The Joys of Mediocrity

Having just finished Mary Pipher's (of "Reviving Ophelia" fame) book "Seeking Peace," I can absolutely recommend it to make you feel better about the ordinary mediocrity of your own life and successes. And not to talk about you, but it sure made me feel better about me--or more than better, grateful and relieved that my first novel didn't bring me incredible wealth, an interview with Oprah, or a cross-country book trip with adoring fans throwing themselves at me.

Yes, riches and fame can be a very bad thing as Pipher points out. Can't recommend the book highly enough for that reason. There's nothing like been thankful for life as it is. Byron Katie teaches that when you don't get what you want, you ought to say: "I've been spared." We don't know from what--or sometimes we do. In either case, sometimes not getting what we imagined would be best is the true blessing.

And to hear it from Pipher, whose book is subtitled "Chronicles of the Worst Buddhist in the World," wealth and celebrity suck. Better a small life. That's what we're enjoying here as the season changes, one green leaf becoming red at a time, the last tomatoes to pick, and the almost here-ness of baby number three, who won't bring me any money or fans (and who will probably make me very tired, right, even more tired than I am sleeping nine months pregnant), but who is still, and very much, what we here have wanted, some of us for a long time (me) and some of us only more recently converted to the idea of a "bigger" (I don't know when three kids become big, but it has) family (my very cool husband who swore he only wanted two until he changed his mind and decided out of love for me and the children we already have that I could have my bonus kid). In the end, I'd rather have children than fame, and when I think of the higher hopes I had for my novel, I get to remind myself where the real riches are without having to go through the trouble Mary Pipher dealt with to get there.

If you're at all feeling poor, in any way, the book may well make you feel richer and it's a quick, easy read.

Ah, The Triumph

Having returned from our grand overseas vacation, six whole weeks on the sunny island of England (no irony there, actually, as it only rained three days and we went to the beach several times a week and got TANS), I can finally relax into preparation mode for baby number three--closet reorganizing, furniture shopping and listening assiduously to my hypnobirthing CD.

Well, relax is a relative term. After the birth of my daughter, more than two years ago, the universe delivered me some growth opportunities (um, yes, irony there), in the form of one debilitating case of anxiety, a popular malady in my family, but one I had gratefully been relieved of having in heavy doses--until then.

After two years of what I think of as particularly funny post-partum woe (much harder to laugh at your own post partum depression, but the post partum anxiety? Waking your husband at three in the morning convinced you're having a heart attack (heartburn)? Now that stuff is very funny. In fact, I have a whole routine worked up that someday, I'm sure, I'll be able to perform to large masses of women in huge theaters around the globe. But anyway, I digress), I had to face my ultimate phobia, flying on a plane. I have flown on many planes over the course of my life. I flew frequently between my two divorced parents as a child and for pleasure as a teenager and adventure in my twenties, but over time grew more and more afraid of it.

It would be hard to underestimate the sense of bravery I felt once I'd clicked my seat belt for our flight to London. To even sit there, going on a trip that was almost entirely for my husband, and therefor lacking any personal motivation, six months pregnant, with a four and a two year old, so frightened my knee caps were shaking, drew to mind Eleanor Roosevelt's famous quote: "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." Well, I did. And I'm better for it.

The truth is, I have called upon the same thing over the years of my life when in trouble or pain or fear, and I did it again as I've worked with healing from this post partum anxiety. My spiritual practice has sustained me, even when I have felt it ebb almost completely away. There is no doubt in my mind that God, as I understand God, got me on that plane and delivered me safely back. Now as to the matter of how I understand God...

That's a much longer and undoubtedly more boring post. I just wanted to send a word out to all the mamas who endure the same anxious days and nights, often in the first few years after children come along, that you are not alone--in any way--and peace is more possible than we even know--if we believe. Well, I believe, anyway. Sometimes with each breath I've got to believe again for the first time. Which is a good practice, entirely like motherhood, beginning again every time you think of it, to be more like the mother you'd like to be, courageous and kind.

Is It Just Me?

So your husband takes you on a lovely English vacation with trips to London, to see castles and for cream teas, and all you care about is: a) where the nearest toilet is b) the source of your next meal c) when the children will go to sleep so you can go to sleep and d) where you can put your feet up.

I'm sure some more sophisticated, interesting human being would care about more than these four things. Alas, I am not that person. Something about pregnancy, inparticular third trimester (although morning sick first trimester too), reduces my interests to two simple things: rest and food. Am I the only one to feel this way? Is it hormonal? I have been, for most of my life, more in love with my backyard than any foreign country. What wanderlust I had got spent in my early twenties traveling across the country. I've always felt that Americans should see more of their own homeland before they ventured off to Paris and Italy and when asked--recently by my husband--if I'd like a day trip to Paris, I merely shrugged. (Thinking: No, I'd like to have a few hours by myself to sort the children's clothing and make room in our tiny house for a third baby. Actually.)

More than being a homebody, I've become more sure over time that whatever is over there, wherever there may be, is probably not much better than what's over here. In fact, despite not being totally in love with my current home town, I have been known to head over to the town beach, take a swim, and return home saying, "There is no more beautiful place on earth than here." I feel that about where I live.

Of course, England has some amazing hedges. I've been on the hedge tour. Every now and then you can peak through them to see the views. But I'm hardly a good travel guide with my hot, swollen, feet and my lusty cravings for a mattress and a good pillow. I would like to know if any "hard" research has been done on the travel habits of the pregnant female. I'd venture to guess that most of them are keen to nest and wait a few years on the Eiffel Tower trip. Anyone got studies to back me up?

Go TO Sleep!

Now that I have had the opportunity to witness first hand the long-term (and short-term) effects of cumulative sleep loss in the persons of my two very tired children who on average have lost between 2-3 hours of sleep a night over this vacation, I can personally affirm the research I've read and believed all along. Children must sleep. They must sleep a lot.

I have a son who, since infancy, has done best with tons of sleep. Most recently, twelve hours at night and a good hour nap, sometimes two hours. My daughter's natural appetite is somewhat less, as she tends to be need about 11 to 1.5 and a similar nap (and at 20 months younger).

But the fascinating chapter from Nurture Shock (a book I highly recommend) on the correlation between mood disorders, IQ and obesity (to name a few) with sleep loss in children coupled with seeing my two so compromised, makes me feel even more fervently that we should all, well, go to sleep! For longer.

I've been known to say, jokingly, that all the world's problems would be solved if we could all get a good night's sleep. Apparently, I have been right.

In my parenthood, I've been determined to uphold night time and nap time. Two books that I worked with, The No Cry Sleep Solution, and Healthy Child, Healthy Sleep Habits, educated me about the critical sleep need for infants and toddlers (while also making me feel better about my own sleep habits and why I feel so cranky when I don't get enough). I can't recommend them enough. And for mothers who are having trouble with their young children, maybe more sleep is the answer--or an earlier bedtime, or more incentive for a mid-day nap.

There are so many worthwhile statements in Nurture Shock, I don't have time to record them but leave you with this thought: "Sleep is a biological imperative for every species on earth. But humans alone try to resist its pull. Instead, we see sleep not as a physical need but a statement of character. It's considered a sign of weakness to admit fatigue--and it's a sign of strength to refuse to succumb to slumber."

Long live the truly strong among us, who, like myself, are keen to admit their fatigue!!

Travels with Children

Since I've gone out of my way to complain about my traveling woes, I'd like to spend some quality blogging time detailing some of the more lovely aspects of being abroad with my just four and two year-old.

Or perhaps you can think of these as pointers. If you plan to hike/walk with children along the many public footpaths in England definitely do bring chocolate and candies so that you can, in Pavlovian fashion, train your children to continue to walk by feeding them. Do not, however, bring along your stroller. It will not fit over, around or through. Anything.

Some might believe that there is no good food in England. This is not so. We have enjoyed a number of culinary products, chief among them: cheese. No food is enjoyed more by my two children, my eldest in particular. However, like most indulgences, it has its down side. "Sweetie, can you say constipation?" Some of the other foods we have loved: milk chocolate by Cadbury (nothing like the way it's made in the states), fresh peas in a pod, every kind of berry, grown here locally in Kent, carrots and broccoli (even the brown broccoli tastes good), beer (I'm not drinking but my husband claims it's excellent), and bread. You can buy delicious bread here from the grocery store for the equivalent of less than two American dollars. Amazing.

Finally, there is the wee issue of translation. As my husband instructed me on the plane over, do not ask for a napkin when you want to wipe your hands or they'll give you a maxi-pad. (Apparently the word "napkin" is coming into favor more, which I appreciate, since I felt silly asking for a serviette.) If an old man approaches you and says, "Hello, love," he's not a pervert, he's merely British. My son was asked the other day by a school age child, "Do you speak English?" Clearly we don't. In this country, your backyard is your garden. The mailbox is the postbox. The garbage can is the dustbin. And that diaper, it's a nappy. I have, on occasion, resorted to baby sign language (the only kind I know), with sales clerks in the hopes of conveying my meaning.

There is one thing I have noticed the English do very well. Strollers. They are so sexy, so fantastic, so stylish, I may well pay to bring one home. They have these cute little umbrellas that attach and old-fashioned style pram tops with jog-stroller type wheels. Luckily, I am having another baby or how else could I justify such an indulgence? I will buy one, load it up with cheese and chocolate, and bring it home.

Bad Lit, Good Chick? Or Bad Chick, Good Lit?

I read an interesting review of my novel the other day, picked up by my Google notifier that tells me anytime anyone mentions my book (so be careful!!). It was a fine review, but one part of it struck me. The author wrote about how, since she was happy with her husband during her child's first year of life, she couldn't identify with the protagonist in my book. Because of this, she didn't love the book.

Now what fascinates me is the criteria for judging books among the chick-class. We decide whether or not we like a novel based on whether or not we can directly identify with the main character. As someone who reads voraciously, who spent four years getting a higher education in English, I can assure you that I have loved many novel with a nasty protagonist I could not imagine myself into.

With all serious literature (and much of men's fiction), there is no need to read only what you can directly relate to as if it were one's own life. Why the limitation among women?

I've had countless women who have NO children tell me how much they liked my book. Is it possible that while many people read novels about life in Iraq or Italy, people who live in Ohio or Utah, that while many women read novels with male main characters, and many men read novels with female main characters (in fact one of my friend's husbands stayed up until one in the morning because he couldn't put my book down, yes, my book about a new mother), that CHICKS who read lit are so limited by their own experience they can't judge a book if they aren't the main character themselves?

Because where does that leave Shakespeare and Milton and Grisham, for that matter? Oh, I think chicks may be able to do better, stretch themselves out. After all, I'm a chick and I just finished a book about a Buddhist man. It was very funny. If you're feeling like a Buddhist man, you may even enjoy it: Breakfast with Buddha.

Interview with Self

Enquiring minds want to know: what's the hardest part of being nearly seven months pregnant and in England with two young children?

You want to know what it's like? You want to KNOW, is that it? In the first place, I'd like to take a deep breath and do a sun salutation but in the place we're staying but the ceilings are too low to raise your arms up over your head. And while my dear offspring have yet to settle into a rhythm after these weeks, and still are getting up at seven and not falling asleep until nine and only occasionally nap and then usually in the car, and when I have to sit with them in the car while they nap the sweat drips down my back and pools near my bottom, this is not the hardest part.

Here's the hardest part: I adore them. I love to mother them. I love to feel like I'm doing a good job--and to see them reflect this. Alas, on this trip I have felt like screaming: THESE NASTY BEASTS DON'T BELONG TO ME. In particular this is true of my son who has taking to either hitting me when I demand he do something, or threatening to hit me, usually in the neighborhood of twenty-seven times. Yes, please tell me this is a phase.<

Okay, enough with your complaining. What's the best part?

Good question. Maybe the times I've walked down the high street (what they call the main street with all the shops) in a town near us called Whitstable where there still exists a baker, a butcher, a cheese shop, a veggie/fruit store, a fish market, and a sweets store. It reminds me of the sweetness and simplicity of how life may have been in the way long ago...and also could still may, may still be in the future. And too there have been a few truly joyful moments with the children, when yesterday my boy got on a big jumping pillow at this adventure playground and tears came to my eyes at the sight of his pleasure. You know it hurts my heart to feel so distant from them--to be the disciplinarian so ceaselessly. Now that's the hardest part.

Well, no one asked you to be so serious.

You're right. The hardest part is the cheese. Cheese at every meal. Cheese every day for lunch. Don't make me explain why this is hard.
On the other hand, the best part is the cheese. Cheese at every meal. Cheese every day for lunch. Tasty cheese.