Category Archives: Musings

To the Little Girl Who is Afraid of the Ocean

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Cee in HI

A relatively relaxed moment in a calm, protected bay. She didn’t get much closer than this to the water’s edge.

We just got back from a week in Hawaii. It was a great trip and may become a February tradition now that we’re residents of the great and rainy state of Oregon. It was brilliant to escape the lingering wet winter, soak up a little sunshine, and relax together with some of our best friends.

We stayed just a couple of blocks from the beach and went there daily. I had pictured Cee playing in the sand and splashing in the waves. But the minute we stepped foot on the beach, Cee clung to my neck and did not want to be set down. It was yet another lesson in setting aside expectations and meeting my child where she was. And at this point in her life, she isn’t a fan of the beach.

Cee hasn’t spent much time at the beach in her short life, but this wasn’t her first time either. We visited Hawaii when she was 6 months old, and we’ve taken day trips to the Oregon coast a couple of times per year. But all of her previous experiences have been to rather wild coastlines, so she’s only dipped her toes in from the safety of our arms. I admit that we probably didn’t give her much choice about those early encounters. This was really the first time that she’s been able to verbally describe to us how the ocean makes her feel.

“I no like ocean.”

“Feel scared beach.”

“Go home, Mama?”

She’s terrified of the ocean.

And I can’t blame her. The ocean is huge. It’s unpredictable, powerful, and loud. It’s incomprehensible. To a two-year-old who wants to control her environment as much as possible, the ocean is frightening.

I tell her: It’s OK. I’m scared of the ocean, too. It’s OK to feel scared.

But let’s just put our toes in, I tell her. Let’s see how the water and the sand feel on our feet. She nods, though skeptically. I pick her up and we walk towards the surf. A wave approaches and breaks several feet out, and an inch or two of water and foam gently wash over my feet. She grabs me tighter and says directly into my ear, “All done, Mama! All done, Mama! All done, Mama!”

I respect that. I respect a little girl who can look me in the eye, head held high, and tell me she’s afraid. She says this even as children play around us, racing the waves breaking on the shore. I know that I can’t explain away Cee’s fear of something this big.

But I do want to tell her this:

The ocean terrifies me too.

But isn’t it beautiful? I think you’ll see this someday. And when you accept that the ocean is wild and huge, and there’s nothing you can do about that, you might find that it’s calming to watch the waves crash onto the shore from a safe spot further up the beach.

And maybe not today or this week or next year, but someday, you may want to step into this water despite your healthy fear of it. Someday you might want to know just how refreshing it feels to dive into the ocean. You might want to see the wonders of a coral reef through a snorkel mask. You might let go of your current need to control your surroundings and let this wild water push you around a little bit. You might even learn to harness it on a surfboard.

I know that you are a brave girl, whatever you think of the ocean. I’ve watched you climb to precarious perches on our furniture, in trees, and on the playground, but you are careful and calculating as you climb. You are in control of every single move. The ocean is too unpredictable. It doesn’t give you that control, and you can’t calculate the risks.

You may be more of a mountain girl than an ocean girl.

I know, because I am just like you, little girl. I’m afraid of the ocean, too. But I don’t want to let that stop me from experiencing the world.

(Also, there’s this: We have one of those Sleep Sheep that we turn on for white noise at bedtime. It has 4 options for sounds: ocean, rain, babbling brook, and creepy whale/alien songs. We’ve used the ocean option since Cee was a newborn, because I think it is the most calming of the 4. We brought sheepie with us to Hawaii, and on our trip and ever since, Cee has specifically requested the “up-high button” – the top one – at bedtime. That’s the babbling brook. No more ocean.)

A Question of References

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stack of booksI’m working away on my book, but my progress is maddeningly slow. I’m getting hung up on really important questions of scope and tone, and I’m hoping that as I resolve these, the writing will start to come easier.

Here’s an important question that I’m struggling with, and I’d like your advice. How do you like to see references in a non-fiction book?

The writing in my book is like that in my science-based blog posts. I am basing it on lots of references and papers, but I am trying to frame the scientific questions with real-life stories from my experience and that of other parents.

When I submitted my book proposal, the peer reviewers responded that they thought an evidence-based book backed by references would be a unique and helpful resource to new parents. And based on the responses from you, the readers of my blog, I think you value this as well. So providing references and making them accessible to the reader is important to me.

When my editor and I were going over the book contract, the topic of how to handle references came up. Initially, he thought that I should avoid in-text references – either noted by author or by number. That is, he didn’t expect sentences like this made-up one: “In one surprising study, researchers from the University of Amazing found that children were more accepting of new foods when they XXX.57” Instead, he recommended simply providing a list of references, by chapter, at the end of the book, without necessarily linking each reference to the text describing it. After some discussion, he said he was open to me using in-text citations, but I also agreed to give some thought to different options.

I’m actually really uncomfortable writing about science without in-text citations. I’m used to science writing where you provide a reference for just about every single statement you make. That’s how I learned to write for scientific papers, and on the blog, I’ve continued with this style without much thought. In this style, I’m saying, “Don’t take my word for it – this is coming from these scientists who researched the question.” I’m not writing this book from a place of authority but rather from one of curiosity. I’m not claiming to be an expert with all the answers but rather a person who has questions and is willing to dig for the answers. And as a reader, I like being able to flip to the reference list at the end of the chapter or the back of the book and see the authors, title, year, and journal where a particular study was published.

I think that the argument against in-text references is that they are distracting from the narrative. I do think that references providing names and dates can be distracting, but I personally think that superscript numbers can do the trick without taking away from the story. Even so, I understand the point that the story needs to stand on its own even if the reader never checks references. Perhaps not providing in-text references would force me to be more selective about the references I choose and to build the story of a particular study more fully. And it might make the book feel more accessible to a reader not accustomed to this style.

I also admit that my resistance to writing without in-text references comes in part from my hesitancy to step outside my comfort zone. It could be that references are a sort of crutch to me, and that my writing would improve without them if I was willing to work on this.

Going through the books on my shelf right now (those that relate to parenting and science but are written for a lay audience), I see a few different ways of handling this question.

1. A “Notes” section – without in-text markers – followed by a bibliography with full citations. Examples of this format:

NurtureShock, by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman, is a really excellent book that makes science come alive within an easy narrative. I really admire this book, so I paid close attention to this format. There are no in-text references or footnotes. Important studies are described in detail, and sometimes the journal and year of publication are given within the text. A Notes section at the end of the book provides references backing assertions within the chapter. These are not marked within the chapter, but if you were reading along and wondering what evidence stood behind a particular statement, you might find a paragraph in the Notes describing and listing several studies by author and date. You could then proceed to the “Selected Sources and References” at the back of the book listing full citations by chapter. Finding the papers behind a given statement in the chapter thus requires a two-step process – checking first the notes and then the reference list. But the text of this book flows so easily that you want to keep reading, not check references. I think that’s a good thing.

The Panic Virus by Seth Mnookin, another book that I admire for its sound science and gripping narrative. The notes and bibliography of this book are nearly 100 pages long. Notes are not marked in the text but are listed by page number in the Notes section.

How Eskimos Keep Their Babies Warm by Mei-Ling Hopgood – (I reviewed this book here.) Notes are listed by page number, and it also includes a bibliography.

2. A “Notes” section – with superscript numbers as in-text markers – followed by a bibliography with full citations. Examples of this format:

Bottled Up by Suzanne Barston – Gosh, I’ve been meaning to write about this book, but I’m afraid I need to reread it first since now its been too long. Great book, though.

Bringing Up Bebe by Pamela Druckerman – There’s more science in this book than meets the eye.

Your Baby’s Best Shot by Stacy Mintzer Herlihy and E. Allison Hagood

3. Just one reference list at the end of the book, with in-text markers for sources.

The Science of Parenting, by Margot Sunderland. I also paid close attention to this book since my book may be competing in a similar market, and there are things that I both like and dislike about this book. Sunderland doesn’t tell us much about the studies she cites but instead uses them to back narrative text providing advice to parents. In this case, I really appreciate the in-text citations, because sometimes I’ve tracked down her references and found that she’s stretched the interpretation of a study and made a few conceptual leaps to link it to her statement. I think this illustrates one danger of in-text citations. It gives the look of authority, but perhaps it also allows the author to take more liberties with her interpretation, because she doesn’t actually have to tell you much about the studies backing her statement. If you’re wondering, you can go look it up, but many readers won’t have the time or resources to do this.

The Fourth Trimester by Susan Brink: I just received a review copy of this book and haven’t yet read it. In-text citations are given as superscript numbers, and all references (including interviews and correspondence) are given in one “Notes” section.

4. No in-text citations and one reference list available. This style seems to be adopted mostly by experts in their fields, who likely feel comfortable giving advice without backing it with research. (This isn’t me!)

Child of Mine by Ellyn Satter – This is my favorite guide to feeding children, and it is evidence-based to boot. She also has many appendices on important topics (like “Nutritional Principles for Baby Formula” and “Children and Food Acceptance: The Research”), written in more technical language and really geared for the parent who wants to know more about the research behind her recommendations.

Beyond Baby Talk by Kenn Apel and July Masterson – (I reviewed this book here.)

Brain Rules for Baby by John Medina – no printed references in the book, but a note on a single page at the back of the book refers the reader to a website that provides “extensive, notated references.”

Do Chocolate Lovers Have Sweeter Babies? By Jena Pincott – (I reviewed this book here.) One section at end has “Sources” listed by chapter.

Maybe you can help me figure out how to handle references. Can you check some of your favorite science books to see how they do it? What style do you prefer? Do you even check references when you’re reading a book like this?

Mama, Talk Busy Day?

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Cee was sick about a month ago – sick in a flu-sort of way with fever, cough, stuffy nose, and general misery. We threw our regular sleep routines out the window. There was a lot of back rubbing and singing to help her to sleep and more of the same when she woke burning with fever during the night, needing some reassurance from Mama or Daddy and another dose of ibuprofen.

Once she was better, Cee had a bit of a hard time transitioning back to our regular routine of books, song, and goodnight. She said, “Mama, lie down?” wanting me to stay with her until she fell asleep. I couldn’t get into that habit.  I had humored her a few times, and I knew how it went. I would lay down next to her until her breathing slowed and she was still, but I’d still be afraid to budge for another 20 minutes to be sure she was in a deep sleep. By that time, I would either fall asleep myself or at the very least have lost all motivation to do anything productive for the rest of the night. Plus, I hate the sneaking out thing. It makes me feel like I’m not being honest with her. Cee knows how to go to sleep on her own.

mama and ceeInstead, I stayed with her for a few extra minutes. I held her hand and talked quietly about her day, full of friends at daycare, walks outside, time with mommy and daddy, meals, bath, books, and all the regular mundane things we do together. It was a busy day, I told her, and tomorrow would be another busy day. Time to rest, little girl. Night night. I kissed first one hand and then the other and then her forehead, now thankfully cool now since the fever was gone. It was a good bedtime. She fell asleep, and I got to work.

The next night, as I was kissing her goodnight, she said, “Mama, lie down?”

“No,” I said, “I’m not going to lie down with you. I need to go work upstairs.” (She actually accepts this response. It seems to make sense to her.)

She had another idea.

“Mama, talk busy day?”

And so began our new bedtime tradition. It’s Cee’s favorite part of bedtime now, and mine too. She asks for it with anticipation every night. When Husband is home at bedtime, he shares in it as well. We snuggle together in a Cee sandwich and recall the day.

I love going back through the day with Cee. She often tells us little details about her morning at daycare, and Husband and I remind her of special moments that we shared together – all the funny, sad, joyful, painful, delicious, creative, and scary ones. In this quiet space, little bits of the day come to light that might otherwise be lost in the rush of getting from here to there. After we say goodnight and leave the room, I often listen over the monitor as Cee runs through her own busy day monologue, telling her baby dolls all about it, until her voice fades to quiet.

These days, I feel like I can never get enough done. But snuggling with Cee at the end of the day and talking “busy day” puts things in perspective. It is like pulling special stones and shells from our pockets at the end of a day on the beach. We lay them out so we can see each one. We polish the bright spots and examine the dark crevices we hadn’t noticed when we first picked them up. Remember? This is the one that was almost washed away by a wave; I grabbed it just in time. Remember this one? It was the bridge to our sand castle. The castle is gone, but let’s keep this shell, OK? And this one? I noticed it because it looks like a heart. It will remind me of you.

Our lives are filled to the brim with little moments, so many that it is hard to do much besides move from one moment to the next. But if I worry that there is too much left to do at the end of my busy day, Cee’s little hand in mine reminds me of this: Of all the busy things we do, what could be more important for caring for the ones we love?

The Courage to Try

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I am tackling my book project, and I’m struggling. Like all of you, I’m juggling a few things right now. I’m parenting a toddler, teaching a few college courses, maintaining a home, nurturing a marriage, blogging (OK, barely), and trying to take care of myself. And writing a book. Some of those things seem to rise to the top of my priority list every day, and others always seem to be lingering at the bottom, which invariably means that they either don’t get done or they don’t get done well. Working on my book is one of the things that keep ending up at that bottom, not seeming to be as important as my other responsibilities. I know that if I’m going to write this book and write it well, that has to change.

It isn’t just about finding time and keeping a lot of balls in the air, though. It is also about fear. It is the fear that I can’t write the book I want to write. I don’t even really care if anybody reads it. What I care about most is that it is good and that at the end of this process I am proud of it. And I’m afraid of all the hard work that I know is between here and there. It isn’t just punching a clock and meeting deadlines. It is about the labor of thinking and synthesizing and storytelling. I know that it requires my full attention and energy for at least some portion of every day. The scale of the project scares me.

Husband tells me: “You only get one chance to write your first book.” I’m so afraid that it won’t be any good that I sit and stare at the screen or go and fold a load of laundry instead, neither of which will bring me closer to a book.

In light of all of this fear, I was inspired the other day by an interview with Ben Affleck on NPR’s Fresh Air. Terri Gross asked Affleck about his experience with directing his first movie, Gone Baby Gone, and this is what he had to say: Continue reading →

Recovery

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I wrote my last blog post before going in for a D&C last Friday. The procedure itself was simple and quick. I “fell asleep” with the warm hand of my OB holding mine and woke up from general anesthesia feeling an inevitable emptiness but some degree of peace. At home, I ate a piece of toast, crawled into my own bed and woke up four hours later. What greeted me were your comments and emails of sympathy, empathy, and heart. There were a lot of them, some from people I have known for decades and some from readers that I had never heard from before, but I read every single one before I got up to face the afternoon.

The resounding message was this: You are not alone.

I was nervous about writing about miscarriage, but once it was out there, I felt nothing but support. It made me wonder why we hesitate to share this kind of hurt. It is personal, and it does seem strange to tell the whole world that I’m grieving. But the world is full of hurt. What’s wonderful is that so many people are willing to share a bit of mine – even the smallest bit – and enough people doing that really does make me feel better. I didn’t anticipate that writing about miscarriage here would be so therapeutic. The writing itself is actually sort of painful, in a good way I guess, but sharing the experience has been healing. Continue reading →

Pregnancy Lost

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It has been a hard couple of weeks for me, even with all the warmth and joy of the holidays. On December 21, 10 weeks into pregnancy (as yet unannounced here), we watched as my OB scanned my uterus. We saw the dark gestational sac and a small clump of embryonic tissue. There was no heartbeat, and the embryo measured at about 5 weeks. It hadn’t developed beyond that. This pregnancy would not be ending with a baby.

I’m a very cautious person when it comes to celebrating pregnancy. I didn’t really relax into my pregnancy with Cee until I saw the normal fetus at our 20-week ultrasound. I have had several close friends suffer the loss of miscarriage (and go on to have beautiful, healthy babies, I will add). I know that among clinically recognizable pregnancies (not counting the 30-50% of conceptions that never implant), about 15-20% will not survive. Even as I shared our pregnancy news with our close family and friends, I reminded them of this fact.

Although a part of me was prepared for this outcome, there was really no way that I could prepare myself for how it would feel. I have a profound sense of losing something important. Tiny as it may have been, it was part of me and part of Husband, and it was growing inside of me, if only for a short time. The wonder of pregnancy has been replaced with the vision of that ultrasound: the gestational sac a gaping dark hole, what remains of the embryo little more than a smear. Empty, dead, inevitably transient.

This is the grief of pregnancy loss, something so many of us must face as we try to build our families. What it speaks to, more than anything, is the power of a parent’s love, even for an embryo whose heart never beats. For many parents, it is the struggle to conceive, and after that, it is the fragility of human life. And even as our healthy babies become children and our love grows beyond the bounds of what we thought was possible, we know we are vulnerable to loss. It is the reason that it felt unbearable to be a mother on the day of the Newtown school shooting. This is family. This miscarriage, it is a small loss, but it still sure hurts. Continue reading →

Weaning My Toddler

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So, I have some more big news to catch you up on. I weaned Cee a few weeks ago, soon after her second birthday. I took a few notes along the way, but I never pulled it together to post on the blog about it. I thought I’d share some of those notes here and reflect back on our experience.

Cee may be weaned, but she still nurses her own baby all the time.

Cee may be weaned, but she still nurses her own baby all the time.

11/24/12

Tonight, I nursed my baby girl for the last time. She’s not so much of a baby anymore. She turned two last week. But I savored the feeling of her curled into my arms. I noticed how her long eyelashes cast a shadow across her cheeks and how soft her face looked, the tension of the day melted away.

I remembered nursing her in those early days, when her eyelids were still translucent, tiny blood vessels visible. I remembered how she would be frantic to nurse one second and peaceful the next, her little hand clasped in a fist, resting on the top of my breast.

Cee and I started talking about weaning a few weeks ago. We usually read books while we nurse, and lately I’d noticed that she was so enthralled with the books that she could hardly nurse. I’d turn a page, and she would break her latch to look closer at a picture, pointing something out to me. We were going through the motions because we always had, but nursing didn’t feel that important to either of us anymore. It felt like it was time to make this change.

We had been down to nursing just at naptime and bedtime since the summer. We dropped the naptime feeding first. All fall, Cee had gone down just fine without me and my milk at daycare and with Husband, and there were only a couple of days of brief protest over this change.

Down to just nursing at bedtime, Cee and I talked about how Mama didn’t have very much milk anymore. We talked about how babies (like our friends’ 3-month-old) need a lot of milk, but kids like Cee eat lots of good food and can drink their milk in a cup. We talked about how we love snuggling and nursing, too. I guess I wanted a chance for us both to appreciate our final days of nursing.

A couple of days ago, Cee watched me as I undressed for a shower. She pointed at my naked breasts and said, “Milk?” Continue reading →

I’m Writing a Book!

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I have always wanted to be a writer, long before I thought about going into science. I have a stack of journals going back to when I was nine-years-old, wire-bound notebooks with frayed covers. They are each carefully titled: My Writing: Volume 4, Written and Illustrated by Alice Sawyer Green. The writing inside is rich with details of a childhood, tedious as they are: school cancelled for snow, play practice, baking cookies, skating in sneakers on our frozen creek, and a record of state license plates spotted on road trips. But it is there, documented. I’ve been doing this for a long time. And yet, I can’t bring myself to say that I’m a writer.

When I was a senior in high school, I started learning the violin in a group class. Those first few scales played on the violin are as awkward as a nine-year-old’s writing. They are hesitant and careful and yet somehow so loud. It’s impossible to be subtle when you’re learning to play a new instrument. You have to screw up repeatedly before the notes become music.

I loved playing the violin, though. I worked hard at it, practicing for at least an hour per day, and not because anyone told me I had to but simply because I wanted to be better. But still, I never would have called myself a violinist. Or a musician. And indeed, with that attitude, I never would be a violinist. In college, I went through phases of playing through the simple tunes I learned in high school, but I never took lessons again. I stopped learning.

Looking back, I was scared of all the loud, off-key screeching that lay between being a beginner and becoming competent in music. And it was impossible for me to not compare myself to the other musicians at my school. It seemed that they had all been playing for at least a decade, and the skill they had acquired through all those years of practice seemed unreachable to me. Now that I’ve been alive for a few of them, I realize that a decade isn’t really that long. Time is ticking away on the next one. In the end, I’m not (yet) a violinist not because I didn’t start at a young enough age, but because I stopped playing the violin.

If I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I’ve been writing down my stories since I was a little girl, what is stopping me? Is it the knowledge that any chance of being good at writing will require countless hours and years of work? Is it the certainty that along the way I will produce bad writing? Is it the fear that I might not ever be very good at it?

My two-year-old Cee would never learn to dress herself if she had that kind of attitude. And we’d miss out on all the maddening and enlightening moments in which she insists on trying to put her shirt on upside down or two legs in one pant leg.

So. Deep breath. Here we go. In this decade, I will become a writer. I’ll probably be playing off-key without knowing it, and I might walk out in public with my pants on backwards once or twice. But how else will I learn? Continue reading →

Dear Cee: Celebrating the Two-Year-Old You

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IMG_4158A much belated letter to Cee, in honor of her 2nd birthday. I swear I started this just a day or two after her birthday, but that was several weeks back. I’m just beginning to catch up on things as I’m winding down the college teaching term.

Dear Cee,

You are two. Can you believe it?

Of course you can. You are two, and you just are. You may not remember, as I do, what it was like when we met for the first time. (What’s funny to me, thinking back to that day, is that it seemed you already know me. It took me some time to get to know you.) You may not remember those early days of infancy, two years ago, when you and I both had to work hard just to communicate with each other, just to begin to speak the same language. You may not remember those days, but they are at the foundation of who you are and who we are together: mother and daughter.

I remember those days well. Thinking of them, I can’t help but be amazed at how much we’ve both grown. Your growth is obvious, mine subtler.

But I’m struggling with how to describe the changes in you, now that you are two. It is tempting to say something like, “You’re like a real person now!” or “Finally we can actually communicate.” But of course, you’ve been a real person from the start, and we’ve been communicating since then, too. That leaves me wondering: what is really significant about being two? Continue reading →

Almost Two, Strong-willed, and Sweet Through and Through

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If you’ve followed my spotty blog posts this fall, you may have gotten the feeling that parenting has been a struggle for me lately.  You would be right.

We had a super-smooth transition to part-time daycare. That continues to go well, and I’m completely happy with and confident in our care provider and her assistants. I am SO thankful for this.

But last week, I posted on Facebook that I felt like I was bringing out the worst in my daughter. I know, that’s a horrible sentiment. It’s just that her other caregivers – her daycare providers and her dad – just raved about how much fun they were having with her and how easy-going she was. But when we spent time together, I felt like I was trudging (blindly) through an endless storm of tantrums and tears. I have tried not to take it personally and tried to remain patient with her. And I’ve tried to stay positive, because we’ve had some good times together, too.

But yesterday, we had a near perfect day together. I saw in my daughter what everyone else has been saying about her. She was independent and creative, silly and serious. She marched around the house busying herself with projects. She brought things to show me, and we explored them together. She put together her train set. She choo-chooed! She sang songs quietly to herself and then loudly with me. Best of all, she read books – lots of them. I’m guessing she spent an hour reading on her own yesterday. No, I cannot be happier or more proud about this.

While I showered, Cee brought books into the bathroom, one at a time. She sat on her stool and flipped through the pages, giving her toddler-condensed version of the story. I heard from the shower:

“Mama. Yama. Mama. Yama. Mama? Yama Mama? Yama!”

(Surely you recognize this story! It’s one of my favorites: Is Your Mama a Llama by Deborah Guarino.)

Closing the book, she pronounced, “Tee En!” Then she marched back to her room for the 17th book she would read during the course of my shower.

Reading another of our favorites: Eating the Alphabet by Lois Ehlert. Fabulous book celebrating the beauty and colors of fresh produce. Here, Cee is excited to identify “CORN!”

Thank you, Cee, for letting me see the very best of you this week.

Cee will be two a week from today. I know that the next year will bring lots more rough patches. I know. But I’m feeling confident and ready for the coming year. We’ll weather the rough patches, and we’ll celebrate all the sweetness of life, together.