Cribsheet is glad to present another series of essays from Kate Hopper’s “Mother Words” class at the Loft. Check back with us each day this week to read perspectives and insights from brand new to well seasoned mothers. We start out this week with Mother Words instructor, Kate Hopper sharing what she has learned from her classes.

I began teaching “Mother Words” at the Loft Literary Center almost two years because it was a good fit. I was working on a book about the premature birth of my daughter, and I wanted to create a space for other women to write about motherhood. I was also interested in the politics of that kind of writing—how we, as a society, view motherhood literature.

I’m still interested in the politics of writing motherhood, still become incensed when a critic lumps all motherhood literature together into the derogatory categories of “momoir” or “chick lit,” but I’ve realized that teaching “Mother Words” has affected me on a personal level as well an intellectual one. It has changed how I parent and how I think about parenting.

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Alas, all good things must come to an end….here is the final essay from Kate Hopper’s writing class at the Loft Literary Center. This is by Patty Born Selly of Minneapolis. We at Cribsheet are so grateful to Kate and her students for sharing their writing with us…

My daughter Lucy, at 19 months, says fewer than a dozen words clearly.

Although I like to think of myself as a confident, relaxed mother who takes things in stride, I often fall woefully short of that ideal. I’m ashamed to admit I went through a phase recently when I’d try –a little overzealously- to coach Lucy into talking. She’d point, and I’d say something like: “What do you want, honey, can you say, ‘juice?” While reading together, I’d spoil the pleasure by trying to get her to tell me about the pictures: “Come on, say ‘baby’, can you say ‘baby’ ?”  I’d prod.  Lucy would look at me and say “no”, or just move on to some other activity, which didn’t include me. I’d sit there, snubbed, feeling like a jerk.

I like to think I’m immune to the insidious influence of “Popular Parenting Culture, ” but I do partake in parenting-related media. I keep parenting magazines tucked under the bed, as if they were pornography. I surf parenting websites and discussion forums, at night, when my husband is not at home. All of them, it seems, agree that by 18 months “the average child is speaking about 25-30 words clearly.” When I really want to indulge my anxiety, I read further: Delayed language development, I learn, “… can be a sign of something more serious. If your child isn’t speaking at least ten words by the time she is 21 months old, it’s time to see a specialist.”

Stuff like this sends me into a downward spiral: What if she doesn’t talk until she’s 5? What if she’s autistic or has some sort of disorder that is only now beginning to show up? What if something’s wrong with her hearing or her vocal chords?

But what it really comes down to, the bigger question I can finally get to, after the hand-wringing and fretting, is, Why can’t I just relax and let her be?

The truth is, Lucy’s got a better grasp on communication than some adults I know. She is fluent in “baby sign language” and knows how to ask for “more,” “blankey,” and “food.” She says “yes” and “no.” She claps her hands when she wants to hear music. Gets a box of crackers out of the drawer when she’s hungry. Hands me her shoes and jacket when she wants to go outside.

I never wanted to be one of those mothers who kept a mental calendar of milestones, who measured my kid’s development against the “norm.” I want to be easygoing, relaxed, non-judgmental.

I want my daughter to know that her timeline, as it unfolds, is just fine. I want her to know that she is perfect the way she is.

But what I also want, desperately, is to allow myself the space to develop at my own pace. I hold so many expectations and ideals of myself as a mother, many of which I only realize when I come up short. I wish I could stop judging myself so harshly. I wish I could take a lesson from Lucy, a lesson in choosing my words carefully.

You know you’ve been waiting for it…here’s the third student essay from Kate Hopper’s writing class at the Loft Literary Center. This is by Sara Martin of Minneapolis.

Toby isn’t sleeping again. I lie down on his bed, which sits perpendicular to his crib, (we’re in transition) and stick a hand through the crib slats to hold onto his tiny fist.  It is a rough night.

I can tell by the number of comfort objects he has crowded around him. He is, like always, on his belly with two small fleece blankets covering him from the base of his head to his toes.  In his left hand he grasps “small Elmo” by the pot-bellied torso, while “big Elmo” is tucked under that arm. He holds the corners of both blankets in his right hand, with his “Goodnight Moon” board book tucked between his bent arm and ribcage.

Toby joined our family when he was nine months old, and initially we blamed his sleep issues on the thirteen time zone difference between his birthplace of Seoul, South Korea, and our home in Minnesota.  That, along with the heartbreak and anxiety of being torn away from his foster mom, the person he knew as mom for over seven months.  But, while those factors certainly had an impact, we began to realize that Toby is just wired differently than other kids.

Sometimes, this “wiring” produces amazing results—Toby’s awareness of the world around him is unparalleled in other two year olds that I’ve seen.  On our drive home from daycare each day, Toby, as if leading a tour on a double-decker bus, points out every landmark and provides an interesting factoid about it.  “Fish place.  Toby eats fish there, mama.” “Cocoa store.  Cocoa needs to cool down, mama.” “Sled hill.  Toby sleds with Edgar, mama.” “Lake. Harvey swimming.” (That one’s a fib, as our dog has never been swimming in that lake, but Toby always says it with a giggle.)”

While I marvel at all of the gifts that come with my intense little boy, I admit that I struggle with this intensity at times.  There is rigidity to his outlook. Doors, for example, should be closed (except for those doors that remain open; those doors shall remain open). So, when we left a coffee shop where the door was propped open to let in the spring breeze, Toby said in his sternest voice, “close that door mama.”  I told him gently that the coffee shop man wanted the door open.  He responded, “CLOSE. THAT. DOOR. MAMA.” It took all of my strength (and I’m strong) to strap his kicking, flailing, screaming body into the car seat. He screamed the entire five-minute trip home and for forty-five minutes after.

Nothing though, has been more challenging than his sleep issues.  After the first few weeks, when he would only sleep on me, Toby slept in our bed, between us, just like he did with his foster parents.  He woke up often, almost hourly, but immediately went back to sleep with a few seconds of a back rub.  Then came a two-month phase where he would only sleep while being held upright—for naps and at night.  For a while, we followed the advice of friends, family, doctors, and books and did not give in. Toby would cry. I would cry.  My husband, Tim, would sigh loudly. 

I had an epiphany one day as I stood over his crib in tears, asking “why can’t you just sleep” over and over and over.   What was more important?  Me winning this battle over the crib or Toby getting some much needed sleep?  The best parenting advice I ever got was from the book, “Everyday Blessings,” by Jon and Myla Kabat-Zinn: “if something is too hard, maybe the baby is not ready.”  I took that to heart, and we started the “snuggle naps.”  Every day at 10:00 and 1:00, I’d sit in a living room chair and give Toby his bottle.  He’d finish, roll over, and sleep on my chest, his little arms around my neck, and legs straddling my belly.  I read books for two-hour stretches, with the morning or afternoon sun drifting in the windows and my content son, heavy with sleep, on my chest. 

We’ve gotten through it before and I know we will again.  But, the loneliest part about this problem is not being able to talk openly about it. What I need is for people to say, “It’s really hard to have a child who isn’t sleeping.” What I get is: “Why can’t you just let him cry it out?  He’ll learn.” I don’t think so. This is the kid who screamed every second, every second, he was strapped into a car seat for the first six months after he came home.

What we’ve come to realize over the past eighteen months is that Toby’s sleep issues are another manifestation of his intensity. Toby’s personality that makes our skies bluer and grass greener comes with its share of storms.  And, even when I’m most desperate for a good night’s sleep, (like right now at this very moment) I wouldn’t trade his wiring for anything.

This is the second student essay from Kate Hopper’s class at the Loft Literary Center. This is by Lucinda Cummings of Minnetonka.

The front door slams. I hear a sweet, high pitched voice, the kind one uses to greet a baby: “Donald Sutherland! Toontz! Christiane Amanpour! Tonka Trucks McGee!”

These are just some of the nicknames Sam uses to greet our dog, and Rufus responds to all of them, as though he knows it was Sam who lobbied for two years for our family to get a dog.  Rufus bounds into the room, jumps into Sam’s arms, and begins licking his face.

Sam is 13 now, taller than his mother but not yet tall enough to look down at me. He wears sagging cargo shorts, a Johnny Cash t-shirt, and a pair of orange and brown Nikes that came from Australia via E-Bay; he says they are called “Oompa Loompas.” Perched atop his head is a green Chairman Mao hat that he bought in San Francisco; since it is too big, he has attached a black binder clip to cinch up the band in back. 

Samuel David was named for his great-grandfathers, but the name Samuel also means “gift from God.”  Sam is our bonus child, the one who would not be here if it weren’t for infertility technology; the one who was born by emergency C-section after 18 hours of pitocin-induced labor and a partial uterine rupture that sent scorching pain right through my epidural. 

He is the one who has a page all to himself in the obstetrician’s book of worst cases, the one whose development she nervously asked me about at every office visit until he was 10.

Sam is funny, unassuming, and a loyal friend.  He is like so many of his seventh grade classmates, a boy-man, a recent Bar Mitzvah, a kid who still sleeps with his blankies and comes to our bedroom door to say goodnight. When we offer what we think is constructive criticism, Sam grows angry and defensive; when he loses things he needs for school, he is his own harshest critic: “I lose everything!” he howls. He tells me he’s going home with a classmate to work on a social studies project, and later I learn that this is a special classmate, female.  He begins lifting weights, shopping at American Eagle, going to dance parties.

Every night, Sam falls asleep listening to “As It Happens.”  He grieves when the show is temporarily off the air because of a labor dispute, and donates his own money to support Minnesota Public Radio.  He reads Batman comics, TC Boyle, and the New York Times, and fights with his brother over the TV.

When Sam is onstage with his rock band, he tosses his hair and takes on the role of front man.  He jumps into the air, guitar held high, and lands hard on his Converse hightops to punctuate the end of a Matisyahu tune. Lips on the mike, he belts out AC/DC lyrics, then pulls out his harmonica and plays like an old blues guy from Mississippi.  Adults in the audience turn to each other, eyes wide, mouthing, “Oh, my God…” and smiling in admiration and disbelief.

This summer, Sam insists he is old enough to ride his bike down our very busy street to the mall.  As evidence, he presents the fact that all of his friends are allowed to do this, and he will be careful.  All of my arguments about the dangers of this road are met with one declaration: “Mom, it’s time to cut the umbilical cord.”

I am visited again by images of the operating room, my husband’s worried eyes above the surgical mask, the OB sewing up my uterus, Sam across the room with the neonatologist. If  I’m honest with myself, I know I’ve always believed irrationally that Sam is a gift who has brought more joy to my life than I can possibly deserve. That he is here by the narrowest margin, and that he can be gone in the blink of an eye.That I love him with a love that is really impossible, and the flip side of this love is certain loss.

Swallowing my fears, I finally say yes. Sam buckles his helmet on and grabs his bike.  He puts out his arm, hugs me, and gives me one of those rock star smiles before he rides off.

Here’s the first of four essays on motherhood we’re posting by students of Kate Hopper’s Mother Words class at the Loft Literary Center. This one is by Betsy Conway of Edina. 

Today I crave a lot of me time, alone time, time to be myself and do what I want to do.  And I feel bad.  I’m scared I’m too selfish.

I feel bad for wanting to wake up on my own without Ellie walking in at 5:30 in the morning or Lily asking to walk her to the potty.  I feel bad for thinking why can’t I just read the mail without someone tugging at my leg? Why can’t I just lie in bed without someone playing with my hair? It scares me to think that way about my own kids.

But what really scares me is that someday…

Someday their bedroom doors will be shut more often than open and I will not know nor will they want me to know what is going on in there.  Just for today I relish being able to walk into their rooms together, choose books to read from their bookshelves and rifle through drawers picking out an outfit.  Right now the only time their bedroom door is shut is when I have carefully closed it to keep out the nighttime sounds of a reality T.V., a phone ringing or murmured adult conversations.
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Someday they will brush their own teeth, put on their own toothpaste and gaze into the mirror instead of into my eyes.  So it is an honor today to count Ellie’s 10 bottom teeth and ten upper teeth and the lil’ bumps indicating the second year molars are coming in.  I can smell their sweet baby breath and be up close to their chubby cheeks.  I breathe in the mixture of the scents leftover from dinner, their kid toothpaste and outdoor air on their skin.

Someday they will grab a diet coke from the fridge, a handful of chips and run out the door, late for some social event, anxious to be somewhere else with someone else.  Just for today I portion out their food, putting into neat little organized piles of protein, fruit, veggie and starch.  Purple and pink plastic glasses are adorned with a straw for fun and it makes it more enjoyable to drink.

I want to suspend these moments in time.  A time where I am needed, loved unconditionally and I am their source (or we are each other’s source) of happiness, safety, calm and care.

I promise.  I vow.  I will stop rushing through they day, the to do lists, the errands, the chores around the house because there will always be future errands to run, dishes to be washed but there will be less people around to do that with and for.

Be in the moment Betsy.  Go there.  Lose control.  Take out all the toys at once; mix the Fischer Price Little People with the Barbie dolls.  Go nuts and bust out the Polly Pockets and the blocks at-the-same-time.  Scatter paper on purpose, let crayons roll off the table without scurrying to pick them up, have cookie crumbs fall to the floor and leave the Shark vac in the closet.  Lose a puzzle piece but still do the puzzle.  Roll, squish and push playdough and if it doesn’t get put back in its cup let it harden without letting it harden my soul. Get into the bathtub with the girls, make foamy hairy dos out of shampoo and soapy beards, too. 

I’m missing out on the moments and I’m right here. 

Someday-
Is
Today.

And today I will try and just “be”…