Churning through life with four under four

    We were blessed with four sons under the age of four, the last being a set of twins twenty-one months younger than our middle child. Four in diapers; four car seats; four child seats at table, four snowsuits, a million little socks and six loads of laundry a day...

      I nursed  all of the boys,  so was well indoctrinated by the time our little ground hogs arrived on February 2nd. Our middle of the night routine was a well orchestrated dance: The first baby would awaken and Daddy retrieved him for first suckle. When he was satisfied, #2 was awakened and presented to Mama. Daddy took # 1 for diaper change while the second nursed. Baby #1 would be returned to me so I could “top him off” while the second  received clean dipes. He was then returned for seconds, while #1 was tucked back in. Then I would convey the second back to the crib shared by both, for a nice uninterrupted 30 minutes of sleep. This, two or three times a night, interspersed with lost pacifiers and the occasional “bad dream” or other upset on behalf of the others.

      Our plan for the day seemed simple enough: be out of the house by 9:30.

     A new day began at 6am with my being nudged out, if not shoved right over the edge of the bed by the five squirming attendants. The two big boys had migrated in the wee hours, and Mama had been too lazy to return babies to bed after last feeding.

     We hit the floor running: Pee. Nurse the babies. Line the boys up on the living room rug to change diapers assembly line fashion (thankfully one was in daytime undies!) Nurse and change diapers again, for invariably it was necessary after breast feeding. Get breakfast for the two elder sibs. Change diapers. Get the boys dressed. Nurse. Change clothes that had been spit up upon. Nurse. Nap time for babies. Sesame Street (Thank God!!). Get laundry in, clean up cereal that has been flung all over the kitchen, make a plan for the day, pee and get dressed. Snack time for little boys. Babies awaken and nurse. Change diapers. Get snow suits on. Take snow suits off to poop in toilet. Time for lunch. Nap time. Laundry time. Snack time. Change diapers. Snow suits on. Ah... out the door at last! And it's only 4:30pm! Realization that I never even got my teeth or hair brushed!

      Round and round we'd go churning through our days.

    The older boys wore disposable diapers, the babies cloth. Groceries for our family then were $75 per week without disposables, $95 with. So the wee ones would not get into the stinky mess, we had an arrangement next to the changing table. Hanging from a macrame' plant hanger was the basket into which the disposable diapers were pitched. Under that was the high backed stool holding the diaper pail for cloth diapers. There were times when the disposables were heaped to precarious avalanche state, and the cover on the pail below sat on top of a mound surpassing its rim by 8 inches - Quite the conversation piece!

     As they grew, the babies never even had the experience of solids during their first nine months. Their sole means of nutrition was breast milk, for it was much easier to just “whip it out” so to speak, than to try to prepare conventional meals for everyone single handedly. They nursed simultaneously, crossed over one another in my lap. Once when the phone rang I got up with the two latched on and sat them on the counter while I took the call and they continued, uninterrupted.

      When they were big enough, the twins sat in seats hooked over edge of counter, kicking their feet frantically and waving their little arms as though ready to take flight. Phil sat in his high chair, more often than not nodding off into his lunch. Henry, in his big boy chair, was becoming devious, trading Phillip for the “good stuff” when he thought I wasn't looking.

    When they had all graduated to peanut butter sandwiches, they each exerted their individuality thus: one wanted peanut butter and jelly with crust; one peanut butter and jelly, without crust; one peanut butter, no jelly, no crust; one jelly with crust, no peanut butter. “Do you want your banana big or cut up? “Big. No, cut. Ummm, big. No, I want it cut” Are you sure?” “Yes,” I cut the banana. “Whaahhh! I want it big!”

     Our middle child was of the age that ideally, we would have ditched the pacifier, but you can't do that to a one and a half year old that has just been dethroned. Alas, by the time he was three, the only time that thing was not in his mouth was when it was resting on his lip as he cried 20 times each night until someone came to stick it back where it belonged.

     In frantic desperation one night before our weekly garbage pick up, I decided enough is enough and threw the slimy snot covered thing into the trash- as it happened, the basket containing the disposable diapers. As I was changing my youngest (by one hour and four minutes!), I started thinking maybe I should talk with # 2 son about this.

     Then a wondrous thought occurred to me: Maybe the poop from the diaper... I peeked under the stinker I had just deposited. Nope, no such luck. I reached into the basket, opened the shit filled sack, swiped the pacifier through the mess, crying “Eeew! Phillip! Look what happened to your pacifier!” “Eww! We better throw it away!” “Oh! Good idea Phil.” We stood at the window waving bye bye to “paci” as the garbage truck traveled down the street.

      We owned a Honda wagovan, only seating five at the time of birth, so bolted two of the car seats into the cargo area facing backwards. My husband devised a “Ben watcher” (a round, convex mirror on the driver's sun visor so he could keep an eye on Baby Ben sitting behind him when he drove without a copilot.

     One  Christmas Eve the babies were in the way back, packed in amongst the groceries and I looked over my shoulder, aghast to find Jordan waving an empty egg carton about! “Stop the car! Stop the car!!!”

      When you live in that type of mayhem, so much of it is a blur. But there are those life altering moments that remain clearly etched in one's memory.

      One morning as my husband and I were awakening, we delighted in the babies jabbering away in the room next to us. Then silence. “What are they doing?” Suddenly, THUMP! “heehehehehe!”, THUMP!!! “heehehehe!” as they learned to free themselves from the captivity of their cribs.

      Things were about to get crazy!- RDW, 11-12-11

The Garden of Life or Life as a Garden

      Today I celebrate the 10^th Anniversary of Growing Places- a life long dream involving the Tending of Children (a Child Garden, if you will), the idea of which germinated 35 years ago. It continues to grow and evolve today in all of its stunning beauty; not at all according to original plan, for it's current tangled gorgeousness could not have been contrived.

     A life dream is as unique as any garden, neither of which is ready  made, nor accurately foreseen. They must each be cultivated, nurtured with love and patience. Conditions need to be right for either to come into bloom or fruition.

    With visions of a magical secret garden space for young children (they themselves filled with the capacity for growth and blossom) I clear a bit of the gravel blanketing the play space, fill the hole with fertile soil and plant a young weeping cherry. I imagine the sapling, and the garden that ensues, to be symbolic of the realization of my vision.

     The garden is a grand metaphor for life, be it to thrive and flourish, or become over run and choked out by weeds.

    Consider the rocky foundation initially provided as the palette for this plot (family, life, dream, business). A thick layer of gravel for use as planting medium is not conducive to the soul nurturing paradise I have envisioned: The speed with which the water (money, moral support) runs through gravel doesn't allow the root systems to absorb the hydration necessary for growth, and the plants wither and die.

    One of the first steps in moving forward with any undertaking is to get ready, lay the groundwork, develop a strong network of roots (family, friends). Before planting, it is necessary to prepare the earth-make a plan, remove the obstacles, and provide soil rich with nutrients (resources, expertise, community support). The instability of a project not well thought out crumbles and does not allow the roots to take hold and nurture the plants (children, enterprise, creative endeavor).

      Gardens need pollination by the wind, and by insects and birds (ideas and people) if they are to grow. The level of involvement and turnover of your support system will vary, depending on the duties and willingness to carry them out. Some of our people provide the expertise required to reach a specific short term goal before moving on after a year or two, much as an annual or biennial is used to fulfill a current desired effect. Other people commit for a longer stretch, seeing that yearly traditions are well established in the way that perennials serve to create a framework for the garden. Each member has a specific, critical part to play in the overall metamorphosis and splendor of the garden.

   Gardens (and dreams) need  to be protected from  from infection  or attack. Procrastination, negativity, anger, fear, and unnecessary clutter are weeds-pests that interfere with optimal growth of the garden, the goal, the organization.

     The thick gnarly root of an unwanted vine is not unlike being so set in our ways (and visions) as to become immovable and impervious to change. For instance, bittersweet is a tenacious creeper vine; it proceeds to choke a rose bush in much the same way that stubborn resistance to change impedes our capacity for personal development; it is bound and determined to override the desire for new growth. Negotiation, compromise, and realistic expectations are what is needed to keep the vision alive.

     Gardens need cutting back.   One loses sight of the beauty of the coveted blossom through trivialities and distractions. You buy a flower (an electronic device; a bottle of wine perhaps) that you are convinced will improve the quality of your garden. This pretty thing goes about the daily business of growing, invading the root space of other beauties (reading, playing out doors, interacting with the environment). You don't want to get rid of it entirely, but as long as it has space in the plot of life it becomes greedy, taking over more than was originally intended. Too much of a good thing turns out to be detrimental just as sweltering sun leads to dehydration and burn out, withering the soul of the individual.

     Aphids drain a plant  of its  life-giving  force only until they are enjoyed by a hungry ladybug. Worms aerate the soil, offering themselves up to a bright eyed robin seeking energy for the task of creating a cozy haven for its nestlings, which in turn feast upon a veritable banquet of garden pests. A spider weaves its trap for the voracious mosquitoes that love to engorge themselves upon the gardener.

      The young  tree central to my child  garden becomes   injured, a festering  wound threatening its very life. Yet with patience and faith that whatever happens will provide further opportunity, it survives these growing pains, becoming all the stronger as a result.

      The transformation of the children's garden space over the last ten years has been breathtaking. It flourishes, creating a haven not only for the local wildlife, but offering a place of solace to all who enter...the nooks and crannies provide a back drop for elaborate make believe, hideaways for quiet chats, or just a peaceful moment to oneself. The laughter and the audible sighs of contentment are the gentle breezes, the wind song of life.

       Sadly, I have too many gardens to tend, and there are always some that do not receive adequate care at any given time. My neglect is obvious in the disarray of crabgrass and bittersweet, among the less insidious garden thugs.

     This is perfectly indicative of the current state of our humble abode- piles of laundry, blankets of dust, feet sticking to the kitchen floor, cobwebs threatening to ensnare us as we pass through a neglected corner, relationships in need of attention... But first, the garden! (RDW, July 2011)

Ruminations on Being a Parent

      Twenty-five years ago I stood on the rocky coast of Maine, lost in the rhythm of waves crashing along the shoreline and contemplating the imminent birth of my first child.

      I could not have imagined that this day would arrive in the blink of a cosmic eye.

      My pregnancy had been filled with thrilling, scary, idealistic anticipation; the awe of being in love with the child unfolding within my body; the fantasy of fulfilling my dream of motherhood; the satisfaction of believing that all of my experience to date had helped to prepare me to be a “good mother”.

      There is nothing more magical than giving birth to a first child. Those first nights gazing into your newborn's very soul, feeling that you are the only ones on the planet while the rest of your world slumbers and the constellations circle the night sky.

      Having children gave me an opportunity to reconstruct my own childhood experience; to learn forgiveness and humility as I realized and learned to live with the imperfections in my parents and in myself; the priceless gift of once again seeing the world through the eyes of a child; the opportunity to experience that sweet innocence minus the judgment, distorted perceptions and cynicism that are the inevitable by-products of growing up.

      As the years have passed, every moment has been a whole rainbow of feelings; the immensity of the task of being a parent playing itself out day after day after day, with all of its joy and fear and protectiveness and inadequacy and guilt and triumph and frustration and satisfaction and doubt and resentment and pride and enormous indescribable Love.

      In being a mother, I have found myself constantly defining and redefining who I am, and who I hope to be, as an individual, a life partner, a parent; persevering through tough times that, had I not had my children to consider, may have turned out very differently.

      Parenthood has forced me to come to terms with my own fears and shortcomings; to open myself up to the reality that I am not my children, and they are not me; to learn the arts of negotiation and compromise and letting go.

      The miracle continues to blossom forth every day before my very eyes- that tiny bundle of wonder and joy and utter vulnerability evolving into the kind, sensitive, confident, funny, smart, talented men that my children have come to be a quarter of a century later.

      Motherhood has enriched my life and taught me in ways that I couldn't have imagined, and I am so very grateful for the experience. My sons are, without doubt, my greatest teachers. RDW (2-24-11)

Digital Detox Week

     We have all used TV and other digital media to keep the kids (and ourselves) occupied so we can get something accomplished- or just have some peace and quiet. In fact, at times it seems easier to relegate the kids to the television or computer than to deal with the whining involved by restricting screen time.

    There is a whole generation of kids who rely upon some sort of electronic device (tv, computer, Game Boy, Nintendo, IPODs, cell phones) to keep them busy. When these are inaccessible or the privilege has been revoked, the children become lost in boredom.

    I found as my sons were growing up that the more time they spent on the computer, the more argumentative and rude and downright mean they became. With extremely limited screen time, they relied more upon each other for entertainment, which required imagination, cooperation and manners.

      National TV Turnoff Week was launched by Adbusters magazine and other organizations in 1994, in an effort to create awareness of the impact of our reliance on television. In 2008 Adbusters changed the name of TV Turnoff Week to Digital Detox Week to reflect the growing predominance of computers and other digital devices.

     TV is passive,  sedentary and non-experiential. The purpose  of TV-Turnoff/Digital Detox Week is to focus instead on creating, discovering, building, participating and doing.

       Is it possible to survive for an entire week without the tube? Of course!

Decide as a family the types of things you would like to do in the coming week and create the sense that this is going to be a special time- a vacation of sorts, rather than a deprivation.

• Read!

• Get out the art supplies, the sidewalk chalk, the play dough (there are plenty of recipes online.)
• Teach your child to knit or sew, do needlework, or simple carpentry.
• Plan, shop for ingredients, and make your child's favorite dinner together.
• Fill a sink or tub with water for play. Another day, add bubbles.
• Make mud pies!
• Fill a roasting pan with rice (or dried beans if there are no babies around) , and add measuring cups and other utensils for pouring and mixing.
• Put on some lively tunes and dance!
• Teach the kids some card games (Go Fish, Crazy Eights, Old Maid, Solitaire...)
• Play Hide and Seek, Red Rover, Jacks, Chinese Jump Rope, marbles, kick ball...
• Browse the garden catalogs, and plan your garden. Plant seeds together.
• Go to the Rochester Museum of Science or National Museum of Play: these are awesome places with many hands-on activities for children.
• Visit Stonybrook Park, Conesus Inlet, a friend who lives in the country or on a farm.
• Make a list of items found in nature and have a scavenger hunt.
• Put together puzzles.
• Instead of watching a documentary about birds, go out (with binoculars if you have them) and see how many real birds you can identify in your neighborhood.
• Get out old photos and reminisce about when the kids were "little".
• Visit a pet store.
• Play dress up and have a tea party.
• Make a fort or pitch a tent.
• Have a backyard carnival.
• Decorate bikes.
• Hold a neighborhood Olympics.

      The possibilities are endless.

     It is shocking to realize how much we depend on TV, DVD, and computer to keep us occupied. A week without these devices may be what is needed to break the habit of relying on them for entertainment, opening a whole world of possibility and experience- things we have forgotten about, or have yet to discover.

- RDW (2001, revised 2012)