parenthood

Happy Father’s Day Everyone!

Posted on June 17, 2017June 17, 2017 by sidraowens

On Mother’s Day, I promised I would do a post for Father’s Day. I try hard to keep my promises.

Parenting is hard. Any parent knows this. Any child who grows up to one day be a parent, realizes this. Mothers and fathers share hardships, but they also have hardship unique to their stations, in life, as a mother or a father.

Fatherhood is hard. Fatherhood is hard, because inherently, especially in the US, being male can be hard. The expectations placed on males to be a “man” in this society can work against what it takes to be a good father.

Parenting in general requires the right balance of sternness and gentility, and I can tell you from experience that that is a hard tight rope to cross. But the “stigma” of being a man in America says you should be hard, tough, take no one’s shit, and let nothing get to you, ever. I know that many are working to change this, but that sentiment is sadly woven into the fabric of this country.

To me, it seems hard to be a loving, nurturing father and be a hard as nails “man” at the same time. This stigma of what a man should be relates directly to how boys are treated, as they are raised. Girls are treated delicately, little princesses to be catered to, but boys, they are supposed to take a licking and keep on ticking, no matter what. No matter what the licking is; whether, emotional, social, physical, mental. Damn man, that’s too much to ask of anyone. Men are not supposed to be vulnerable; they’re not supposed to feel pain, it’s viewed as weakness, softness, feminine. All that is bullshit.

I hope to have a son one day, so that my mate and I can raise him differently. So that he can decide what kind of man he will be, and thus, what kind of father he will be, if he ever decides to be one.

My time with my own father was brief. My parents divorced when I was young and he died not too many years later. My memories are few; many good, most not so good. If he had not had to deal with the struggles of being a “man”, as defined by society, maybe things would have been different.

Fathers’ are humans, just like mothers. But they do not get heavily doted on, or get the cute crafts for father’s day. And deep down, in their heart of hearts, most fathers’ would absolutely love them. I know my mate does.

Fatherhood is hard. It requires a firm hand and a soft touch. Unfortunately, many boys who become men, fully receive the firm hand but never the soft touch and therefore, they never master it. I ask that for all those who read this, for all those who are able to reach out and embrace their own fathers, give them that soft touch and I believe that you will receive it in return.

Happy Father’s Day everyone.

Mother’s Day… Re-imagined.

Posted on May 14, 2017May 14, 2017 by sidraowens

For most of you, and for your parents and your grandparents, mother’s day has always been around. It’s not a religious holiday or a pagan holiday, and it started out with the best of intentions. One woman wanted to pay homage to one mother, he own mother, hence the spelling, mother’s day, not mothers day. But of course, like many things in this country and society, it was bastardized and wrapped in pretty packages, covered in flowers, cards and trips to golden coral.

If you want to know the sad truth behind it, check out this link:

http://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/happy-mother-day-cruel-history-innocent-holiday-article-1.3160422

But this all leads to a conversation that I have had with my boyfriend many times; when it comes to holidays, there is no rule or law that says we have to celebrate for the reason that it was initiated, or for the reason that it is currently known for.

This may seem silly and naïve to some, but I think you can remake and re-imagine any holiday the way you see fit, as long as it make you happy and doesn’t harm anyone else.

There are greek and roman festivals thought to be in celebration of mothers, like mother’s day; and they have been celebrated for thousands of years.

I guess what I am trying to say is, do not give in to the commercialism, but instead, revel in the spirit of the day. Yes, it can be a day of thanks, but more than that, it can be a day of quiet reflection. A time for children of a cognitive age to reflect on the all the times mom made them happy, made them sad, lifted them up, disciplined them, and comforted their broken hearts. Not all mothers are ideal, and not all mothers are cut out for parenting, but I think optimistically, 90% of mothers do the best they can, especially since we are operating without a net.

The relationship between mother and child, son or daughter, is not an easy one. It will always be a direct clash between independence and guidance. Hopefully, on days like this, we children can stop a moment and say, I understand what you’ve been getting at mom, and I know that you tried.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Of course, I’m a mom and a child, with powerful and intricate dynamics on both sides of the coin; dynamics that I can never explain in words; the emotions are just too numerous and run to deep.

So for all of you, who can hold your mom in your arms, and for all of those, who can only hold her in your memories, Happy Mother’s Day. May a smile and a tear warm your heart today.

PS: Don’t feel left out daddies. Believe me, I will give you your due on Father’s Day. I think that would be fair.

Keen Senses

Posted on September 26, 2016September 26, 2016 by sidraowens

It was winter when she was born. Just over six pounds and lungs like a four month old. I had never experienced instant emotion before. When the tears sprang from my eyes at the sound of her first cry, I didn’t know the gravity of the subtle changes to come.

Those first five days were a whirlwind of speedy education and searing pain, like a red hot poker being jammed into my abdomen; a consolation prize of the cesarean section that ushered her into the world. I didn’t start to feel the nerves and the worry until day four. How can we go home? What’re we going to do with her? Finally, I felt the worry that her father had been feeling for nine months. Scared shitless, but never letting on to me. He kept me laughing the entire pregnancy; so much so that in the coming months my laughter would comfort the newborn into a sound sleep.

The incision stopped me from being able to care for her adequately. Her daddy was the first to change her and I was the first to recognize that stubbornness of the Chinese ox under which she was born. All attempts to nurse were met with the tiny strength of a day old baby, who could hold up her own head and pull away enough to let us know that breast feeding was not for her. All of the in-utero head butts seemed to have paid off.

And then, we were home. Five days before there were two of us and now there were three. The result of fifteen years of love, pain, struggles and understanding. Now we have embarked on a brand new adventure. Birth is a difficult task and her little body required all of the rest afforded to her. And so did he. Five days in a half-assed recliner is a lot to ask of anyone, but he did it with little complaint for his girls; his family.

In the night, despite the prescription pain medication, sleep was fleeting, like dust in the wind, because of all the sounds. Lying in bed in the pitch darkness, my eyes were wide, snapping my head to the right at the slightest sigh. I could hear her. Sharp and more acutely that anything I’d ever heard, I could hear her. Her quiet breathes; the wisps of her small movements against the cotton fabric of the bassinet. Low whines and whimpers. Even her daddy seemed to shift and breathe in an identical manner.

Over the coming days and weeks, and even for the next year, as I marveled daily at being a mother and at being her mother, I learned her every utterance; from the high pitch hoots of a bowel movement to the rapid exhalations at the joy of awakening. She would smile and laugh sooner than the experts say she should and burp the less than enjoyable fragrance of formula into my face, before resting her head back against my shoulder. She would cry with a very distinctive L in her voice and looked baffled when her dad would startle her out of a tantrum with a simple puff her air to her round face.

Six years later, nothing has changed. Her every shift and sigh gains my attention. The yawn of the six year old is identical to the yawn of the newborn, despite the growth and changes in the years between. She will still lean her head into your hand, if you gently caress her face, while she sleeps. She still laughs when she farts; and I still stand over her and look closely at her body to insure that the involuntary rise and fall of her chest is unimpeded.

In my bedroom at night, I sometimes think I hear her; or when she is off at school, I expect to see her on the futon or think for sure that I heard her sigh; like I would hear her cry when she was a baby, just to inspect her bassinet and find her sound asleep. I listen with a sense beyond simple hearing, seeding concern where there need not be any; stimulating that rational and irrational need to protect at all times, even when she is beyond my reach.

My daughter has brought change, but none greater than the ones that have occurred within me. More than just my senses, I am stronger, sharper and more acute; growing with her, as she grows; becoming the best me I can be, so that I can help make her the best that she can be.