Blog Her Book Club: The Artist's Toolkit

Recently I was given the opportunity to review TheArtist’s Toolkit.  Especially because I’ve been in such a writing slump lately, I jumped at the chance to try out this subscription service in the hopes that it would help me get my creative mojo back.

The website is based on Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way and is essentially an online private journal meant to accompany the book. The basic method it proposes is that every morning you write 3 longhand pages of brain dump, which she calls “Morning Pages.”  Once a week you also go on what she refers to as a “Writer’s Date,” where you go out into the world and experience something new, to invite your creativity to flourish.

To be honest, I was a little disappointed.  The basic method, particularly the idea of morning pages, is great.  I’ve used similar techniques at various times in my life and when I write longhand in my journal, without worrying about whether it is “good” or “real writing,” I always feel better.  But as for the rest of the website, I found it to be a little lacking.  I suppose I was hoping for a little more direct instruction or guidance, and instead for the most part the site offered only the most basic of affirmations and prompts.  The weekly dates and exercises suggested seemed to offer promise, but somehow they never really meshed with the way I think and write.

I suppose the real value in the website is the accountability it includes; anything that will keep me honest about writing in my journal is definitely helpful.  The site offers space to complete all the writing exercises, as well as space for a daily journal and notes.  However, Cameron is insistent that your morning pages still be done longhand, and I agree with this.  There is something about writing longhand that makes my writing more concrete and real.  Because of this, though, I really couldn’t find a practical use for me for the online journal space.

For people who frequently journal on a computer or a smart phone, I guess this website could be helpful.  I did appreciate the slight kick in the pants to start writing again, but for me I could have used a little more handholding. 

Disclosure:  This was a paid review for BlogHer Book Club.  I received a free subscription to the Artist’s Way and was compensated for my review.  All opinions are my own.

On weaning

My 20 month old Baby Girl and I have been done breastfeeding for a few weeks now.

I haven't really wanted to talk about it.

I'm not sure why exactly.  I really do feel okay about the decision and about the way it happened.  I really don't think my beautiful readers friends will judge me or criticize me for weaning her. I just haven't been ready to put myself out there about this because I am afraid it will draw controversy, and for me nothing about this was political.  Every ounce of it was personal, and it was between me and my daughter and no one else.

I want to say I'm proud for making it to 19 months, for going as long as I did, but honestly I think that's going a little far. I don't think my choices are any more admirable or honorable than anyone else's, and if I get to this point again I can't say I'll necessarily do things the same way again.  The best I can say is that it is what I did, and I have no regrets, and Baby Girl and I turned out just fine.

In truth, I never really intended to nurse as long as I did.  Everyone told me to nurse on demand for the first year, and so I did.  And then we hit a year, and I said "Okay, now what do I do?"

And everyone kind of looked at me and said "Well, whatever do you mean?"

You either keep going, or you stop.

Oh.

BG loved breastfeeding. It was pretty much her favorite activity. And well into her second year, she was tugging at my shirt at least 10 times a day.  When she learned to sign, her little cupped hand was asking for milk almost every time I looked at her.  Dang it, whose idea was it to teach her that sign anyway?

If I'm being honest, which is my intention, there were times I couldn't stand it. I resented it a little.  If I have any regrets at all, it's that I let myself continue to nurse in a way that made me annoyed at my baby for longer than I should have.  Because when they say "for as long as it's working for both mom and baby," well, the mom is an important part of that.

But at the same time, I still did love nursing her.  Maybe not quite  as often as she enjoyed it, but it was something that for me was worth continuing.

And then, when I was ready to night wean, I did.  It wasn't easy.  Several times I tried, and declared that I couldn't.  Looking back, I just don't think I was really ready or interested because boy, when I was ready, I just did it.

And then, when I couldn't stand being mommy on demand, I started telling her "not right now."  For a while, that was met with tantrums.  Then not.  She still asked from time to time, and you can't blame a girl for trying, but I'd just tell her no, and she'd move on.

And then one day she woke up in the morning and when she said "milk," I said "neh, let's just cuddle."  And she seemed okay with that, so we did.

And then one night at bedtime, I said "let's not do that tonight."  And we read an extra book.  And she didn't cry.  And then we were done.

Am I sad about it?  A little.  But at the same time, I was ready.  Really ready.  Is she sad about it?  Not so much that I can tell.  She still nestles her head in my chest.  She still gropes me when we're out sometimes. (Umm, does anyone know how to get her to stop doing that?)  She's a little clingier than she was.  

But she's still my little girl, and she's still her sweet happy charming self.  No one has been damaged, nothing has been lost.  Every moment we've had together still exists and is still as perfect as it was.

It's just time for the next thing.

Quiet

I've been quiet around here lately.  In fact, Saturday was my blogiversary and I celebrated it by not writing.

That's disappointing.

I don't have an easy answer to why.  There are things in my head that I don't know how to put into words, and there are things that I don't necessarily want to put out into the world, but I don't think that's the whole problem.

I'm an introvert, a serious introvert, and I'm having to remind myself more and more that that isn't a fault.  That not wearing my feelings on my sleeve doesn't make me any less brave than the women and men who do.

But it does make me wonder a little bit what I'm doing here.

There is a way in which writing comes naturally to me, in which writing is what makes me feel like me, heals whatever it is that is wrong in my head.

And there's a way in which this isn't that.

I don't know if that makes any sense.

There's a whole part of blogging that isn't about writing at all, the part that's social and interactive, the part that's about going out into the world and trying to convince people that what you have to say is worth saying.

And I'm not really interested in that.  And I think it's important to me to say that.  Because sometimes I feel like I'm failing, like I'm not where I thought I'd be after a year, like I must not be doing it right.

But it's not that I can't do it.  It's that I'm not interested in doing it.

But at the same time, when I do write something I'm really proud of, I sometimes think, well what's the point?  I mean, I know my friends are reading, and maybe that should be enough.  But sometimes it isn't.

So, I don't know.  This little piece of the web matters.  I know this.  And it isn't going to go viral.  And it's never going to make me a bunch of money.  And it probably isn't going to get me a book deal.  And it probably isn't going to change the world.

But I do want to write. And I do want what I write to be good.  And I want it to be real and true, and I want it to matter.

But lately my head is either too loud or too quiet,

Time out

During our seven hour drive home on Sunday, I threw an epic tantrum.

 I mean, I have an 18 month old, so I throw the term epic tantrum around a lot. But Baby Girl's got nothing on mama.

 I had been sitting in the back of the car with her for the past two hours of the trip attempting to entertain her. In return, she had whined, whimpered, and thrown her shoes at me.

 Finally, she looked like she might be ready to go to sleep. We were just about coming up on a rest stop so DH pulled in, so that I could get out and come sit in the front. Like a grown up.

 I had just gotten into the front seat of the car when DH said, "She's playing with her sock back there. She seems to have a string. You should probably take them off of her so she doesn't pull them apart." And, grown up that I am, I stomped to the back of the car, ripped the socks off her feet, and slammed the door. And she started to cry.

 DH looked at me. "Wow. You didn't handle that very well. I'm not sure I want to be around you right now." (Remember, people, he'd been driving for 5 hours by then with the same whiny toddler I'd been with. If these seems harsh, cut him a little slack. And read on.)

 "Yeah?!? Well I don't want to be around you! Or her!" "Umm, well then...?" And at that I got out of the car, stormed into the rest stop, and sat down at a table. And was immediately embarrassed.

  So, umm, what do I now? Do I just ... sit here? Are people going to wonder why I'm sitting here and not getting any food?

I sat there for about 5 minutes anyway, tears starting to well up in my eyes, then slowly trudged back to the car, sure that there would be a grumpy and nasty response waiting for me there.

 DH was sitting in the back with BG, and they were both laughing. "Mamamamamama!" she proclaimed. 

"Yes!" said DH, "Now say it all together. I .... love .... mama."

 "Eye," she pronounced wisely, pointing at her own.

 I turned around in my seat and tears were running down my face as I kissed her, "Thank you baby." 

DH got back in the front seat. "Are you done your time out, mommy?" he said, grinning at me. "Yeah. I am." And I kissed him. And rode the rest of the way home in the car like a grown up.

Moments

I am lying in the middle of a king bed in a hotel room, waiting for my husband to get back from his training, with my 18 month old's head on my stomach. Her knees tuck under her in the child's pose, her curls scrunch against my shirt, and her back moves up and down as she finally naps.

I want to lie here forever. I want to breathe her entirely in, to drink up the precious calm, to be as engulfed by her as she is by me.

I want to write about moments with her. About her giggle, about the way she looks up at me from the jogging stroller, about the way her eyes are fading from blue to brown after all this time.

I want to write about how crazy I am about her, about how she is my everything, about how nothing else in my life has ever made me feel so complete, so in love, so full of everything.

But it feels like a lie.

Even though it isn't.

Some days, most days, I feel touched out. I want to be left alone. I want to be a grown up for a while and be able to think straight for a minute. I want to do things that feel big, that make me feel competent and smart, that make me feel like a rational human being.

Today was bad. I felt angry. I couldn't look at her. I thought someone else needed to come and take over because I couldn't possibly continue to parent.

I thought worse things too.

But those things don't tell the story of who I am as a mom.

When she wakes up, there will be a moment when she rolls over and gazes directly into my face. She will position herself like an infant cradled in my arms. She will touch my nose, her nose, my eyes, her eyes. Neither of us will speak. In that moment, I will feel more connected to another human being than I ever thought possible. I will be completely consumed by love and I will know that she is too, and I won't question why.

And then she will want a cracker, or to watch TV, or to play with her ball, and we will both go about our day as if neither moment, the good or the bad, happened.

Things I thought

Before I got pregnant

Everything in moderation.
I'll have a glass of wine once in a while.
A little TV isnt' bad for kids.
It's okay to let babies cry a little.
I might supplement with formula, and will definitely express bottles, so someone else can help.
I'll find a great sitter.
My child will be predominately accelerated.
I'm going to have time to read and write.
I am going to be a genius at mothering.

When BG was a newborn
Must follow all the rules.
Letting a baby cry is torture for everyone.
I can't drink any coffee or wine until I wean.
I will never ever leave her with anyone until she goes to college.
I would never let a child under two watch TV.
She's never going to sleep.
She's never going to meet her milestones.
She's going to be permanently attached to my boob.
I am never going to think about anything except my child again.
I am totally incompetent at this.

This morning

I'll just turn on Sesame Street and go back to sleep.
More coffee? Please and thank you.
Okay, just one more nursing session and then we're done for the day. Really.
When did my kid get so smart?
Oh really? Another tantrum? I'll just be over there.
Everything I do is in the context of everything else that I do.
Oh, maybe I'll blog about this.

Back to the books

A few weeks ago, I started checking out parenting books from the library again.

I know. Don't say anything. I know.

Toddler momming is hard, yo.

Since Baby Girl was born, everyone's been telling me to trust my instincts. It's supposed to be comforting, but it isn't. I always end up thinking "wait, am I supposed to have instincts about this?"

I don't know what I'm doing. At all.

My sweet, adorable, brilliant, willful, manipulative little girl is running the show around here. I don't have any instincts that tell me what to do about that. Even when I taught high school, discipline wasn't exactly my thing. I had a pretty good raised eyebrow, and I worked the guilt a little more than I should have. But those were pretty much my only moves.

And BG's not buying it.

So this week I read a book called Parent Talk, by Chick Moorman. I like it, I think? It's not what I was hoping for. It focuses on encouraging choice and responsibility, which I think is fantastic. A lot of it I already do.

And then I got to the list of things to never say to your kid, and one of them was "My patience is running thin."

Hold. the. freaking. show.

I read that section. It said that patience means putting up with things. That you shouldn't lose your patience because you shouldn't need patience. That if you understand your child, you should recognize her behavior as age appropriate and therefore it should be easy for you.

Have you ever wanted to punch a book? Wait, is that not a normal reaction?

I cried a little.

I know that her behavior is age appropriate. I know that toddlers test boundaries. I know that all she's doing is what is her job to do.

But I lose my patience.

A lot.

And you know what? How could I not? I can fully understand why she does what she does and still be totally thrown over the edge when she does it.

And when I am losing my patience? I think I'm going to go ahead and tell her. Because I'm a human being, and she deserves to know.