Ruth Stoops

It’s 3:42 am.  I am doing my best to ignore my crying/whining baby.  We are resolved to let him “cry it out” tonight.  He’s slept through this feeding several times before, so I know he will survive, but that fact doesn’t really make me feel like a better mom.  Ugh.  This sucks.

I’m nervous even sharing this.  I fear that my readers - you dear, dear people - are going to judge me:

“She’s one of those moms?  Doesn’t she realize babies cry when they need something?  They’re only babies for a short while, girl.  BUCK UP.  That poor baby.  Poor, deprived, eternally scarred baby.”

OR

“HOW old is her baby?  Four months?!  This is the first time she’s trying this?  What a wuss.  She’s totally letting that baby call the shots in her home.  My 5 kids all slept through the night at 3 weeks.  Get some backbone, woman.”

Well, maybe those aren’t thoughts from you all.  Maybe those are the crazies in my head duking it out.   Maybe all of you trust us as parents and realize that we think this particular child is ready for this particular response at this particular time.  Maybe.

It’s amazing how much I want validation that I’m “doing it right”.  Who even has permission to tell me that?  I don’t know.  Then again, I don’t know much at 3:53 am.

*Yawn*  Ok - knock on wood, y’all - it’s been quiet for a few minutes.  I think he fell asleep again.

………………………………………………………………………………

Not only was he asleep, but he was making those sweet, contented sighs when I went down to our room.  VICTORY!  He slept for another solid 3.5 hours, and smiled at me when he woke up this morning.  I guess he doesn’t think I’m a terrible mom after all….which is good, considering he’s my boss.

Let’s be honest - I didn’t have a good night’s sleep.  After the 30 minutes of waiting for him to fall asleep, I laid in bed for another hour waiting for my brain to slow down (busy work week).  Then, I woke up before Landon and had that irrational, but common, oh-my-gosh-is-he-breathing? panic and had to check his crib before I could fall asleep again.  BUT, I think this is the start of something good, and I woke up encouraged.

Lord, sleep is great.  I need it and so does this babe.  Here’s to nights of uninterrupted rest, for they are coming to the Stoops home!  (Eventually…)

I’m in a funk.

Here are some of my reasons:

• Too many of my soul-mate friends live far away.
• Lots of people died this week, and I knew some.
• Relationships are hard work and sometimes you give when you really, really want to take.
• My playlists are getting old.
• I’m at war with my body.
• The only thought I had at 3:00 am today was, “I want my money back.”   What kind of mother am I?  Besides, I didn’t keep the receipt.

It has come to my attention that we are at war.  With fat people.  The “War on Obesity”.  This implies that “we” are normal, thin, good people, and “they”, those blasted fat people, are lazy, unhealthy, and just plain pesky.  They need to be more like us.

Now, wait a minute.  History is clear that every time we assume one demographic variable (race, gender, socio-economic status) can automatically lead us to an accurate understanding of an individual…..well, we end up looking like ASS-HOLES.  That’s right.  The hole in an ass.  Stereotypes are cognitive shortcuts that hurt people.  “Black people are lazy.”  You’re stupid.  “Women are less intelligent.”  Shut up.  “Poor people are worthless.”  You suck.

So what’s the difference with weight?  Sure, there are bad, BAD reasons why someone might be fat.  They might overeat to cover up a huge hurt in their life.  That’s really destructive behavior and it absolutely needs to be addressed.  BUT, someone could also be fat because their body is built that way and they can run a marathon (not exaggerating).  You can’t just lump people together based on their weight or appearance and assume something is wrong with them.

We can all agree that good food and regular movement should be promoted.  It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that, yes, what we put into our bodies and how we use them will affect our health.  DUH.  And yes, our children are putting a lot of “bad food” into their mouths and, on the whole, they move less than we did as kids.  But do we really need to bring scales into schools and have assemblies on HOW BAD BEING FAT IS?  As though the chubby girl who already has boobs needs another reason to stick out in 5th grade.  And where does it end?  If your kid tips the scale at an “abnormal number”, should we call CPS?   Ummm, scary.  No.  As the mother of a chart-topping, jumbo baby, you can’t tell me that your little health equations magically show you how I parent.  That’s not going to change when Landon is 12.

I DO think the US government should start regulating the poison that we fill our foods with - MSG, high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated oils, etc. But after that, people’s bodies are their own property and responsibility. To quote my dear, wise friend, fatness “tells you nothing about the fat person except that they are fat“. It even can mean two or more things during ONE person’s lifetime. Asthma, eating disorder, genetics, allergies, birth control, laziness, muscle density….and the list goes on. To treat it as a symptom of only one of those factors is really narrow-minded and just downright useless.

I’ve started exercising regularly and eating healthier food. It makes me feel good, gives me more energy and I would love to not have to buy a whole new wardrobe. I am working towards the best version of me, and it’s on my terms. I CANNOT imagine if I was told I HAD to lose the weight in order to qualify for medical insurance, or something ridiculous like that. I think it’s great to promote health on all levels, but one of the first steps in doing that is to get rid of all the numbers and statistics and standards that do NOT account for the incredible and beautiful diversity that exists in our world. “Health” will look different on everyone. Soooo, the BMI?  Incomplete.  Food pyramid?  Inadequate. Ideal weight gain during pregnancy? FALSE. C’mon people. If healthy newborns can range from 5 to 11 pounds - a 120% difference! - why can’t healthy adults be skinny, pudgy, and in between?

Psh.

I have recently realized that a handful of my old college friends blog.  Joy!  I love to read what they write, to get a glimpse into their lives.  It has also made me realize that Portland is Where It’s At Yo.  I plan on visiting this summer, and my babe and I are going to crash all their parties.

Also, I went running yesterday.  It felt awesome.  And then I stopped….and almost died.  What, did I think I was back on varsity running cross country?  RUTH.  YOU CANNOT RUN THAT FAST WITHOUT CONSEQUENCES.  Regardless, I am excited to do it again tomorrow.  Maybe I’ll pace myself.  That would be good.

There’s nothing like a woman who knows who she is and what she wants.

That’s gonna be me.

Too much of my time is spent reacting to life as it comes at me.  Or being bored with the lack of life coming at me.  But I’m learning.  So when I started to feel lonely, isolated, and stir-crazy from spending all day with my toothless, incontinent boss*, I decided that I probably wasn’t the only mom who felt that way.  So I started a mom’s group.  (*Landon is the most awesome person.  Ever.  But one can only handle so many hours of one-sided conversation.)

I’m really proud of myself.  Instead of moping around, wishing people could read my mind and come to my rescue - which is precisely what I did when I was lonely our first year of marriage - I took things into my own hands.  “If you want something done the right way, you have to do it yourself.” - Mom

I need to apply that principle to other areas of my life as well.  For instance, I feel pretty crummy about my fitness level.  I realize that nursing, no sleep, and working part time are going to make me tired.  Duh.  But I feel that my body has the potential to handle it better if I get “in shape”.  I’ve been doing pilates sporadically, and I just bought a Tae Bo video and some running shoes.

Watch out Bloomsday and (maybe) smaller jeans!  I don’t care that I will never look like I did when I was 17.  My body has done some amazing things since then, and I’m proud of it.  But regardless of how I look, I want to feel like a healthy 23-year-old.  Which, at this juncture in life, I do NOT.  Many days I feel like I just got bull-dozed by a bus full of middle school boys.  Ew.

I didn’t make New Year’s resolutions this year (or any year).  I’m not much good at thinking them up on the spot.  But today I will make a February 17th resolution:  Own your life.  If you don’t like something, change it.  And with that, I go to live this day to the fullest!

Not from food, crazies!  I’m a nursing mother!  (And not very self-disciplined.)  No, this time we are fasting from TV.  Sadly, this is going to be very hard for me.  Which is precisely the reason that I need to cut back.  Nothing wrong with watching a little TV, but we want to make space in our lives for more exercise, family time, and reading.

I also want to invest more energy into crafting.  I am making this diaper bag, and I want to have it finished soon.  Pictures of my progress to come.

Ok - now that our resolution is out there in cyberworld, I feel like it’s more real.  Here’s to a week full of meaningful activity, rest, and more human interaction.

Here comes a rant.

I am SICK of people trying to convince me that my birthing experience was hard, traumatic, awful, excruciating, THE WORST THING EVER.

So, Dear People Who Think They Know:  Were you there?  Did you hold my hand as I accomplished my dream of bringing my child into the world in a calm, peaceful manner?  Did you see my pride, exhilaration, and unmeasurable joy when I pulled my son up to my chest?  Did you see me confront my fear, stomp it to the ground, and claim my right to my birth, my body as a powerful, capable woman?  No.  Because you weren’t invited.  Birth is intimate and personal.  You have no more right telling me what my birth was or wasn’t than you have telling me about my wedding night.

Haven’t you heard me say that my birth was transformational, empowering, and beautiful?  Do you not believe me when I say that I loved it?  Do you think you understand my experience better than I do?  Quit looking at me like I’m crazy.  Quit contradicting me.  Quit trying to put words into my mouth, pain into my memories, and weakness into my body.

I will defend my son’s birth.  I should not have to.  But it is too precious, too valuable to tarnish with your petty stereotypes, cliche words, and misinformed assumptions.  Yes, there was pain.  Blood.  Tears.  How much more beautiful the prize?  How much more confident the mother?  How much more glorious the ending?  November 7, 2009, was the day I touched my son and the journey to meet him was filled with mental, spiritual, and physical breakthroughs and triumph.  Shame on you for telling me it wasn’t so.

To all the women who have birthed, I am not trying to define “birthing” in general.  Your story is your own, and you have a right to it.  I cannot claim to understand your experience, so if you say it was awful and terrible, I believe you.  And to all the men who think they know enough to tell a woman what birth is like?  You don’t.

I don’t want to be an angry vigilante, but it has been downright hurtful that people - especially people who love me - doubt my story and don’t rejoice with me.  I am just thankful that I have a husband and a handful of dear friends who understand me.

Thus ends the rant.

Layne’s out of town for a week, and to avoid mass loneliness and overwhelmed-ness, I came to Montana to stay with my folks for a while.  The first revelation was that I had not driven home by myself in a long time (ever?).  Landon was with me, but he slept the whole way - THANK you, son - so he didn’t really qualify as a travel buddy.  I had a lot of time to sing to myself and think.

The next revelation came as I rounded the corner onto our road.  It just hit me like a ton of bricks that I was coming home as a MOTHER.  That’s the place I rode my tricycle, and, oh, I’m a MOM.  Totally surreal.  I feel pretty normal and adjusted at our home in Spokane, but my “home” here seems so different.  Like I am experiencing it from a great distance.  It is such a beloved place, and it is a bit sad that if feels foreign to me now.  On the other hand, I am satisfied that I am adult enough to feel like my “real home” is with my husband and son.

The sociological concept of home really intrigues me.  Post-industrialized Western culture has left a lot of people feeling displaced.  We scatter our lives over several locales and very few of us maintain lifelong communities.  Multi-generational home arrangements are taboo, and people who live with their parents past the age of 18 are labeled as losers.  Our Nepali friends think it’s weird that we separate so drastically from our parents and refuse to pool resources in the name of maturity and independence.  They have a point.  Economically it makes sense to utilize the social capital of families.  The presence of grandparents in the home spreads the load of home labor and raising children while giving purpose and dignity to a population that is in many ways abandoned in our society.  It is especially difficult to explain/justify putting our elderly in nursing homes.  What a way to thank those who changed our diapers and gave us our start in the world.

But I’m all talk.

I still want my own life, in my own house, in my own town.  I think…  Mom’s cooking combined with the whole “why-don’t-I-hold-the-baby-while-you-nap/shower/breathe” thing is pretty tempting.  But we’re not ready to move into the basement quite yet.

If Another Woman carried my child,

Knit him together,

Gave him life and birth,

How would I regard her?

I would love her.

Thank her stretch marks,

Adore her new, changed skin.

Bless her altered body,

Praise her womb.

I would not be ashamed of her mothered figure,

Full, transitioning, worn.

For it housed my most precious love,

The dearest child,

My son.

But it was not Another Woman.

It was Me.

Why then, does shame infiltrate?

Why try to hide the bump that I used to wear with pride?

Why shed tears of fear over my sexuality,

My beauty,

My worth?

No more.

I will thank, bless, adore, praise this body.

The One which did the work.

The One which still sustains my baby.

Lovely, able, weathered me.

I was writing an update email to one my dearest friends and decided to, in the name of energy conservation, copy and paste.  If it’s worth saying once, it’s worth saying twice, no?

My life still revolves around men, even at this stage in my life.  (I know, Landon’s not quite a man, although he seems to be heading there much too quickly.)  Especially during this maternity leave phase, my sun rises and sets with these Stoops men.  More than I am comfortable with sometimes.  But I think it has taught me some valuable lessons about myself, as relationship usually does:

I am selfish. In the past, I have prided myself with being a servant (not sure that pride and service mix…ha), but the whole sleep deprivation, I’m-The-Only-One-With-The-Boob, life-altering role change thing really opened my eyes to how central I am in my world.  It has taken WORK to grow up and be this kid’s mom.  There have been countless times where I am whining in my head…..”Who’s gonna take care of ME?….I’m tiiiiiired…why can’t someone else be his mom tonight?”  It’s pathetic, really.  There’s a little girl in me who is resisting responsibility, and I have to spank her everyday.