Mama Feminista

Cerebral Palsy: The New Normal

That's little Marisol a few days after her diagnosis with CP (cerebral palsy). It was almost two years ago, and I am so happy to say that she is doing awesome. She can do things now that she couldn't do just weeks or months ago.  Over these two years, our feelings about her CP have evolved just as much as she has. I remember being so scared when we first heard our baby had cerebral palsy. But now, it's just another thing about her, NOT the most important thing about her.

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That first day of the diagnosis though, we were unsure of what this would mean for her and for our family. We sent this message to our friends and family:

Dear Friends and Family:

I already talked to some of you on the phone, but I am a little tired of all the re-explaining, although eventually I plan to talk to all of you about this in person. So I thought I'd send this out as a sort of quick overview of what is happening with Mari and we can talk more of course!

So-Marisol was diagnosed yesterday with cerebral palsy. What does that mean for her? Not that much hopefully!

The things we know so far-- she has increased muscle tone on her left side, particularly her hand and lower leg and foot. So when she walks she way overpronates and flexes her little foot and when she isn't thinking about it, her left arm hangs like a bird's folded wing with a closed fist. She does use her left hand, but she has poor fine motor control, and when she does things like swing her arm as she walks, she only does it with the right one.

We only saw the pediatric orthopedist yesterday, so we still need to meet with the other medical professionals that will constitute her "team"--including a neurologist (he won't want to see her until the cast the ortho has her in is off in about a month), and physiatrist (basically a physicaltherapy/rehab doctor), and I imagine also physical/occupational therapists. She will probably also need a speech therapist, if not for the cerebral palsy, for the cleft palate. 

The ortho said she does not anticipate the neuro finding any additional problems, but obviously we need to get her a full neuro workup.

At this point, we don't think her CP is affecting her cognition at all--she seems to be super smart and speaking on time, but that, along with a lot ofother things, we won't know until she is older.

What's the treatment?

There is no cure. There is treatment to manage the CP: We don't know what all this will include, but it will include for sure--

A brace for her left leg for her lifetime, to keep her foot and leg muscles loose and flexible so she can walk and play sports and do whatever shewants. The brace will make this all possible.

Right now, a series of hard casts for the next month or so to stretch out her foot and achilles tendon. Basically it looks like she broke her leg, except that she can run with it!

Then, like I said, probably regular physical therapy to help her learn how to use her left hand and foot and keep them stretched out and loose.

It really shouldn't interfere with anything she wants to do. She can play sports, run, walk, anything. Sure she may not be the best typist and will have to work harder to play an instrument, but this little girl is one tough cookie and I know she will learn how to do everything, even if it's hardwork--which it will be.

This is a STATIC condition, meaning it won't get better, but it shouldn't get worse as long as we follow through on her treatment. It won't spread; whatever injury happened to her brain, it's done. We will now have to learn what is affected and teach her how to cope.

She has MILD Cerebral Palsy. She will not be in a wheelchair--she is the same girl you all know and love. We just learned a little more about her.She is as capable as any other kid, some things are just harder for her. But I like to think she is tougher than the average kid. I mean she's already been through surgery!

How is she?

She is FINE. We told her her cast was a special Abby Cadabby Cast and she thinks it is "nice." She started running on it right away, and while she has asked to take it off, we explained only the doctor can take it off and she was fine.

How are we?

Well, yesterday was rough. We had this whole picture in our minds of what her life would be like--the sports, instruments, trips, day to day little girl things we'd do with her, and when the doctor said cerebral palsy, it's like she pulled a great big lever that moved us off that track and put us ona another track. 

I think we'll end up in the same place, but the path will sure be different. We have to grieve that future we had in our minds for her and accept thenew one, which IS ALSO GREAT, but different than expected. 

So, now I am trying to get the picture of her in a brace to be the new normal in my mind. 

Today, looks much brighter. She's the same girl she was yesterday. She is still perfect, just as she is.

We will have to teach her how to deal with the inevitable teasing, how to navigate puberty and adolescence with a disability, and more, but I know we can do this for her and I know that she will teach us how to be the parents she needs--she already is.

So--that's what's up! Thanks for all the support and kind words you have always given us as friends and family. And if you wanna check out thesuper cool Abby Cadabby cast, it'll be on for the next month or so. Otherwise, you'll see the super awesome supergirl brace at her birthday party:)

Abrazos,
Elsie

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As you can see by my abuse of exclamation points, I was trying to stay positive! and put on a brave face! and look at the bright side! But, really, I was so so sad. As Gabe said to me on the drive home from the doctor's, "I just wish she could get a fucking break."

When she was born with a cleft palate we hoped that would be the only health problem she would face, but it's not. (It also didn't help that the first pediatric ortho we saw was terrible. She dropped the diagnosis very coldly and gave us an inappropriate treatment plan, which our now wonderful pediatric orthopedist changed at his first visit with Marisol just two weeks after the diagnosis.) As we educated ourselves about CP, we also had to grieve a bit before we could get to where we are now, which is so proud of how she is kicking CP's ass.

 

Two years after the diagnosis, I can say this: She is fierce and determined. She works HARD at physical and occupational therapy. Her therapists are always impressed by how game she is to try things.  Her little body is lean but lined with muscle from doing plank pose, pull ups, and rock wall climbing! She rides her bike with abandon and loves dancing.

I don't mean to downplay the seriousness of CP. She has very very mild CP and many kids with CP, regardless of how hard they try, can not function as well as she does. So we know that much of this is luck. She is lucky that her CP is so mild. But we are also lucky that she is a damned warrior of a girl.

For any parents out there who are struggling to accept a disability or difference in their child, I just wanted to share that no matter how scary it maybe at first to learn that your child has an unexpected disability, it gets better. Sometimes it gets better because they get better as they learn to deal with their disability, but it also gets better as you get used to it and it becomes just another characteristic that makes them so very special.

I remember telling my nephew that I just wanted to fast forward to the point where we had her therapies all set up, past all the diagnostic appointments with the different specialists, all the way to the point where her CP was just a part of our normal day-to-day life.

I am happy to say we are here. She goes twice weekly to an amazing pediatric PT/OT center run by women who love what they do and are incredibly talented. We are in regular contact with a top team of medical professionals at Children's Hospital. Mari likes them all, especially her nuerologist with pink hair! She goes to dance class weekly, swims in the summer, and will be starting preschool in a few months.  

I guess it's not "normal," after all-- it's wonderful.

Mama Feminista's Bookshelf: Books for Girls and Boys

Even though it is challenging to find books that represent girls in ways that are empowering, there are some beautiful books that feature girls which would be fun additions to any child's library.

 Some of our current favorites right now are:

Marisol McDonald Doesn't Match, by Monica Brown (Ages 1-8*)

This bilingual book is aimed at kids 4-8, but even our one year old is engaged by the quirky and colorful illustrations. The text is presented twice, once in English and once in Spanish. My Marisol is 3 and this book is her favorite not only because it has her name in it (although that is so cool for a little kid), but because Marisol McDonald is a strong, independent, smart girl. 

The story begins by establishing that Marisol "doesn't match" because she has her Irish dad's red hair, and her Latina mom's brown skin.  She also likes to wear bright mismatched clothes in whatever combination pleases her. Even when she plays, she doesn't like to be limited to just playing one kind of game--she wants to play pirates and soccer. She tries to match one day and, thankfully, finds that matching is possible, but not that much fun. She decides, along with her teacher's support, to go back to being exactly who she is.

The story touches on issues of race and gender, but doesn't do it in an obvious way. The kids in the story are of different races, and it's never mentioned.  Most of all, Marisol McDonald's story shows that we don't need to conform in order to be loved. 

Chavela and the Magic Bubble, also by Monica Brown (Ages 1-8*)

This bilingual story is probably aimed at kids a bit older, but my 1 year old LOVES this book. She squeals with delight everytime we read it. I think it's because of the amazing illustrations which are rich and vibrant.  Like Marisol McDonald, the text is complete in both languages, so you don't need to know Spanish to get the whole narrative. The story is simple and sweet--little Chavela loves bubble gum and one day her abuela buys her a piece of magical gum. 

This gum takes her flying into Mexico to a chicle farm, where she meets a little girl who tells her of the farmers who harvest the chicle.  In the end, it turns out that the little girl she met was Chavela's own grandmother, sharing the family history as agricultural workers. The story is magical and tender. The relationship between the grandmother and granddaughter is portrayed lovingly and made me nostalgic for my own abuelita.

Ladybug Girl and Ladybug Girl at the Beach, by Jacky Davis and David Soman (Ages 1-8*)

You've probably heard of this popular series, but we love it too much to leave it out. Lulu is an independent, creative, funny, and kind girl.  There is so much to like about her character. She is shown playing independently in the stories--exploring the wood behind her house, playing on the beach and having all kinds of imagined and real adventures with her dog as her only company.  

Grown-ups are not central figures in the stories. It's about Lulu and her world. She does try to play with her brother, but when he leaves her out for being "too little," she finds ways to make her own fun.

One of the things I appreciate about these books, which you can see in the Beach book is that Lulu is drawn like a real girl, with a healthy little tummy. She isn't given a prematurely tiny waist and hips like what happend to Dora recently. (I'm still sad about that!) No. Lulu is a strong, healthy girl with a wild imagination who learns to overcome her fears and find adventures.

This is not just a great book for girls, though. Boys need to read stories like this too because this is what girls are really like. They are not all damsels in distress or princesses or mommies. They are kids, looking for an adventure, just like boys!  I think boys would be able to relate just as well to being told they are "too little" by a bigger kid or being afraid of the ocean. (All the books on this list would be well-suited to all kids.)

Color Kittens, by Margaret Wise Brown (Ages 1-5)

We were just given this book for christmas in a board book edition--yay for board books!  It's not about girls or race or anything, except colors and the fun that can be had making new colors and painting. But I'm listing it here because unlike MOST books with animals, including most Golden Books, the kittens are gender-free. Woohoo! No, seriously, WOOHOO! The kittens are never referred to as male or female, so we can make them girls if we want or leave them genderless. It is so refreshing not to have another animal book that is by default all about male animals.  

Also, it's a very very cute little book with adorable illustrations. It's fun to read and our girls enjoy the whimsical drawings.

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I plan to keep posting media that is either girl-positive or just plain not sexist. I hope you enjoy this beginning and I'd love suggestions for future inclusion in the series. We are always looking for books that depict gender equality, diversity, and all other healthy things.

Happy Reading!

*Note: the age range is just my estimation of what age child would enjoy this story. The publisher's have their own reading level guide, but I'm assuming we are reading to our children, so my ranges start earlier.

 

Give Dads Some Credit for 2012

Many moms, myself included, often shoulder more of the responsibility when it comes to caretaking, including caring for the children, the home, and our partners. We often sacrifice self-care to take care of everyone else. In the past, I thought this was just how it had to be, so I tried to be supermom, superwife, and superworker. But that left me superexhausted and superoverwhelmed!

Even though I realized, years ago, that I needed to give him my husband credit, I still struggle with this, and sometimes default to trying to do everything myself, completely ignoring the fact that my husband is a competent adult. 

Keep reading about my plans to give credit where its due this year at MomsLA, where I am a new contributor...

Toys for Girls

It's Christmastime and that means that we have been thinking about toys around here. What toys would the kids enjoy? What toys will be most fun, most educational, most lasting, and most loved? It's apt then, that this LEGO controversy has blown up right now. Instead of explaining all the things I hate about the new LEGOs for girls, I want to focus on the positive and what I look for in toys and product advertising for girls (aka "children"). Ironically, LEGO's own ads from the 1970's illustrate some of the most important things perfectly:

Exhibit A of a Great Toy for Girls (aka "children"): LEGO blocks

Some of the text is worth transcribing: "Have you ever seen anything like it? Not just what she's made, but how proud it's made her. It's a look you'll see whenever children build something all by themselves. No matter what they've created. Younger children build for fun . . . LEGO Universal Building Sets will help your children discover something very, very special: themselves."

Why is this a great toy?

1. The toy is versatile. There is no limit to what LEGOs can become. Our own modest set of LEGOs have been everything from a robot, to a mom, to a phone, to a car, to a monster, to a fire station, to a zoo, and much, much more. It just takes a little imagination, which is abundant when kids are allowed play freely.

2. The toy requires the child "do things;" the toy does not "do things." LEGOs can become a phone if the child makes them one. Then she can pick it up and "dial," and "call" anyone she wants. Heck, it can become a piano, with some of that good old imagination. It does not make sounds or  move--the child makes sounds and moves.

3. The toy encourages both interactive and solo-play. This toy can be used by a parent and child, or children together, but it can also be used by a single child. In all scenarios, it makes for lasting play. At 3 and 1 our girls easily play LEGOs for 20-45 minutes.

4. The toy is educational. LEGOs encourage the development of mathematical and spacial skills, fine motor skills, and basic skills such as color recognition.

5. The toy is beautiful. This goes a long way towards my enjoyment of a toy, but I think it's true for kids as well. LEGOs in their bright bold colors and geometric shapes are aesthetically pleasing.

6. The toy is durable. LEGOs will last many years not just because they are nearly indestructible, but also because it takes about a dozen years for kids to "outgrow" them. Then, they can be passed on.

Now, the advertisement is pretty rad too and an image I would be happy for my daughter to see, unlike so many media images and advertisements aimed at children.

What makes this a great ad?

Well, she is clearly happy, and as the ad says, PROUD. I would love to find out the behind-the-scenes and whether or not the girl actually built her awesome structure or if some advertising person did that. In any case, she looks like she just built it herself. She looks like a healthy, strong girl because she is standing up straight, facing the camera, and in a wide stance.  She looks not just like an advertisement for playing with this toy, but an advertisement for PLAY.  Her clothes look comfortable. There are no baby high heels here. She can run and jump in those clothes. She can do anything.

 Here's another good example from LEGO: 

This ad emphasizes pride again, and specifically, pride at having made something, not "having something." It's the difference between feeling a sense of worth because they received something or because they did something. One is a gift, another is an accomplishment.

She seems to have made a cool trolley or train, while he made an airplane. This ad illustrates that boys AND girls can build, can enjoy a full spectrum of colors, can play TOGETHER, and most of all, it celebrates imagination.

Now. These are the types of images and toys that get Mama Feminista's stamp of approval. 

Here's hoping that the new line of LEGOs, which fails to meet several of the expectations listed above, is a temporary foray in the wrong direction.

Want to have your say on LEGOs new line?: People are going to Lego’s Facebook page and posting the cool older ads to protest the new toy line. If you want to join in,  go to Lego’s FB page, click "like," and then post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Birth Stories: Part Three

To read about my first birth, visit Birth Stories: Part One

To read about my second birth (the start of this story), visit Birth Stories, Part Two

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I said goodnight to Gabe as he headed to bed. It was 10pm, and I got settled on the couch, with some towels, just in case. I laid there and tried to sleep through the increasing contractions, but around midnight Gabe came down to find me on hands and knees doing "cat-cow" yoga stretches in an attempt to ease the contractions. He laughed and said, "this is happening tonight."

But I still wasn't sure. I was in some pain, but it didn't feel overwhelming, like my first labor. It just felt like really deep powerful cramps. I was scared that if we went to the hospital, they would tell me to go back home or that I would only be a a few centimeters dilated and they would want to induce. So we hung out for another twenty or thirty minutes, timing the contractions, which were probably coming every 5-6 minutes and lasting a minute.

Soon, we thought it was a good time for Gabe to call his sister to come spend the night with Marisol. I was sure that these contractions were not going away. I was excited, but still fearful that what I was experiencing wasn't the "real thing." I called the OB and he said that I was perfectly right to come on in and then I called our doula. We packed up the last few things for the hospital, and I had some fruit and water.

When Gabe went out to let his sister in the gate, our dog started barking, and I had to chase him around trying to quiet him down in the middle of a powerful contraction. When Gabe and his sister came in they found me yell-whisper-cursing at the dog! We gave Jessica some last minute instructions and I laughed at her look of worry when she saw me lean over the counter during a contraction. It was getting serious and we headed out the door, eager to meet our new girl.

The ride to the hospital was extremely vivid. My vision felt really sharp and the streetlights sparkled brightly as we drove towards the hospital downtown. For some reason, that ride stayed with me and to this day when I hear the song we listened to on the way there, I am taken right back to that ride, filled with anticipation and hopeful that the strong pains I was feeling would lead to a good birth and a healthy baby.

Arriving at the hospital, I felt briefly like the main character in a movie as I waddled down the hallways, pausing every few miutes to lean against the wall during contractions. When we checked in, the nurse asked Gabe if I was in active labor, then looked around the window to see me, hands pressed against the wall and breathing deeply. "Yup," she said and got us checked into a room. It was just past midnight.

I was expecting some resistance from the nurses because I was a VBAC and I did not want an IV and wanted only intermittent monitoring. The nurse did go over the risks with us and made some passing comment about VBACs being risky, but then she let it go. Our doctor is known for doing VBACs and the nurses respect him, so they knew that we were knowledgeable and not going to change our minds.

When the nurse checked my cervix, I was so scared that she was going to tell me I was at a three, still. But I wasn't. I was six centimeters dilated! I felt a rush of relief. I had only gotten to a six with Marisol, and that had felt like torture. I still felt good this time and was at a six. I was so so happy! I finally believed that this time could be different.

Right after that good news, our doula, Cat, came in. She too, was happy at the news. The next few hours were a blur of contractions and chatting. I stayed out of bed, except for when the nurse needed me to sit for the intermittent monitoring, which was only for ten minutes at a time. Those ten minutes were challenging because sitting was the most painful position to be in, and the least helpful for progressing. Mostly, it went like this: every few minutes I would get a contraction and I would stand in front of Gabe, who was seated on the bed. He would rub my neck and shoulders while Cat, who was seated on a chair behind me, would rub small circles on my lower back. That was all I needed to get thorugh the pains.

As soon as we got into the delivery room, I got into the shower with Gabe and let the hot water do the work. I leaned my head against Gabe and let the water flow over my big belly. The pain almost vanished. Cat and Gabe were amazing again: they kept me drinking fluids and going to the bathroom regularly, and kept me positive. At about 6am, I started asking about an epidural. I was still at a six and very very tired. I wanted to take a nap with the epidural and then turn it off to keep laboring. Looking back, I see that was a silly plan, because I was so close to the end, but I just wanted to sleep a bit.

Gabe and Cat were the perfect measure of support and understanding. They reminded me of why I wanted a natural birth, but said that I should do what I wanted to. I called the OB and asked him if he thought that getting an epidural would lessen my chances of a vaginal birth. He said it would be fine either way and that some rest might do me good. So, I kept stalling and waiting. I finally decided around 8am that we should ask the anesthesiologist to come in, but soon found out that I was at 7 cm and that the anesthesiologist was in surgery. At that point my OB  headed over.

I sat in the bed and refused to keep walking around, like I had been, because I knew that walking would make me complete, and I wanted to take a nap. So I sat there and waited. When the OB came in, I told him I didn't think he would let me get the epidural anymore, and he promised me that he would, even if I was complete. He leaned me back and checked me. Then he quickly said, "I'm going to pop your waters." He popped my bag of waters with his fingers and declared: "you're ready to push your baby out." I cried with relief, joy, and surprise.

Then he asked me, "do you still want that epidural?" "No!" I said. He would have given it to me then, I think , because he is that kind of guy. But I was ready to push her out. I was in pain, but glad that I was actually going to give birth! At this point, my OB said he had to step out, but left me with the nurse to get to work.

So I pushed. I spent the next hour pushing with the help of a nurse, Cat, Gabe, and then my OB when he returned.  To be honest, the pressure that my doc and the nurse applied hurt more than the baby and my main motivation became to get their hands out of me by getting the baby out.  In retrospect, I think I should have tried switching positions, but I was so focused on following my nurse and OB's guidance that I just stayed put and pushed when I got the urge--which was every few minutes.

I was so eager to have her out. Every time I pushed I felt like she should be coming out, but she wasn't. I kept asking "Where is she?" not quite sure what I was hoping to hear.   I focused on Cat and her encouraging quiet presence as she held my hand.  Gabe was also by my side, but he was too interested in seeing Lucia's head to hold my gaze like I needed. I felt the ring of fire, but took it as a good sign because it meant Lucia was really finally moving through me towards the world.

The feeling of pushing out a body from my body was strange. It felt slippery and hot and just all of a sudden after all that waiting. My OB told me they had to check her real quick because there had been a bit of meconium, but that was fast, and the OB stitched up a small tear while she got cleaned up.  I asked him if she had a cleft palate and the NICU team checked and reported that she had an intact palate.

I smiled and looked over at my doula (Gabe was with Lucia a few feet away) and said "I pushed a baby out my vagina!" That sounds silly, but for a mom who had her first baby cut out of her abdomen, that's a big deal.  I was so proud and so relieved!

Soon, Gabe handed me my second daughter and she was gorgeous! She was almost a pound and a half larger than Marisol, but otherwise seemed identical. My doula helped me latch her on to nurse and that's how we spent the next hour or so, nursing and dozing and smiling and laughing at this new life that had come so joyfully into our lives.

That day--except for the joy of getting to meet my amazing girls--was the exact opposite of my first birth. Where I felt physically and mentally exhausted and spent with the c-section, I felt physically and mentally exuberant. Yes, I was in some pain, but I also felt an incredible rush of endorphins that masked the pain incredibly well!  Where I felt incapable of caring for Marisol because I couldn't nurse her or change her or anything, I felt incredibly capable the second time. I was nursing, I was walking, I was moving around and lifting her and hugging my visitors! I know that some of the difficulty of my first experience was the long labor and birth, and some of it was also the shock of learning that my child had a cleft palate and that we wouldn't have the nursing relationship I had hoped.

I cannot explain how this birth changed me except to say that it many many ways it healed me. It's ironic because vaginal birth is not easy, and I certainly needed to heal from it as well, but the physical traumas of the birth not only healed over time, the birth itself healed many emotional wounds.

In the coming weeks, we would go on to have some nursing issues (oversupply!!!), but mostly, Lucia was an easy baby who now as a toddler still loves to cuddle and nurse with me. She and her sister have taught me how to be a mother and made me a stronger woman. I could not be more thankful to each of them. 

Birth Stories: Part Two

Recently, I shared my second birth experience with a relative who is expecting her second son. I was the only mom she knew who had even attempted a VBAC and she was interested because she was hoping to at least consider a VBAC, but was getting resistance from her health care provider.

I was happy to share my experience and only wish that more moms would talk about their VBACs. It's not surprising that she had a hard time finding someone to share her VBAC experience. According to the March of Dimes, only between 6.8-8% of women with a previous cesearean will have a VBAC. This is unfortunate, because 74% of women who attempt VBACs will be able to deliver vaginally and avoid surgery. A mom who delivers surgically is often told that she has to have surgery again because, "Once a C, always a C;" her baby is breech; her pelvis is too small (extremely rare in developed coountries), she went postdate, or she is having twins, etc. The reality is that most of the time, if the pregnancy is otherwise healthy, a mom can  deliver vaginally after a cesarean--safely.

Anyhow, I apologize for the technical birthspeak, but I know that when I was researching my options for Lucia's birth, I wanted tech speak; I also wanted inspiring stories, but I'm not a fool. Even if something sounds lovely and amazing, if it has been proven to be dangerous, then I wouldn't consider it. Luckily, when it comes to Vaginal Birth After Cesearean (VBAC), the National Institutes of Health, The American Council of Obsteticians and Gynecologisits, and the World Health Organization all agree that it is a safe option in most cases. That's what I found and that's what I wish all healthcare providers would share with their patients.If you'd like more information, just google them or go straight to the International Cesarean Awareness Network.

Here's my personal story:

Because my first birth experience was so traumatic for me, one of the first things I did once I found out I was pregnant was try to process that experience. After Marisol's birth, I thought about it a lot for a few months, replaying the events in my head, trying to see what could have gone differently.  But then, with time, I stopped thinking about it.

The knowledge of my pregnancy brought back a lot of feelings from the postpartum period: fear, sadness, regret, guilt, anger. I sat down and told myself the story of that first birth. I was surprised to remember things I hadn't even been conscious of before. For example, I hadn't really realized that relatives other than Gabe had gotten to hold Marisol before I did. But that was one of many things that was overwhelmingly painful for me.

Basically, I cried like a baby as I relived it. I needed to do that though--to go through it and figure out what I was so afraid of. Once I had done that, I was able to talk with Gabe coherently about my fears, my hopes, and try to figure out how we could make sure the second time around was a better experience. At the top of our minds was our concern that Marisol's cerebral palsy had been caused by the trauma of the induction during the decelerations that had so alarmed the medical team and us. We wanted to avoid that, yet we knew that only so much was within our power.

I had switched providers soon after my first birth and was working with an OB well-known and loved by LA moms for doing VBACs. This was probably the most important choice I made in preparation for a second birth: my OB was smart, kind, caring, and communicative. He let me know from the get-go that he would support my wish for a VBAC, as long as it was safe to do so. Almost every time we met, he told me he wished, I "would go into labor a bit ahead of schedule and have a wonderful birth." It became a refrain in my mind, almost a mantra.

I tried to get myself into a strong frame of mind. I told myself that it would be okay to go to 42 weeks and beyond, so long as the baby looked good. I didn't let myself linger on the due date, to avoid feeling like it was some kind of deadline. I scheduled myself to work until three days before my due date, figuring that would give me at least five days or a week to relax before the birth. I played out different scenarios in my mind: if I go post-date, how supportive would my OB be? If I have to have a cesearean how could I make the experience a better one? If I go into labor naturally, how will I labor at home?

I envisioned the birth I wanted, but also tried to plan for a range of possibilities. To that end, I stopped carrying Marisol around, taught her to get into and out of her carseat and other chairs, got her used to climbing up into my lap to snuggle, and other little things that I figured would make recovery from surgery easier on the both of us. I also tried to stack the deck in favor of a natural, vaginal birth: I went for prenatal acupuncture, prenatal chiropracty, did prenatal yoga, ate a healthy and rich diet, walked and tried to rest as much as I could.

I felt vibrant and strong during the pregnancy, and felt positive about the labor. I made it all the way to that last day of work, feeling good. I was lucky; even though it was late September, it had been a mercifully mild summer. That morning of my first day of maternity leave, labor started.

We thought it would be the day because the contractions were pretty strong. We spent extra time in bed cuddling with Marisol, aware that it could have been our last morning as a family of three, that soon there would be another baby in bed with us. After breakfast, we took Marisol over to my friend's house and headed into the doctor's for my scheduled appointment. We took our time as things didn't seem to be moving fast. And they weren't. The contractions were strong but they were not getting closer together. I was 3 cm. dilated and 50% effaced, but not in active labor.

My OB told us it could be a week or a day. We would just have to wait and see. I appreciated that he did not say, "Okay, time to induce and get this puppy going." I love that he was willing to let my body do its thing. So we went to lunch and then we went home and took a nap, knowing the nights would be wakeful from there on out, and picked up Marisol.

That night, Friday night, the contractions got stronger. I stayed downstairs on the couch, occassionally timing them, but mostly, falling in and out of sleep. Come Saturday morning, I was tired. I considered going for a long walk, or maybe climbing some stairs to get things going, but I decided to call my OB and see what he thought. I also called our doula. Both of them agreed that it would be best for me to just relax as much as I could because this prodomal labor could last for days, and when it was time, my body would go into active labor on its own. I just needed to eat and rest and get ready.

I was so thankful for that advice and gladly took it. The contractions came all day, waning only sporadically so I could take a nap in the afternoon. But it wasn't active labor. Yet. We spent that day getting the house super-clean and hanging out with Marisol, cuddling, and reading, knowing her time as our only baby was coming to a quick close.

That night, I laid in bed, early, after taking a hot shower, and had a little chat with Lucia: I told her, "Lucia, listen. If you are ready to come out, then let's go. Let's really kick this thing into gear and progress. If not, then please just relax. I need a little rest in order to be strong. So decide what you want you want to do, and let's commit." Right on cue, the contractions stalled and I took a glorious three hour nap. Then, the contractions came back.

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To read about my first labor, visit Birth Stories: Part One.

To find out what happens next, stay tuned:)

"You're Pretty, Mama": Thoughts on Beauty and the Messages We Convey to Little Ones

I've never been one for high heels. Occasionally, I'd buy a pair, but they never lasted more than a couple hours, and they always hurt. I'd wear them because they looked good, but hated every minute.  It's been years now since I wore any, and I don't think I'll be wearing them again.  What really made me swear off heels for good is that one of my daughters will not be able to wear them. She has Cerebral Palsy, and the idea of walking in heels, while it might be the fodder for some fights when she's a teenager, is not realistic.  So I figure, if she can't, then I won't.

Regardless of what I look like, I know that I will be the epitome of beauty to my little girls. That's how it is with mothers. My mother, in her seventies now, is still pretty to me; she is forever my mama and beautiful.  When I was growing up, I remember her always in heels and nylons, and undergarments right out of the 1950s.  She was like a lady right out of a magazine, coiffed and perfect, makeup just right. Classy.

I could not be more different. I often leave the house without makeup, and never ever wear nylons.   Still, I hope that my daughters will see me much like I see my mom, as "old-fashioned." Because I shave my legs, and tweeze my brow, and wear makeup for work.   These are acts of conformity that make me and others more comfortable, but which in and of themselves I don't enjoy or value.  I wish I had the guts to embrace my inner Frida Kahlo, but I can't.  I can, at least, tell my daughters that some women shave their legs, but not all, and never, ever, make it seems any of these rituals are requirements of their sex. Because they are not.  Still, I know that I will be what my girls imagine when they picture what a woman is, because regardless of all the messages and images that we absorb from society, it all begins here, as they watch me get ready in the morning, as they observe the ways I treat my body and the regard with which I treat myself.

I've been thinking about this a lot this week because I saw my friends linking to the lovely piece by Lisa Bloom, "How to Talk to Little Girls", and although I liked a lot about the piece, I didn't repost it.  Instead, I've taken some time to think about what is missing from that piece--it is, after all, just one essay, and you can't tackle it all in one post.  I read some other responses, one by my colleague, Hugo Schwyzer, and a few others. 

I agree that girls are too often praised for their beauty, and that that is problematic for many reasons.  Beyond the fact of it's superficiality, beauty is a cultural standard that not every person will fit.  Some people are what our society considers "ugly" or "plain" etc.  But we know that beauty can also mean something inside, that the "beautiful girls" can be really really ugly sometimes, and that the plain girl can be truly beautiful. These terms get complicated once you allow them to signify something more than skin deep.  But how do you explain all that to a child? to a toddler?

Of course, skin deep is usually how we intend to use these terms when talking about children, and often about adults too. When we first meet someone, or spy someone from afar, all we see is their exterior. When we meet children, I think the instinct for most people is to be kind and to say something we think of as kind. So, we say, "she's so pretty" or "he's so handsome."  We can't say "you are so smart" to a child we just met, because we don't know if he or she is.  Unlike whether or not a person fits our culture's definition of beauty, determining intelligence is understood to be more complicated.

But what about the children and people who are not beautiful in our culture's very skewed perception?  What about those who are scarred, disabled, ill, overweight, underweight, or just funny-looking?  Once these children are old enough to understand that they don't fit our society's definition of the label, thoughtlessy throwing out platitudes of  "you're so pretty" ring immediately false. I went through a very awkward adolescence and I hated being told I was pretty by relatives. I remember thinking that if I really was pretty, it would be my classmates saying it, not my old family members. What do we say then? How do we convey what is often the truth, that these individuals are beautiful, for many reasons deeper than their skin.  My fifteen year old self would have wanted to commit suicide if she woke up in my current body. But my thirty-two year old self loves this scarred, stretched, curvy, and imperfect body. It took me many years to develop this understanding of beauty, but I am so grateful that I did.

In short, these labels are tough to use in any coherent way.  I try to go a middle way between never mentioning appearance and mentioning it all the time.  Instead, we try these things to impart a healthy view of beauty and sense of self-worth:

1. Praise sparingly, and when we do, really mean it. We aim to be descriptive and sincere, not pat.  I think it's lovely to tell a child, "Your eyes are so deep and brown and beautiful. I love looking into them." 

2.  Recognize the full spectrum of a child's "beauty" inside and out. Like many of us, there will come a time when my girls feel alienated by our society's definition of beauty and so I try to give them a definition of beauty and worth that is more than skin deep.  I say, "Your legs are so strong! You're jumping just like a bunny. Can I jump too?"

3. Remember all the research about the dangers of praise, and instead, sometimes just offer neutral feedback which allows our child to feel seen, but not judged. Children want to be seen. My daughter has the self-knowledge and communication skills to tell us this, "Mommy, I want your attention."  That's helpful and honest. But attention is different from praise.  So, I'll watch her a while and tell her, "You just drew a big blue butterfly. What are you going to draw next?"  I know she appreciates that more than a cursory "good job" as I check my email.

4. Think about how we would talk to any particular child if he or she were of another gender.  In other words, if I wouldn't praise a boy for his appearance, then I shouldn't do it for a girl. If I would instead focus on the boys interests, like trucks or pirates, then I should do the same for a girl. This is hard to do, and I forget to do this often, but when I do, I am always glad because it allows me to engage my children and others in a more full way.

5. Don't fastfoward.  It is inevitable for girls to encounter the toxic culture of beauty, but we don't need to push them into it.  My eldest is three, so we aren't talking about "fashion." If textiles and making clothes should interest her as she is old enough to engage in those activities, then yes, we will start to explore, together, fashion, like anything else.  But I am doing my damndest to insulate her from advertising and media that presents a very sick and distorted view of beauty. For us, that means very little television, no commercials, no fashion magazines, and a carefully curated library of books and toys.  She's three. When she's older, I'll teach her how to respond to pop culture from a feminist perspective, but not yet.  One day, she may want to get her ears, or something, pierced, to dye her hair, to paint her nails, but not yet. Right now, she is still fingerpainting and playing with dirt.

Figuring out to raise children to value themselves for the things they do, for their kindness, their sense of humor, and their innumerable other virtues is not easy in a culture that values people often for their appearance or wealth, but it is an endeavor worth working at.

I'd be interested to hear any other ideas you have for how to teach our children the true meanings of beauty and to cultivate a sense of worth based on much more than looks.

The Power of "No"

Thanks to  Steve Snodgrass for the image.

Because she is three-years old, I hear “No” a lot. “Mari, please pick up your toys.” “No.” “Mari, it's time for massage.” “No.” “Can I have a hug?” Again, “no!” It is tempting to instantly overrule her, to pick her up, to force the issue, to scold her. But it is more important, when she says “no,” that I listen and think before I act.

Even at three, as at two, and always, she is a person. So often we (me, my husband, other parents I hang out with) think of children as creatures that are somehow less than people, something human, sure, but not quite a person. A person has rights, and is entitled to some basic dignities. The constitution comes to mind—freedom to live and to pursue happiness. The bible also comes to mind—the golden rule of treating others as we would like to be treated. Common manners come to mind—be polite and respectful.

It is so easy to deny a child these basic rights and kindnesses. It is annoying when her playing gets in the way of my schedule. It is easy to grab her jacket and put it on her, interrupting her playing and tossing her toys aside. It's easy to disrespect the fact that she might be doing something important, something that she is engrossed in. I would never treat a friend like that or even a stranger, so why do I do it to my child?

And that's the thing. It is so easy to do things TO children. It takes much more patience to teach children or invite children to do things WITH us. To engage them requires consent, to force them does not. I don't mean to make it sound like I am suggesting asking a baby to let me change her diaper, and then leaving her wet if I don't get a response. That's absurd. But I can let her know kindly, “I'm going to change your diaper, hon.” As she grows older, I can ask her, “May I change your pull-up” or even better, “Will you help me change your pull-up?” This is where it gets complicated because she can say “No.” Then I am faced with the choice—do I do it anyway or do I let her stay wet? What are the consequences of each choice?

 If I do it anyway, as I so often have, then she gets a fresh bottom and I feel better knowing that. I don't have to worry about her making a mess. She may feel more comfortable. Sounds good, right? Easy. But what else have I done?I have taught her that I am the one who has control over her body, that her wishes about what happens to her body and to her do not matter, that she does not have the right to say “no.”

Let's think about that a bit. What does that look like years down the line? Me controlling what she wears, what sports she plays, me trying to control what she does with her boyfriend or girlfriend...or her letting me or letting anyone (another adult, a love interest, etc) pressure her into doing things or letting things be done to her body. Because it's not up to her, right?

This is why I try to answer when my girl asks, "why?" Because "because I said so" is not an answer I want her to be satisfied with. I want her to be the girl who asks "why?" when she see something happening that she doesn't understand or that she knows to be wrong.  I want her to challenge authority and instead of being obedient, to be cooperative with adults and other children who are doing good, not those who are the biggest or loudest or bossiest. I am great at being bossy, but I love that she challenges me to be good.  It's easy to answer her "why?"s because usually there is a reason I am asking or instructing her to do something.  I don't mind explaining to her why it is important that we wear a coat on a rainy day or why we wash our hands.  It's my job as her teacher.

I know, I know that this might seem crazy, at first, but as a woman living in the U.S, in 2011, the last thing women and girls are learning is bodily autonomy. Everywhere, from the halls of congress to the magazine racks to the music we listen to, female bodies are treated as commodities and objects. We are groomed to use our bodies for the entertainment and pleasure of others. It's appalling.

Gosh, I've ignored my girl's “no” a million times. I am ashamed of that, but I am trying to change.

 (And for the record, I would feel the same if I were raising boys, although it seems that parents and other adults tolerate boy's questions and spirited behavior more readily because they are boys. Girls are often expected to be obedient more often, in my experience. Even as an adult, a woman in charge is often cast as a "bitch" and a man in charge as a "leader.")

Now, what happens if I listen to her “no?” If I don't change that wet pull-up, then she might get a rash, but really she doesn't enjoy being wet, so I doubt it would come to that. If I listen to her, then she might make a mess. If I listen to her, it might mean a bit more work from me. If I listen to her, then it will show her that I RESPECT her, that she is in charge of what happens to her body, that people need to ask her to touch her, particularly in her private areas. This lesson might just be worth the inconvenience.

Sure, there are times it is not safe to listen to a child's “no;” there are countless times I need to override her wishes for her safety or the safety of others:  She reaches for the stove and doesn't want to step away; she's running for the pool, etc. Then it's my job to intervene and explain why I ignored her “no”--because it wasn't safe. Those situations are few and far between. They are not the norm. I want to make respect the norm. It is worth the extra few minutes it takes to deal with the inconvenience of treating her like a person, equally deserving of my consideration and kindness as anyone else.

I want her to learn the power of her “no.” That when she says “no,” the proper response is for people to respect that and not force something upon her, whether a dry pull-up, another bite of food, or sexual contact. I want her to learn this, so that if someone, anyone, disrespects her “no,” she will know that it is not okay, that something is terribly wrong. So that if anyone should try to do anything TO her, instead of WITH her, she will know to fight, to report, to seek justice for that wrong.

We live in the world, where 12% of girls in grades 9-12 said they had been sexually abused. I hope with every fiber of my being that my girls will be lucky enough never to to attacked by a predator of any kind, but ultimately, that is a matter of luck. If they should be unlucky enough to be victimized, I want them to know their rights. And even if they are lucky enough never to be assualted, I also want them never to succumb to pressure from a romantic partner or date. I don't want them to let their bodies be used for someone else's pleasure at the expense of their sense of dignity. I want them to be in control of their bodies, and really, their lives, to be actors in the story of their life, not merely props.

My responsibility as their mother is to teach them, with my words and actions, that our bodies are sacred and deserving of respect and that begins with me.

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I'd be interested to hear how others of you navigate this complicated territory of trying to raise  independent powerful people.  What are the challenges? What have been the rewards so far? Any great strategies for balancing our wishes with those of the little ones? Feel free to share and disagree respectfully, as always.

 

Feminist Parenting and the Usefull/Useless-ness of Labels

Labels. The internet abounds with them. They trip me up at least as much as they empower me, as in life. I struggled to find the label that would fit me culturally, and landed on Latina after much reflection. Is it perfect? No. Does it leave out a lot? Absolutely, but it also reveals a few things about me that I value, that serve to begin to define me. There are many labels I have adopted and which I think are useful for somethings, and useless for others. Labels are useful for finding intersections and commonalities between people and groups. I'm a Feminist--are you one too?  But they are useless at making connections with people who might be alienated by a particular label. I'm an Atheist--can we still be friends?  Some will say yes, but others may say no. Labels bring up stereotypes. I'm a lactivist--does that mean I judge you for bottlefeeding? So it's easy to get tangled up with labels.

And yet.

Labels begin to help us articulate our identities and talk honestly about our journeys.  They can be empowering. I have seen the profound shift that takes places when a young woman realizes she is a Feminist.  I have experienced it myself.  As a parent, I have come to know how much I DON'T know. I've discovered and am discovering ideas and schools of thought that are completely new to me.  There are so many I've adopted now--feminist parent, natural parent, gentle parent, lactivist, attachment parent, etc. It feels a lot like adolescence, like I am realizing that there are possible identities I didn't even know existed.  So I find it useful to explore these labels and see to what extent they fit me, how much I can stretch them and change them, and use them to my own ends.

With that messy introduction, I'm going to explore one label that matters a lot to me--Feminist Parent.

What does it mean to me to be a feminist parent? 

This question is just as complicated as asking what it means to be a feminist.  My answer to the feminist question begins with the assertion of three things: first, that all people are inherently equal, regardless of gender;  second, that most modern and historical societies deny individuals their equal human rights based on gender (being a gender other than male, and heterosexual); and third, that this injustice should be changed.

Being a feminist means more than that, of course, but it's a beginning and it's what I return to when I try to find the center of my feminist identity.

To be a feminist parent begins there--with being a feminist.  Many mothers are feminists, although some would not adopt that label.  Fathers are feminists too, even though fewer would adopt that label.  In my experience, fathers of daughters become feminists rather quickly, even if they haven't thought of the word itself.  But they are living as feminists.

To be a feminist parent begins with the idea that all children are equally precious, regardless of gender, and that gender should not limit the ways we love our children.  It includes teaching our children, by word and deed, how to view the world with a feminist lens.  It means protecting them from sexist and rigid beliefs about gender and sexuality, at least until we are able to teach them how to combat  these harmful stereotypes.  It means that our girls can play with trucks and our boys can play with dolls.  It means raising girls to be strong and not to see their gender as oppressive.  It means raising boys the same way.  It means instilling in all children an understanding of respect and appreciation for differences.  It means not sexualizing our children and protecting them from media and products that seek to sexualize them.  In many ways, it just means not screwing them up because children are not born with any ideas about what it means to be a "girl" or "boy."  They begin life seeing people, not stereotypes.

What does feminist parenting look like?

This is something I am working out.  And something I'd like to grow on this here blog. I'd like to share photos and stories of feminist families.  Please, consider sending me a photo and a story or moment from your lives that you consider and example of feminist parenting or living.

I'll start:

For us, feminist parenting includes equal parenting, that is we BOTH participate fully in the caregiving for our girls. We both cuddle, bathe, feed, nurture, and do other traditional "mothering" activities, which we believe are really acts of  "parenting."

Before Marisol was born I thought she'd wear a lot less pink than she does. As it turns out, all the pink clothes are damn cute! But so are all the other colors of the rainbow. So one day she wears the most girly-girl dress and the next day she's in Dodger blue from head to toe.  There are some limits. I would never buy heels for my child, or a padded bra, or makeup, or anything that otherwise sexualizes her. But wearing "boy" clothes, well, that has never bothered us. If we had boys, we would probably not put him in dresses, but if he really wanted to try wearing one when he was old enough to ask, I like to think we'd let him try it out; I don't know if we'll ever actually find out, of course.

For me, feminist parenting includes being aware of the messages I send with my words and deeds regarding my body and bodies in general. I have never expressed negative feelings about my body to the girls and I never will.  I actually don't have many negative feelings about my body, anymore.  Back when I weighed a hundred pounds in high school, I thought I was disgusting and fat.  I wasn't. Now that I weigh much more, and have stretchmarks and a body definitively altered by bearing two babies--well, I love my body for what it can and has done.  I don't want my girls to spend as many years as I did judging their bodies for not fitting society's definition of "beautiful." People are beautiful because of who they are what they do, not their size or any other externality.

Feminist parenting is flexible enough to include my cooking of most meals--because I enjoy it AND my assembling furniture--because I also enjoy that.

Feminist parenting in our case means that we both work outside the home, although we both get to be home full time during school breaks.

It means that we will never say "girls can't/don't do that."

It means more and more every day, but we are on our way and committed to parenting this way and to raising two very proud feministas!

Are you a feminist parent too? What does that look like for your family? I'd love to hear!

(Dis)ability (Un)seen

To tell you that Marisol was born with a birth defect and neurological disorder is really to tell you nothing about her.  At least that's what I think most of the time.  The facts are that she was born with a cleft soft palate, which was repaired at 10 months, and hemiplegia, a form of cerebral palsy that affects her left arm and left leg.  She needs various forms of therapy and medical expertise (the coordination of which is fodder for another post entirely).  She might need additional surgery for her palate when she's a teenager.

The palate was something no one ever noticed about her, because it wasn't visible unless you looked inside her little mouth and saw the gaping hole where the roof of her mouth should have been.  Then it was very very apparent. 

While other babies nursed or drank from a bottle, we fed our baby with a special needs bottle. Eventually she went through one of the $20 nipples every week and a half, but because of her inability to suck, we couldn't switch to regular nipples. 

When other six-month olds started solids, Mari still drank expressed breastmilk. Sure, we would occasionally try feeding her soft solids, like pureed squash, but after a few small spoonfuls it would come out her nose and all of us would cry or feel like crying.  So we left solids pretty much alone until after her surgery and just kept her exclusively on breastmilk. 

Because of the cleft, she was prone to ear infections, and a host of other problems, none of which manifested, but all of which we were vigilant about: We always fed her upright, we were careful not to get water in her ears, we never let our guard down.  Then came her surgery-- which really, was pretty miraculous. In a few short hours, her surgeon managed to make her "normal" for the most part.  The "normal" part is not something  l like to admit mattered, but it did. I wanted her to be able to eat like other kids, to to be able to speak like other kids, to just have it "easy." And she did. And we did. For almost a year.

I thought an ugly thing during that interim, but something that seems worth admitting: I was grateful that my daughter's special needs were mostly behind us. I was thankful that it had been a small, reparable thing. I wanted her to get to be "normal."  So when she took a while to walk, while she was on the late end of normal, we didn't worry about it.  But one day, there came a moment, while getting ready for the bath that I realized suddenly and deeply that something was wrong. I felt it like I had felt few things before.

She had been walking for a couple of months, and in shoes a lot of the time, since it had been winter when she began to walk, so I hadn't focused on her feet very much.  But watching her walk naked around the bathroom I saw her tiny left foot clenched and turned inward in a way that I knew was not normal.  I looked at her left hand, also in a fist and thought back to how often we had told people she was right-handed from birth since as soon as she could reach for things, she always did so with her right hand.  I thought about how cautious she was with her walking.

I just knew. It was her entire left side; that meant a brain problem. I knew it and it made me feel sick.

I told my husband and we made an appointment with her pediatrician. Her doctor was very nonchalant about the whole thing and my husband wasn't really worried. He thought she might need need a shoe insert, but I had been consulting dr. google, which I know is an awful idea, but that's what I did.  Cerebral palsy kept popping up over and over when I searched for her symptoms.  I saw pictures of kids in wheelchairs, of their beautiful bodies tight and clenched.  I tried not to panic, but I also tried to work through what that might mean for her. 

When the first orthopedist told us her diagnosis, I wasn't surprised.  I was devastated, particularly because this doctor, who we have since left for an amazing pediatric ortho, was cold and offered us no discussion of what it really meant. We were left with the words "cerebral palsy" and the idea that she would be able to function but would have to wear a leg brace 24/7, forever. We left the office with a cast on Mari's leg, which her current ortho never would have used in the first place.

    

Since then, we've learned the following about Marisol from her pediatric neurologist, orthopedist, and pediatrician: She will be able to do most things, but it will take her longer and she'll have to work longer. She will probably need to wear a brace 4-6 hours a day on her left leg. She'll need occupational and physical therapy (in addition to speech for the cleft). Her cognition does not appear to be affected by the brain injury (that's what CP is).

So what does that mean?

It means that, unlike other kids, she can't jump yet, she can't walk stairs independently, she has a hard time balancing, she falls more than other kids, she can't do buttons or pull on her clothes because she can't control the muscles in her left hand well.  She'll be able to do all of this, eventually.

Already, the glances and comments have started: At gymnastics, "How old is she?...Oh, she seems younger," with a disbelieving expression because she can't do what the other kids can.  At the park, other kids run over her to get to the slide while she cautiously holds on to the rail and slowly climbs the stairs. Well-meaning toddlers accidentally knock her down, over and over again, because what might just nudge another kid makes her fall completely.  Since she's only two and half, her gait still passes for normal, but she drags her left foot a bit and especially when she tired, her left side is harder for her to coordinate. As she gets older, this will be more noticeable.

This type of disability is complicated because she can "pass" as normal, but clumsy or uncoordinated.  That's just not the truth.  If people could see that she has a disability, I think they might be more thoughtful, more careful. And when she gets a brace, it'll be more obvious.  Then, people will ask, I know, endlessly, "What happened?" I'll want to answer "it's a brain injury" to get them to mind their damn business, but I won't because that's not fair to her.  We'll work out our responses. One day she'll have to respond to teasing and questions and she'll learn to get really good at it.

Right now, moms at music class see a toddler who's "shy" and "nervous" or "in her shell" because she hangs back when the other toddlers run for the instruments, who clenches her hands to her chest when one of the other kids comes zooming by. I want to tell them, no, she's not shy or any of those things--she's smart. She knows she'll get knocked down if the other kids bump into her and push her, so she guards herself.  She knows more than I'll ever know how to take care of herself, what it feels like to be constantly off-balance, every step a potential scraped-knee.  I just smile at these comments because I don't want her labeled, I don't want her to be treated any differently. Except that clearly, sometimes I do.

The fact is that the world will never understand, just by looking at her, how special my daughter is. That there are a lot of things that are really hard for her.  They also won't know, just by looking, how awesome she is in so many ways.

You can't tell, just by looking at her, that she knows at least twenty songs by heart and will gladly learn another if you'll just take the time to sing it with her; or that she forgets nothing and will remember a trip to the zoo months later; or that she loves to hug and cuddle and kiss; or that she is independent, sleeping in her own bed in her own room with joy; or that she is tolerant of mommy brushing and flossing her teeth; or that she makes all her doctors smile; or that she knows almost all her letters; or that she loves to read; or that she can play on her own for nearly an hour if you give her a book and a doll or a tea set or a puzzle; or that she shares gladly and often; or that if you have a booboo, she'd like to kiss it for you; or that she'll never forget you once she's met you because she'll ask about you, by name, for weeks; or that she lets us massage her twice a day for thirty minutes, even though sometimes it hurts her tight limbs, as long as we sing with her; or that she's nearly potty-trained; or that she eats everything, gladly gobbling up quinoa and squash and plums and figs; or that she knows her full name, all four parts; or that she does things with her left hand or left arm, even when we aren't reminding her, because it makes her proud; or that even when her leg trembles, she'll use it; or that even if she is exhausted, she'd like to walk; or that she is a fantastic dancer; or that she'll gladly include you in her band; or that she is silly and will make you laugh along with her, no matter how grumpy you try to be. 

These are things only we get to know about her, the ones who cherish her, who she trusts with her self. We are the ones who see how brightly she shines, and how very strong she is.  There is no way to communicate the complexities of who my daughter is to others. Like her, I have to learn how to not let  misperceptions by others cloud my own vision. In the end, she and I will learn that when other people do or say bad things, it only tells us something about them. In the end, it'll be up to her when and how and who gets to learn more about her. That'll be her gift to bestow.