."
"You did what?" I asked exasperated.
"He's totally fine with it," she continued. "It isn't a problem at all."
"Really?" I asked.
"Really."
"Did you tell him who did it?" I asked, wondering if I had managed to fool him with my *cough* stern lecture.
She kind of smirked, but in a nice way, "He knew who did it right away...But really, it's okay."
"Okay," I said, relieved, but not convinced.
I got Warren and we wrangled the boys up to leave. Jiro immediately went berserk. He clearly was not done playing with the hairy light even though we'd been there two hours. I so didn't want to blow my cover when we were in the home stretch. I scanned the kitchen and spotted some tortilla chips. I thrust one in his little paw and he stopped screeching right away.
"Here, let me give you a plastic bag so you can take a bunch home," Ms. Professor said as she awkwardly grabbed Jiro's chubby little cheek and made some cooing noises. I smiled, said our thank yous, and left happy that I wasn't getting graded anymore.
When I called Ms. Professor a few days later to apologize, she couldn’t have been more gracious. “I wouldn’t have left those things out if I was worried about them breaking,” she said. And I believed her. “Please come again soon. I really miss seeing you,” she said.
That’s when I realized that I am the one with the red pen, circling all of my mistakes, not her.
*************************
Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
Building Community, One Mama at a Time
Motherhood, while wonderful, can be extremely overwhelming at first. Postpartum depression, loneliness, and isolation are very real concerns for new mamas. It is really important for new mothers to have a strong support system that includes other mothers.Only a mama can truly understand the extreme emotions and irrational thoughts that dance through one’s head late at night when the baby won’t stop crying. Only a mama can understand that babies carry the weight of the world with them—every starving or kidnapped child on TV becomes your own.
Gen-Xers who have chosen to reproduce are finding that building strong mama communities are key to their happiness and success as mothers. Taking advantage of online resources, getting involved in local groups, and putting out a quarterly parenting zine have connected me to other mamas in ways I only dreamed of three years ago. All three of these outlets continue to intertwine in new and amazing ways, causing my community to grow one mama at a time.
Having a mama community can make a big difference. Three years ago, when I was on maternity leave with my first son, Satchel, I spent most days at home watching the pathetic line up of dating and makeover shows on TLC (The Learning Channel). When Satchel would nap, I’d get online and chat with my “Synchro” mamas (women who were pregnant at the same time as me) that I’d met at Hipmama.com. On Thursdays, if it wasn’t too hot or raining, I’d meet up with my two real-life mama friends at the zoo.
On occasion, Satchel and I would go across the street and meet a friend and her daughter at the health food store for lunch. After eight weeks of that, my friend Marlinee and I started dreaming up a place where we could hang out and meet other mamas. And eat ice cream.
After doing a considerable amount of research, we decided to start our own business, The Purple Cow. In addition to ice cream, we would sell used children’s clothing and mama-made goods in a friendly, family-centric environment. We wanted to have lots of comfy sofas and chairs; a children’s play area; and a resource area with books, zines, and an Internet connection. We’d both quit our jobs, bring our kids to work with us, and help connect local mamas. We cranked out a business plan and eagerly approached the Small Business Association (SBA) with our groundbreaking idea.
While we jumped through hoops and foraged through mounting piles of paperwork, we discovered a place called Mothersville at a local shopping center. The window displayed three pregnant mannequins wearing slings—a sure sign of promoting progressive parenting. My initial reaction was, “Dammit. Someone beat us to the punch.” I refused to even go in. Marlinee, a much more practical sort, went in and discovered that the owner was a woman who went to college with us. Kristy had three young children and similar fantasies of building community and making a living doing something mama-centric. We became fast friends.
Mothersville caters to pregnant and nursing mothers and carries a full line of nursing bras, slings, organic children’s clothing, and maternity clothes. Kristy had a couple of sofas in the back for nursing mothers and I spent many Saturdays hanging out there with my son. Kristy provided support and advice in our efforts to get The Purple Cow to become a reality. We talked about how we would send our customers to each other’s stores and collaborate on community projects.
After almost nine months, the SBA gave us an answer: No. (They were clearly unaware of the impending mama revolution.) Instead of giving up, we changed our plan. Marlinee and I invested our money, energy, and resources into Mothersville. I donated my vast collection of pregnancy and parenting books and magazines and Marlinee coordinated a mural painting party. We also purchased some vegetable-themed play equipment for the children’s space. Before we knew it, Mothersville had the coolest community area in town.
I may not have been able to quit my job as I had hoped, but I did end up with a really great place to spend my second maternity leave. Kristy now uses the community area at Mothersville for playgroups, sling classes, and more. Rather than spending time online or in front of the tube, my second maternity leave was marked by breastfeeding support, new mama and writer mama groups, play dates; and mama/baby road trips. I met an amazing collection of women and my youngest son had a whole gaggle of friends, too.
If your town doesn’t already have a resource like Mothersville, start one! It is awesome to have an actual mama-friendly place to go to anytime. Whether there is a class or group scheduled, it is nice to know that there is somewhere you can always find a sympathetic ear or a clean place to nurse your babe. No money? No time to write a business plan? Create similar space in your community by finding an independently-owned business such as a restaurant, coffee shop, bookstore, or children's boutique, and talk to the owner about hosting groups.
For example, last Summer I visited Square Books, Jr. in Oxford, Mississippi. It was incredibly family-friendly with sofas, toys, and a functioning changing table. The stage for a mama community was already set. If I lived in Oxford, I would definitely encourage all of my mama friends to get something started there. Mothersville has been a bit of a “build it and they will come” success, but the opposite theory of “come together and see what happens” could work as well.
If you lack a cool retail space, focus on getting a group of local mamas together and use public spaces, such as the library or a park for meetings and play dates. Take turns hosting at your houses. Show up en masse at a cool eatery or watering hole on a regular basis and see if it doesn’t gradually become more family friendly. Designate one person as the organizer and have her send out an evite (www.evite.com) with the meeting place each week.
Getting a group going may be a lot easier than you think. If you take a childbirth education class or prenatal yoga class, look around the room. These are the people who are going to be in the same boat as you. Get to know them!
The mamas in my playgroups aren’t just interested in changing diapers, they want to change the world. If you are already a parent, check out local groups such as API (Attachment Parenting International), LLL (La Leche League), Holistic Moms, etc. or scope out local playgrounds and story times for cool parents. If you know a handful of other mamas and ask each one to invite one other mama (or papa) to join, you could have a group in no time. Set a regular date and see what happens. Once you get a group established, have everyone donate their old pregnancy and parenting books and start your own resource center somewhere. Host public events or post flyers to attract new members.
If getting something going in your community isn’t do-able at first, try tapping into existing online communities. I met my thirty closest mama friends at Hipmama.com when I was pregnant with Satchel. We now have our own private url, but there are hundreds of Internet parenting communities to explore. Google some of your interests and follow links until you find a community that is right for you. Some good starting places are www.hipmama.com, www.girlmom.com, www.mothering.com, and www.rebelmamascoop.com.
If a message board isn’t your thing, try joining Live Journal (www.livejournal.com) or start your own blog (www.blogspot.com). Maybe a simple Yahoo! Group exists that would meet your needs. A little research should go a long way.
If for some reason you don’t find an online hangout that you like, you can start your own. Check out www.ezboard.com and www.phpbb.com for more information.)Online communities shouldn’t be underestimated. The Internet can provide immediate gratification any time of day or night. Also the anonymity can sometimes lead to closer ties than are possible in real life. My Synchro mamas give each other unconditional love and
support. We exchange toddler tales, advice, and pictures of ourselves. We tackle tough issues such as circumcision, vaccinations, and miscarriage. When I win the lottery, one of the things I plan on doing is flying all the Synchro mamas to an exotic locale for at least two weeks to drink margaritas and bask our mama cares away.
Zines can also be community building tools. “Mamazine” from Olympia, Washington, and “Mad Lovin’Mama” from Minneapolis are put out by groups of loacl women who organize and advertise community events such as potlucks and yard sales.
They target locals so their readers can meet each other in real life. Zines come in many shapes and sizes and doing your own is easier than you might think. Check out www.mamaphonic.com for information and inspiration. If you don’t have enough material to do one by yourself, get each mama in your real life or online group to contribute an essay, cartoon, poem, or photo. Get some paper and glue, make copies, and voila, you have a zine. Pass out your zine at the playground, sell it at the local coffee shop, or send it to all of your online friends and see what happens.
I started my zine, “Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting,” in January of 2003. It provided me a space to vent, share, and showcase my creativity as well as that of my friends. Having a zine has given me an icebreaker for approaching other parents. Thanks to word of mouth and some reviews in national publications, I have over 150 subscribers. My zine has connected me to women across the country and abroad that I may have never “met” otherwise.
As time passes and my children grow, I am starting to forget who I first met online or at Mothersville or through my zine. My community of mamas is growing faster and stronger than I could have ever imagined. Meeting and getting to know so many amazing mamas has made me feel like an amazing mama myself. I’m not sure how I would have made it this far without the incredible support I have received. I hope that my experiences will inspire others to get involved in their communities in whatever way they can.
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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
Mothers and Daughters
Satchel is standing on the sofa in his full superhero regalia—tie-dye cape, homemade Elvis belt, and sparkly, red “Dorothy” shoes—beaming as the four grandmothers ooh and aah over his every move.
“Look at this,” he says as he hurls his lithe toddler body to the floor, barely missing his nine-month-old brother who is sucking contentedly on a toy frog. “Ta dah!” he exuberantly announces. The four grandmothers, clutching their cameras, couldn’t be more thrilled.
My mom had called just moments before pleading for a ten minute visit. “I know it’s almost bedtime, but I wanted to bring the girls by to see my boys,” she says. My new year’s resolution involved being more laid back so I force an enthusiastic, “Sure!” The girls, as she says, are her cousin Nancy, her best childhood friend Marilyn (a.k.a. Muscles), and long-time family friend Patricia. They live in New Orleans, where my mom is from, and they have all come to visit my ninety-eight-year-old grandmother who is on her deathbed. Sort of.
Granny’s been in the hospital for nearly a month with pneumonia, but continues to surprise everyone, including the doctors. Just when it seems all hope is lost, she makes a breakthrough and talk in the hallways turns from ordering morphine to ordering discharge papers to send her back to the nursing home. As a result, my mom has been holding vigil next to her bed—feeding her, giving her sips of water, holding her hand, doing whatever she can to make her feel better.
I’m angry with my mom—I think she’s being a bit of a martyr. I hate that she feels like she can’t leave the hospital. I hate that I feel guilty because I can’t be there more to relieve her. I hate that what I really want is for her to babysit my kids while my husband and I go to the movies. I feel frazzled and burned out—I have two small children, a full-time job, a messy house, and no free time. I go so far as to think if Granny dies I’ll get three paid days off of work.
By the time the four grandmothers arrive to theoretically say good-bye, my grandmother is
sitting up in bed, chatting with her favorite nurse (and namesake) Dorothy. “You take such good care of me,” she says in her most upbeat tone. “Give me a kiss before you go.”
My grandmother knows how to turn on the charm when she needs to. Until we moved her here three years ago, I thought this charm was her default mode. We went to New Orleans several times a year to visit, and my grandmother was always so positive and pleasant. She was an inspiration. Five foot two, no more than a hundred pounds, legally blind and barely able to walk, she was a force to be reckoned with. She had to be. My grandfather was unable to walk, talk, or do anything on his own. Writing this out, I can’t believe the two of them lived in their own apartment until they were ninety-five years old.
My grandparents lived in a twelve story building on St. Charles Avenue, not far from the French Quarter, in a 200 square foot apartment. Even though it was small, I loved visiting. When we were little, my twin sister, Tracey, and I would spend a few weeks in the summer with my grandparents. They slept on one sofa bed and we slept on the other. They let us stay up late eating ice cream and watching M*A*S*H and The Rockford Files. In the mornings we giggled as we watched our grandfather do his calisthenics. There was no yard, but we would play in the halls for hours—running or doing gymnastics. My grandmother took us with her to the bridge club twice a week while she ran the games. On the way home, she bought us snow cones and 30 minute sessions at the trampoline park. My grandfather bought us lunches at the drugstore, took us to the movies, and let us bet on the horse races. I don’t remember ever being bored under my grandparents’ care.
As the buildings’ residents grew older, management tried to assist with their needs. They opened a cafeteria downstairs and they had nursing aides on staff to help clothe and bathe invalids like my grandfather. And lucky for us, Marilyn, Patricia, and Nancy helped with the shopping, doctors visits, and other special needs. It wasn’t until my grandmother fell and broke her leg that any of us thought of moving them to a nursing home. The break was bad enough to require surgery, several weeks in the hospital, and months of rehab. My grandmother wouldn’t be able to take care of herself, much less my grandfather.
My mom and I scoped out the nursing homes in Memphis. I wrote my grandmother a letter telling her how fabulous Heartland was. I described it as the perfect cross between apartment living and full service hospital-type care. She and my grandfather could have a private room (that was bigger than their efficiency apartment), participate in numerous activities, and eat three prepared meals either in their room or in the cafeteria. I hinted at long afternoons with me (or my mom or one of my two sisters) by her side listening to tales from her childhood, multigenerational “family” dinners, daytrips to the nearby casinos, and so on. By the time I was done, my grandmother could hardly wait to leave her tiny apartment in the only city she had ever known.
Once my mom and older sister got my grandparents settled in Heartland, Tracey and I were deployed to New Orleans to clean out their apartment and return with whatever we could fit in the back of Tracey’s Ford Explorer. We spent our first night eating Popeye’s chicken and drinking frozen daiquiris at the seedy bar next door while playing the slot machines in the back corner. My mom and older sister had done most of the work for us—the apartment was pretty much stripped except for two adjustable beds, the TV, and a few random pieces of furniture and some odds and ends. We decided to have a yard sale the next day and see if we could at least cover our gas money home.
Walking through their building for one of the last times, it seemed that my grandparents were moving just in time. Their floor had peeling, stained wallpaper and smelly carpets. The lobby had been completely gutted. The elevators were unreliable at best. The nursing aides were no longer being coordinated by the administrator. The cafeteria was only open for lunch. Word was that the building’s new management was desperately trying to attract younger residents and (inexplicably) book special events like wedding receptions.
After chatting with several residents, assuring them that our grandparents were safe and sound in Memphis, Tracey and I lined up our wares in the darkly lit hall outside their apartment door. Among other things, we had two retro folding chairs, an art deco table, a plant stand, a walker, a portable toilet, some crutches, and a few lamps. In order to boost sales, we hung up signs in the lobby that read: “Moving sale: Everything must go!” And then in small print: “Free Ensure and Depends with purchase.” We bought a dozen boiled crabs, a twelve pack of Abita Amber, some smokes and waited.
Most of our customers were friends of my grandmother’s who just wanted a memento. Old ladies lingered in the hall, staring at the remains of my grandparents’ apartment with tears in their eyes. My sister and I promised to pass on their well wishes as we pocketed their money. The kitchen staff purchased a few things and a Tulane student came by and bought most of what was left. We dragged the last bits to the incinerator at the end of the hall. Tracey and I spent our last few hours in our grandparents’ apartment lying on their twin beds nestled under worn towels watching Trading Spaces. Once the Medicare reps came for the beds, we loaded up the TV and hit the road back to Memphis.
Upon my return, it was clear that my grandmother did not fall in love with the nursing home as I had expected. In a cast from her hip to her ankle and totally out of her element, my once tough as nails granny was a quivering mess. My mom, my sisters and I worked double time trying to make her transition as smooth as possible. I came every night at dinnertime to make sure she ate; my older sister taped the Game Show Channel so she’d have something to watch on TV; my mom hung pictures, stocked the fridge with familiar food items, and befriended employees far and wide in the hopes that they would look favorably upon my grandmother; Tracey brought her kids by to run around, give kisses, and say cute things.
Complaining seemed to be the only thing my grandmother was excelling at. She told us that the food was gross (She had very few teeth, and even fewer taste buds.); the workers were inattentive (She wanted someone to sit next to her bed and jump when she said, “Jump!”); the other residents were black (What happened to the woman who wore a “No Dukes” button in the nineties to protest the candidacy of the well known Klansman David Duke?); Grandfather was suffering (He was actually doing better than ever, relatively speaking, but she was obsessed with his every move—or lack thereof).
Instead of hearing stories of her days growing up on Tchoupatoulis Street, I heard a detailed litany of the wrongs that had beseeched her and my grandfather that day. Interestingly enough, when Pat or Nancy, or Marilyn would call, I would get a glimpse of the sunshiny grandmother I knew in New Orleans. That’s when I realized that the shoe was on the other foot now—the sunshiny grandmother I thought I had only existed on the phone.
I felt stupid for thinking that all those years of taking care of my grandfather in that tiny apartment were easy for her. She just never let on how bad it was. Not to me anyways. I’m sure Pat, Nancy, and Marilyn heard about it on a daily basis. I was getting to know my grandmother again—not the one I saw a few times a year or talked to on the phone, but the one who carried the weight of the world, well the weight of my grandfather, on her shoulders everyday.
My older sister stopped visiting my grandparents because she said she couldn’t take the constant insults from my grandmother. Tracey started timing her visits so that she could be out in ten minutes or less. I found out I was pregnant and was soon too tired to do anything but squeeze in the bed next to Granny and say “uh-huh” every few minutes while Who Wants to be a Millionaire blared from her tiny television.
My “condition” did provide some sunshine in my grandmother’s gloomy new existence.
She told me what motherhood was like when she was young. After helping to raise her siblings, she was in no hurry to have any of her own. She married late and told my grandfather that she planned to work just as hard as he did, and that he shouldn’t expect to come home and find dinner on the table. He agreed, and they ate at restaurants every night.
When she got pregnant, she was a schoolteacher. It was a faux pas to be a pregnant schoolteacher, so she was forced to take two years off. That actually sounded pretty good to me. My grandmother showed me a ten inch scar running from her navel to her panty line from the surgery that removed my mother from her womb. She said that my mother had no intentions of coming out on her own. “In my day, women spent a month in the hospital after having a baby,” she said. That didn’t sound so good.
When I told her I planned to have a homebirth she thought I was crazy. “Why would you want to use a midwife when you could have a doctor?” she asked. When I pointed out that she was probably born at home, it made it seem slightly less crazy to her, but still incredibly unappealing. I held my breath and hoped that my baby would be more cooperative than my mother had been in 1938.
Thankfully, he was. But the thought of taking my golden boy to the germ-infested nursing home made my visits to my grandmother fewer and farther between. I felt guilty, but I was so wrapped up in my new role as mother, the guilt wasn’t enough to make me visit more than once every week or two. It actually worked out well for me. My grandmother found it hard to complain when there was a sweet little baby in her arms, so our visits were much more pleasant than they had been. However, it didn’t work out so well for my mom who now had the sole responsibility of keeping my grandmother happy.
This pretty much became the status quo over the next two years—my grandfather died after a bout of pneumonia, I had another kid, and my sisters had their own reasons for not visiting. Every once in awhile, my mom seemed like she couldn’t do it one more day, but for the most part, she took it in stride. She got to know some of the other residents and arranged for them to sit with my grandmother at lunch and visit her in the evenings. My mom got the ladies in her office to buy Christmas presents for the nursing home and she always invited a group of my grandmother’s friends to go eat next door on Friday nights. She brought my grandmother to major family gatherings, took her to ladies’ lunches, and even to the casino on Mother’s Day. Basically she wore herself, and my grandmother, out.
But this was nothing compared to the state my mom was in after six weeks of spending nearly 24/7 at my grandmother’s hospital bedside. I told my husband that when and if the tables were turned, there was no way that I was going to sit by my mom’s hospital bedside 24/7. But we both knew that was a lie.
I got my act together and took the boys to the hospital as much as I could. As the weeks passed, I could see my grandmother deteriorating even though my mom insisted she was doing great. I don’t think she could see the changes as much as I could since she was there around the clock. One afternoon, I went alone so that my mom could take a break. My grandmother clutched my hand and told me how frightened she was. “Frightened of what?” I asked. But she couldn’t say.
I guess being blind, 98, and in an unfamiliar place was enough to make her feel insecure. I planned to stay until she fell asleep, but every time I tried to slide my hand from under hers she woke up—just like an infant. My mom told me later that my grandmother was waking up in the middle of the night, crying for her own mother.
On a whim, Pat drove to town one Sunday evening. Again, my grandmother seemed to be doing well. She and my mom spent the night at my mom’s house marveling at my grandmother’s strength. The next day Pat went to the hospital and my mom went to work. At lunch my grandmother aspirated while trying to eat. By four o’clock I got a phone call saying come quick.
As I drove to the hospital—just a few minutes from my office—I had a feeling that my grandmother was watching me. I wasn’t surprised when I opened her door and found her already gone, my mom and Pat crying. I cried too. “I didn’t think she could really die,” I said. I went to hold her hand one last time. It was still warm.
My older sister came a few minutes later, crying before she was even in the door. “I didn’t think she could really die,” she said. Tracey came a few minutes later and echoed our words. It was sad and funny at the same time. I asked my mom what we were supposed to do now since my grandmother planned to donate her body to science.
“Granny changed her mind last week,” my mom said. “She told me she didn’t want to be cut up. She asked to be buried with her mother.”
I couldn’t help smiling. Of course I thought and wondered if I shouldn’t reconsider trying for a girl.
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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
Mairamou
I spent two years in a small, rural village called Lokoti when I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon, West Africa. I shared a compound with a young, Muslim family. Siddiki was extremely tall, thin, and soft spoken. He kept his distance and was decent, hardworking tailor. His seventeen-year-old wife, Mairamou, pretended to be shy, but she was a force to be reckoned with.
Not long before I arrived, Mairamou gave birth to her first child, a girl named Fiza. When I entered the compound for the first time, I tried to introduce myself to Mairamou, but she just giggled, shook her head to inform me that she didn't speak French, placed her newborn baby in my arms, and ran off to hide. I tried not to panic. I had never held a baby before.
During the two years that we lived together, Mairamou taught me everything from Fulfulde (her language) to how to wash clothes, dishes, and myself, my dog, and her baby in a bucket of water, although not at the same time, of course. With a wardrobe and a location change, Mairamou could be a typical American teenager. She liked to wear my headphones, dance around my living room, ride my bike (with Fiza strapped on back), henna my hands and feet, braid my hair, and unknowingly get me to eat unusual food. A typical conversation: "Do you like cow stomach?" "No I don't eat cow stomach." Her laughing, "You liked cow stomach yesterday!"It didn't take long for Mairamou and Fiza to become permanent fixtures in my house and in my life. I woke up every morning to Mairamou shouting, "Umu! Umu! Umu!"(Get up! Get up! Gt up!) outside of my window. We spent our days hanging out on the porch, playing with Fiza and Donc (my dog), sometimes visiting neighbors or going to the market, and doing chores. I went to bed every night after having dinner with them. I referred to Mairamou as dada (mother) and she called me her bingel (baby).
When I was in Lokoti, I was quite a spectacle. Not only for my white skin and my nationality, but because I was a woman over the age of eighteen who didn't have a husband or any children. I knew nothing of having or raising babies, despite my title of "Maternal/Child Health Volunteer." Looking back, that was probably a good thing. I didn't have a preconceived notion of how things "should" be. Granted I had seen pictures of babies wearing diapers and sucking on bottles in their cribs. But I quickly adjusted to seeing small girls carrying a sibling on their back, mothers nursing on bush taxis and in the market, and parents sharing a bed with their children as if completely normal and natural.
After a while, it didn't even seem strange to have a Cameroonian woman come up to me, grab my breasts, and tell me how "good" they were. Meaning, I COULD and SHOULD nurse many, many babies.
Now that I am a mother, I realize how much I learned about parenting from Mairamou and other Cameroonians. Had I not spent two years livng in Lokoti, the idea of having my baby at home would never have occurred to me. If I didn't know that Mairamou and millions of women before had done it, I never would have had the courage to even try it.
I may never know if my being in Cameroon had any effect or did any good. People often assume that Peace Corps volunteers are selflessly saving the world, but I got much more than I gave. I hope I can return one day and tell Mairamou that knowing her shaped who I am today. I'd also like to tell her that she and the other women were right about my breasts!**************************
Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
Hangin' with the Dads
Yesterday, despite the rain and wind, Warren and I decided to take the boys to the playground. Jiro was bored and Satchel woke up from his nap mad at the world. We needed to get out of the house. Just getting there was a struggle--getting Satchel dressed, getting the right sippy cup, letting him buckle himself in, whatever. Normal toddler power struggles.
When we arrived there were only three other kids there--all boys. One was with his mom and the two others were with their dads. We set off towards the equipment--Jiro crawling and Satchel skipping. Jiro had on his little Patagonia jacket that makes him look like a gnome and Satchel had on his Elmo sweatshirt that has taken quite a beating. (Elmo has no eyes or nose.) The mom commented on how cute Jiro was and seemed to be a nice woman. I recognized one of the dads but he was wrapped up in a deep conversation with the other dad and paid us no mind.
There's six slides, one of which is like a double slide so you can "race" down it. Satchel sat on one side and was trying to get Warren to slide with him when the little boy and his mommy came over. The little boy was probably just about one and a half, maybe two. He seemed babyish next to Satchel. Maybe because he was wearing a one piece red velvet romper. Satchel gave him a once over before informing him that he was a "stinky butt."
Everything these days is stinky and poo-poo and doo-doo this or that so I really didn't think much of it, but I could see that the little boy's mom was somewhat horrified. She probably thought Satchel was a stinky butt himself. So I stepped in and told Satchel that wasn't a nice thing to say and if he wasn't going to be nice we'd have to go home. He just sat at the top of the slide and pouted.
The little boy's mom encouraged him, "Go on Warren, it's okay." Seeing an opportunity I said, "Look Satchy, this little boy's name is Warren just like your daddy's." Unphased, Satchel continued to give him the stink eye until he was at the bottom of the slide. Once there, little Warren pointed to Satchel's shirt and said, "Elmo!" Satchel could not be broken, "Go away! I want my daddy to slide."
The mom gave me a sideways glance. Satchel and his dad went down the slides. Then before I knew it, Jiro made a beeline to the slide and started to crawl down himself. I rushed down the stairs and caught him at the bottom. The slide is only like 5 feet long so I wasn't in panic mode. I was just reacting to the situation, but I could see the mom judging me in her head. Jiro was laughing and obviously liked it. So Warren picked him up and sat him back up on the top of the slide. Instead of easily going down, the dampness caused his jeans to stick a bit and he ended up falling on his face and rolled down crying. Uh-oh. I swooped him up and kissed him all over and he was fine, but we decided to skip any further slide action. As he crawled over to the plastic abacus I could feel the mom's eyes on my back.
She quickly interested little Warren in something far away from the horrible little boy in the Elmo shirt and his negligent parents. I felt kind of bad, but honestly was too tired to really care. I'm sort of in the "She'll see what it's like when little Warren is older" mode.
Or maybe I'm just less concerned about what other mommies think of me these days. I attribute it to having two kids. I feel much less compelled to compare myself to others now. I've had to let a lot of things slide and give up on trying to control everything. I feel good. Relaxed. Laidback even.
Warren stayed with Jiro and I chased Satchel around the grassy area for a bit. We met up at the swings a few minutes later and Warren was laughing at the other two boys who were running around with sticks. Satchel looked at them and started yelling, "Hey that's my stick!" The two dads were talking software and just sort of watching the two boys out of the corners of their eyes--pretty unconcerned about what they might say or do. One of the little boys yelled back at Satchel, "You're a bad guy!"
We could instantly relate to this behavior and brushed it off as pretty normal. Warren told me that while Satchel and I were on the grass, the two boys jumped him from behind and tried to take his wallet! The next thing I know, Satchel has picked up two "lightsabers" and has assumed his best ass-kicking stance and told the boys that they were BOTH "stinky poo-poo heads." I was somewhat stunned by his fierceness but also impressed by his "take-no-shit" attitude.
The little boys ran away to the retaining wall where they felt a bit braver and the bigger one yelled, "I'm going to put spicy food in your eye!" Satchel made some roaring noises and the three of them ran around like they were the stars of their own action movie. I have to say it warmed my heart. Not because I am crazy about the violent nature of the imaginary play, but because my little boy was just fitting in and having fun. And I don't think the dads ever once wondered if I was a good mom.
Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
Sex Toys and Threesomes
Gone are the days of truly casual sex. As the parents of two children under the age of three, my husband and I have found that it is getting harder and harder to get it on. We must actually plan for sex, or be prepared to drop everything the moment opportunity knocks.
Having two kids meant two different childcare providers on opposite sides of town. Afternoons were out, so we moved to lunch breaks. My husband, who was once opposed to "nooners" on the grounds that it made going back to work very difficult, decided that he'd take what he could get. Somewhere along the way, though, these illicit meetings morphed into the Flylady's fantasy rather than ours. I invarioubly ended up emptying the dishwasher or folding laundry while Warren vacuumed.
Two kids, two jobs, two dogs, two cars, and a house is a lot to keep up with. We don't have time to think, much less have sex. One friend in a similar situation has started e-mailing Steve from Blues Clues and another has actually admitted to pleasuring herself to the Wiggles. We do what we have to do.
About a year ago, my husband started seeing another man -- Jon Stewart. Four nights a week, around ten o'clock, after the kids were in bed, Warren would disappear. These meetings were short, about thirty minutes, and he was always in such a good mood afterwards that I didn't care. In fact, I started going along. Jon Stewart is great -- so funny and smart. He got us thinking about politics and got us excited for the future. Seeing him helped us connect as Warren and Stacey, not just Mommy and Daddy. It reignited the spark that made us remember why we became parents in the first place. We needed that.
I proudly tell people that Jon Stewart is my boyfriend -- and Warren's too. But things haven't been the same since Bush won the election. It was like building up a big sneeze and then not sneezing. Or finding out that the sea monkeys are really brine. We felt a little let down. The honeymoon was over. So, I decided to dust off the sex toys.
Lately, we've been playing the penis game. The game involves hiding a life-like plastic penis (procured at my Bachelorette Party almost six years ago) somewhere that the other person will find it. Preferably in public, or in front of other people. This game started when I found the penis buried in a junk drawer and put it under Warren's pillow as a joke. He said nothing, but the next morning I found it in my shoe. And so on.
Of course, the penis game lost some of its appeal when our oldest son was about nine months old. Upon finding the penis in my husband's lunchbox, our son immediately put the penis in his mouth. Playing the game now, with the added challenge of preventing the kids from finding the penis, has been a great addition. Maybe not as great as hot sex, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I became rather excited the other day when I found the penis lurking in my breast pump.
Our kids won't always be as young and as needy as they are now, and my husband and I won't always be as busy and tired as we are now either. My best friend, who just recently quit breastfeeding her second child, promises me that my sexual revolution is just around the corner.
Until then, the plastic penis gives me hope. It reminds me that I am really lucky to have a great husband. And one of these days, my husband will actually get lucky.
I promise.
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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons. Contact her at: stacey@fertilegroundzine.com
Kindling
Impulsively I say, "Well, you can have some of Warren's sperm, if you want."
Vanessa has a small diamond ring on her finger. She and Liz have decided to become life partners. They want to start a family, she says. Liz's brother has agreed to be their donor, (a fairly common arrangement among modern day lesbians) but he has been having cold feet. Now that I'm a mom, I want everyone to be a mom, but especially Vanessa. Everyone thinks I am kidding, but I'm not.
I knew Vanessa in college, but we became good friends a few years later after I returned from the Peace Corps and she returned from doing a Fullbright in Honduras. We hung out in bars -- once even with Jane Evershed, read Starhawk books, had important discussions, went to Lilith Fair, and forged a friendship that easily survived the drama of everday life. The outing of my secret college fling with her future husband, her moving to San Francisco to become a midwife, her coming out of the closet, and her eventual divorce -- only brought us closer together.
Vanessa is the old soul variety -- the instant you meet her, you know she is special. She is wise beyond her years, a good listener, and easy to talk to (she was born with six toes on one foot, which according to some indigenous cultures, is a sure giveaway). Vanessa introduced me to homebirth in America. She didn't laugh when I said I was going to use cloth diapers (or even when I decided to STOP using cloth diapers). She was instrumental in my decision NOT to circumcise my Jewish son. She showed me how to make a belly cast and showered me with a Mother Blessing ceremony when I was pregnant.
When Satchel was three months old, we went to California to visit Warren's family. We also visited Vanessa and Liz. It was the first time that Warren had met Liz, and the second time for me. They had a cute little house in the hills of Petaluma surrounded by vegetable and flower gardens. Vanessa made us a yummy vegetarian dinner while Warren and Liz played basketball. We went to the ocean, the ice cream store, and the second-hand shop. We stayed up late talking; enjoying each other's company. It was clear to Warren and I that they shared a deep love for each other, and that we shared similar parenting philosophies.
A few months after this visit, Liz's brother changed his mind about being their donor. I offered up Warren's sperm again, all kidding aside. Of all of my friends, Vanessa was the one person I was sure that my husband would gladly donate his sperm to. I saw this donation as a way to expand our nuclear family. I knew that Vanessa was someone that we would always be close to and that this experience would make us closer.
They say that you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family. In this case, we had the opportunity to do BOTH. I had visions of all of us vacationing together, their child(ren) spending summers with us, and Satchel going off to visit his cool aunties in San Francisco when he was older.
I wasn't completely naive about it though. I could certainly see how the situation could get sticky. Like what if Vanessa's child was somehow bigger, brighter, or better than our own? Would I constantly compare myself to her? Would Warren? And really, it wasn't just about me. How would the child feel about his/her auspicious beginnings? What if s/he was less than thrilled with the situation? What if Liz and Vanessa moved to Alaska? Or broke up? Or worse...then what?
When we talked about the future, all four of us hoped for the best. We wanted everything to be out in the open. While Warren wasn't going to be the traditional "dad" and I wasn't going to be the traditional "stepmom", we certainly planned on being something. We would just have to wait and see what that something looked like exactly. We agreed to take things as they came and to always keep the lines of communication open. What other choice did we have?
Over a year passed between our actual offer and our actual discussion of the particulars. Warren and I agreed to give up all parental rights and Vanessa and Liz agreed to assume full financial responsibility for the baby. We also agreed that an eventual sibling was part of the deal. Although I felt a bit like Glenn Close's character in The Big Chill, Warren and Vanessa DID NOT plan on actually having sex. Since Liz and Vanessa live in California and we live in Memphis, our plan was to use "Overnight Male," a packaging system that preserves sperm in a special buffer for up to 48 hours, when the time was right.
After a brief cervical cancer scare and a few months of charting her cycle, Vanessa and Liz were ready to start trying. In January 2004, I was six months pregnant with my second child. I left work a bit early and before picking Satchel up, Warren and I made a wish for Vanessa and Liz to have a baby. We carefully mixed the sperm with the special buffer and rushed to the local Mailboxes, Etc. Warren sent me in to pay and I felt absolutely giddy. I secretly hoped that the guy behind the counter would inquire as to the contents of my FedEx package, but he didn't.
The package arrived safely, and the insemination went smoothly. After separating the buffer with a centrifuge, Vanessa got out her microscope and could see the little guys swimming. Vanessa told us that she and Liz had a special little ceremony. I was so excited; I just knew it had worked. I didn't know how I was going to keep myself from calling every day and asking, "Are you pregnant yet? Are you pregnant yet?"
Warren, Satchel, and I went to visit friends in DC for Valentine's Day weekend. On that Saturday, I received a message from Vanessa on my cell phone. She and Liz had just gotten married! I didn't get a chance to actually talk to her until a few days later. Although ecstatic about being legally wed, Vanessa was a bit depressed. As a midwife with unlimited access to pregnancy tests, she was sad to report that all tests had registered only ONE pink line. She said her boobs hurt and she was sure she'd get her period any day. Skeptical, I asked if she was sure, and she said she was.Four days later, Vanessa still hadn't gotten her period. She tested one more time -- and this time was positive. It did work after all. We were all in shock -- but in a good way. Twelve weeks passed, and ripe with my own child, I started telling friends about Vanessa (insert joke about Warren's prowess here).
It was really fun having Vanessa pregnant. She had delivered over 200 babies, but had never experienced morning sickness, first trimester exhaustion, or that feeling of having a secret when your growing belly is still invisible to the world at large. As she entered her second trimester, I gave birth to my second baby -- another boy. I was stunned, as I had completely convinced myself, despite having no real evidence, that I was having a girl.It only took a minute or two for me to fall completely in love with my new little guy. But for the next few weeks I struggled with how I might feel if Vanessa had a girl. Would I feel cheated? Would I secretly resent Warren for giving her girl sperm? I decided to just wait, and assume that Vanessa was having a girl so that I could have time to work through my feelings. I even offered to let Vanessa use my "girl name."
Vanessa came to visit twice during my maternity leave. As she held baby Jiro, I could see her trying to imagine what her baby might look like. Meanwhile, I tried to picture her big and round, since she was still barely showing. My best friend, Marlinee, and I performed the "ring test" on Vanessa and consulted the Chinese calendar. Both predicted that Vanessa was having a girl. I held my breath.
The summer passed in a blur, and in early fall Warren left for a twelve week dig, leaving me home alone with both boys. I'd occasionally get an e-mail from Vanessa -- "Do I really need a diaper bag?" or "How many cloth diapers should I buy?" We played a lot of phone tag, chatting on occasion. I continued to offer some name suggestions and Vanessa continued to rebuke them. With each care package I sent, I'd write a little note -- "What about Lyric? Flax? Are you sure you don't like Piper?"
Things were moving rapidly, yet slowly. It was September before I knew it and Liz sent us amazing pictures of Vanessa in a tank top at a peace rally. Her tiny, perfectly round belly was painted with the words -- "Baby sez no war." I immediately burst into tears. Vanessa looked absolutely radiant. Warren and I laughed at how different she looked from me. She was the fit, yoga mama, while I was more of the voluptuous earth mama. Vanessa was in her 35th week, and we knew it could be any day.
On a Friday, a couple of weeks later, as I was getting ready to go to lunch, my office phone rang. "Hey, it's Vanessa. [Long Pause] I think I'm in labor."
Vanessa was planning on having the her baby at home, like I had done. And she was having some nasty back labor, like I had. It was absolutely surreal to be on my end of the conversation, as she had always been one of the first people I called both times that I was in labor. I asked if she had any last minute predictions on the baby's sex (she was still leaning towards totally not knowing) and I told her that I loved her, and to have fun. I also promised to try not to call too much.
I immediately called Warren and, as usual, could only answer about five of his twenty questions. We were both really excited, but knew from experience that the baby would most likely not be born for at least another day. I went home and stood in my power spot -- the place in my bedroom where I had given birth to both Satchel and Jiro -- and I said a little prayer for Vanessa and the baby.
I talked to Liz a few hours later and got a progress report. All systems were go and Vanessa was doing great. Liz called back around midnight to report that things were still going well and that Vanessa was trying to rest. Somehow, I went to sleep that night, but my mind was in California. I woke up at 8:00 a.m. and desperately wanted to call, but refrained myself. At noon, I couldn't take it anymore. This time, the phone was answered by Jenna, Vanessa's friend who is also a midwife. I took this as a sure sign that things were getting close. Warren and I tried to stay calm. By 5 p.m. I decided to check in. Jenna answered the phone again. "So," I asked, "How's everything going?" Jenna told me to hang on and she put Vanessa on the line. "It's a boy!" Vanessa said.
A boy! How wonderful. I was relieved in a profound way. A boy felt familiar, right. I genuinely felt happy for them.
By naptime the next day, I had received an e-mail entitled, "Look who's here." When I saw the pictures, I was overcome. The baby looked a lot like Satchel did when he was born. He was beautiful. I wanted to hold him and sniff his head. I called Warren in and he was similarly smitten. "He looks like Satchel," he said. We both stared in silence at the screen until Satchel came prancing in. "It's Jiro!" he exclaimed, as he usually does whenever he sees a picture of a baby. I called Vanessa and Liz and told them that I was in love.
Seeing the baby's picture was a lot more emotional than I expected. I had intense baby lust. Jiro suddenly seemed huge. I wanted Vanessa's baby to be snuggled up next to me. He looked so familiar. I wanted him to be mine. I had a huge lump in my chest. I felt a little lost. There were no sign posts and nobody to tell me, "Your feelings are totally normal."
I wanted to tell everyone that the baby was here, but there didn't seem to be a vocabulary for describing our relationship adequately. I found myself doing an elaborate set-up: "You know my friend Vanessa? Well, she just had a baby...and Warren was the donor..." Then people inevitably asked, "He was the donor? What do you think of that?" I proudly responded that it was my idea. I wanted one word that could encapsulate this complicated story. And I wanted credit for my role in bringing this beautiful boy to life.
Even the relationships that had names seemed strange. We alternated between telling Satchel and Jiro that they had a new baby half brother/a new baby cousin. It sounded kind of weird when Warren explained further: "I'm the daddy, and you are the son. Vanessa's baby is also my son." Technically this was all true, but would these terms constantly need to be qualified and explained? Satchel seemed to be taking this all in stride. "I'm not the sun," he said. "I'm a cloud!"
As I try to make sense of everything, I have been having some great conversations with Liz. Each day I am learning more and more about her -- easily seeing why Vanessa has chosen to spend her life with Liz. I am amazed by Liz's thoughtfulness and compassion. Also, I love being able to give Vanessa advice on breastfeeding, co-sleeping, etc. I feel like the wise one now. I hope that I can continue to be a source of information and support for her always, and that our parenting experiences will only deepen our friendship.I like that we are entering uncharted territory. It feels exciting. Important. New.
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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.
Taking the Purple Cow to Mothersville
A Mother with a Fertile Mind Finds a Creative OutletI always fancied myself a writer, but “being a writer” was something that I might one day become, not something I already was. I didn’t write for the high school paper or major in English at University. I minored in “Creative Writing” and had fun filling a few semesters with tales of lesbians who drank Wild Turkey straight from the bottle and a pizza guy who had a love affair with his tapeworm. I liked shocking my classmates and emulated Tom Robbins as best I could.
As I traveled to Israel and Africa, I kept detailed journals of my adventures that uninterestingly dwelled on boys who were cute, but didn’t love me. At my first ever office job, I used the computer to construct a short-lived newsletter I unoriginally dubbed, Stacey’s So Called Life, that glamorized the drunken sprees and gossip-worthy events of my friends and I.
I specialized in creating drama in my rather dull existence, rather than creating art. I engaged in flaming e-mail wars with my best friend. I dabbled in “Letters to the Editor” and angry rants to corporate heads. I put a lot of energy into meddling in the affairs of others and arguing about religion and other highly sensitive topics while intoxicated. Although I had managed to marry the man of my dreams, buy a house, and live a rather privileged existence, I didn’t do anything I felt was worth writing about. I tried writing about my experiences in the Peace Corps, but felt they lacked any real appeal to anyone other than my mom. I had a secret desire to write for the local independent paper, but they weren’t interested in hiring me, and in retrospect, I can’t blame them.
A lack of formal training kept me from any “real” writing jobs, but my writing skills helped me earn a masters degree in Urban Anthropology, and later land a rather high paying job at the local utility company doing community relations. I got involved in my neighborhood association and other local groups, such as Park Friends and soon began to feel like a contributing member of society. A “grown up.” All of my friends began getting pregnant and starting families and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I did the same. Dinner conversations turned to circumcision debates and homebirth replaced religion as the hot topic to discuss over drinks.
My best friend and partner in crime told me she was pregnant on Valentine’s Day 2001. I resisted as long as I could, but not having her to go out with made it much less appealing. By Labor Day, I was pregnant too. I enjoyed being pregnant and looked forward to becoming a mother. I didn’t quite know what to expect and spent every evening with my nose buried in pregnancy books. Once I read enough of those, I delved into breastfeeding and attachment parenting books. I scoured the Internet and generally tried to soak up as much information as I could. I was surprised by how cool I thought motherhood was going to be and felt like a bit of an ass for always assuming people who got pregnant somehow deserved pity, as if getting pregnant were always by mistake. I stepped outside of my high school health class mentality and saw the world in a whole new light.
My thirty-six hour homebirth resulted in one amazing little boy, and one mother. As much as my son consumes me, I am equally consumed by my role as a mother.
There is something about becoming a mother that simultaneously makes me feel special, one of a kind, yet part of a huge network of women reaching back to the beginning of time. I can only liken it to the feeling I once shared among fellow smokers; An instant recognition that I was in a club of sorts, but that I smoked my own brand of cigarettes. Motherhood gave me a sense of purpose and I jumped in with both feet. Nursing my son, rather than a hangover, made all the difference in my life. I no longer needed to create fiction or unnecessary drama to keep myself busy. While Camel Lights and Vodka Tonics once contributed a major part to my personality, they were easily replaced with cloth diapers and breastmilk.
I also had a handful of friends who were new mothers and who provided a much needed outlet for me. Play dates were the perfect mix of baby time and mama time. I shunned traditional magazines and other news sources in favor of real life experiences. I belonged to several online communities that connected me to likeminded mothers across the country. I had a group of “synchro-mamas” (women with children born at the same time as my own) who helped me get through the bumps in the road and who shared in my joy and accomplishments. I quickly got into a routine and much to my surprise, really enjoyed my stint as a stay at home mom. I loved the freedom I had. My husband and I drove across country with our two-month-old son and spent four weeks visiting friends and family. It was my best summer ever and I didn’t want it to end.
I missed my paycheck, but not my career. I wasn’t interested in climbing the corporate ladder anymore. I found the minutia of mothering to be quite stimulating and important. Beyond the political realm of natural parenting and all that it entails, I was enthralled by my son’s every move. Scheduling naps were much more challenging than scheduling conferences. And the mere thought of returning to a 9-to-5 job and putting my son in daycare tore me apart. Unfortunately, my husband and I had come to rely on my paychecks and couldn’t see how we could cover our student loans, car payment, mortgage, and other expenses on my husband’s income as an archaeologist. My husband could stay home with our son, but that wouldn’t get me out of the grind.
I was in love with mothering and I needed to find a way to combine it with working in a creative way; A way that didn’t necessarily separate the two. My best friend and I hatched a plan. We would start our own business and bring our kids to work with us! Our business would cater to mothers and children, and be the first step on the long road of changing the face of what a working mother looks like. We named our business The Purple Cow: A Midtown Mootique, and planned to sell ice cream, used clothing, and mama-made crafts in a child-friendly atmosphere stocked with toys, comfortable sofas, and lots and lots of alternative parenting resources. We met in the afternoons while our kids napped or played and managed to write a business proposal. We even ordered cow suits and did a photo shoot with our kids to woo potential investors. We weren’t able to get everything in order by the time my maternity leave ended, but the thought of starting The Purple Cow gave me the strength I needed to return to the office. I told myself it was only temporary.
Returning to work was a nightmare. People asked how I was doing and how my baby was, but they didn’t really want to know. My boss, who had once been my mentor and role model was now the enemy. My four month absence had left her overwhelmed and I felt a new distance between us. She seemed shocked and surprised by my less than enthusiastic attitude towards returning to work and couldn’t understand why I was tired or why my son was not sleeping through the night. Having earlier endured her dismay at my decision to breastfeed, I cowardly decided against educating her on attachment parenting and co-sleeping.
I felt alone, lost and depressed. My son, however, was fine. Luckily, I found an excellent home-based daycare provider named Katy who loved Satchel almost as much as I did. She held him a lot, rocked him to sleep, and showered him with affection. Everyday at lunch, I went to Katy’s to nurse Satchel, watch him play, and have some much needed conversation. Knowing that he was in a loving environment and was thriving despite my absence, allowed me to hold on when all I wanted to do was let go.
At work, I logged many hours on the phone and Internet in the name of The Purple Cow. I spent all my downtime “hanging out” with my online mama friends. I left early on Thursdays for play dates and scouted out real estate on my way to and from meetings. When weeks turned to months, I realized that starting a business was going to take considerably more time than I had planned on. Just tracking down the Small Business Association (SBA) office was a major feat. Our SBA advisor was either calling us several times a day or she would disappear for weeks. Traditional banks didn’t want anything to do with us, and we had many days when we wondered if we’d ever get to realize our dream of The Purple Cow. Every time we thought we were close, we’d discover something else that needed to be done.
To top things off, my friend and I had both become pregnant in the interim and weren’t sure how two new babies would affect our plans. We alternated between being both thankful and frustrated that the process of getting a loan and starting a business was incredibly slow.
While we were tangled in self-doubt, paperwork, and bureaucracy, a retail store called Mothersville opened up nearby. At first we refused to even go in, convinced it was a feeble attempt to do what we had set out to do. We were insanely jealous and worried that our plans could be seriously affected by Mothersville’s mere existence. Memphis is no Portland or San Francisco. There’s only so much to go around.
We did eventually go in and were blown away by what we found. Mothersville was this mama’s dream come true. There were all kinds of nursing and maternity wear, organic kids clothing, cloth diapers, breast pumps, herbs, and comfortable sofas where women were encouraged to hang out and breastfeed their children. Mothersville also offered classes, like prenatal yoga and natural childbirth education, and was just fabulous.
The biggest surprise was that the owner was a woman we had gone to college with. Kristy was an experienced mother of three who carried her youngest in a sling while the other two played in the store. She was a true inspiration. She let us pick her brain and she and her husband told us everything they knew about starting a business. Whenever I felt down, or trapped by my career, I would e-mail Kristy or go to Mothersville for a pep talk. Just knowing that someone else was doing what I wanted to do gave me hope and got me through the day.
I had a ton of creative energy that needed to be channeled into my daily life, rather than being bottled up waiting for The Purple Cow to open. Sitting in front of a computer forty hours a week thinking about my son, my role as a working mother, and my dreams, inspired me to start writing and provided me with a child-free environment in which to do so. I knew a few women online who did zines, and decided I should start my own. I ordered every mama made zine I could find; joined Mamaphonic.com; solicited my husband and friends to contribute material; wrote my stories during lunch and worked on the layout at night while Satchel was asleep; and put out my first issue in January of 2003.
Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting was a hit. I sent out 200 copies and the feedback was overwhelming. People actually subscribed and I was glad to commit to doing at least four issues. It wasn’t long before I was viewing the world in terms of my zine. Topics would come up and I would think, “Oh I’ve got to write about that,” or “I wonder how I could incorporate this into Fertile Ground?”
After eight months, I have actually gotten to the point where I have to write. I need to write. It’s how I cope. For example, I recently had a miscarriage. It was probably one of the worst things that ever happened to me. What got me through, was writing about every little detail in my zine. Knowing that the audience would likely be other mothers, other women, friends, and family made a big difference. I knew I could write about something painful and exposing and not just put it in my journal, but put it out there. I had the confidence in myself to do that and was a real turning point. Having a zine, a guaranteed outlet for my writing, has also encouraged me to seek out other creative outlets and even broader audiences.
I still don’t know if I am a “real” writer, but I’m getting there. I don’t have an incredible mastery of the English language or an impressive vocabulary. My writing isn’t well planned out or full of literary nuances. I think what makes my writing worth reading is that I take a universally appealing topic - parenting, and insist on telling it like it is. My readers can count on me to tell the whole story, gory details and all. A lot of people might edit the part of their birth story where they poop on the living room floor. Not me. I take pride in the messiness of motherhood. I think my time as a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon, more than anything, prepared me for the fact that raising children is hard work and it isn’t always pretty. I don’t think it serves anyone to gloss over the truth and I’m proud of the mother I’ve become.
It’s been a year since I returned to work and I have found a way to balance my dreams of being a writer and an entrepreneur with my present reality of being my family’s breadwinner. While holding a full time job, I’ve managed to put out three issues of Fertile Ground and am working on my fourth; I’ve rallied 31 other mamas who make zines to collaborate on the “mother of all zines” -- Mamaphiles, which is nothing short of amazing; and I’ve had my writing published in various zines, magazines, and websites.
The Small Business Association, clearly unaware of the impending Mama Revolution, decided that The Purple Cow was too much of a risk and denied giving us a loan, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. My best friend and I decided to partner with Kristy and invest in Mothersville. Now we are all pooling our resources and our ideas to work together to make a real impact on the Memphis mama community. I now have the opportunity to be involved in the decision-making processes and creative outlets of the business while maintaining my steady gig at the utility company. At Mothersville, I’ve already set up a resource center with my vast collection of books, zines, and videos. I held a bellycasting party, and have started working with the Midtown Artist Market to hold regular mama artist exhibitions.
I feel incredibly lucky to have a great family, a good job, a creative outlet, and an investment in my community. Becoming a mother has been the best thing to ever happen to me.
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Copyright 2004 Stacey Greenberg
Stacey Greenberg is the creator of the zine Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis with her husband and two sons. Contact her at staleyg@yahoo.com.
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