An education

Taking a childbirth educator training is not something I would have done of my own volition anytime soon (and perhaps this is my mothers' day post, since we both know I won't get around to writing again before Sunday), priorities being what they are; self worth (frankly) being what it is. My interests and value, monetarily speaking at least, have been on the back burner which, on our 30 year old stove, means the non-functioning burner where we keep the compost bowl (true story). My value lies in being home both because I have few marketable skills and because I am an educated and intentional mother. So, to be a nice guy, Nathan signed me up for a class. It was not a cheap class, nor was it, in actuality, the workshoppy pastime for idle stay at home moms I envisioned (because, real talk, I have devalued my own interests and motherhood-related intellectual pursuits as passing, hormone-driven whims. Do you do that too? Because stop; it is total bullshit!).

It was rigorous and in-depth and involved many, many, many hours of online coursework before the three in-person days spent at Bastyr University's Simkin Center in a classroom just like real people learning things in an official capacity (read: students). It was facilitated and taught by people who, had they looked hard enough, might've seen the cartoon hearts dotting the path straight toward them from my eyeballs. It was unadulterated birth junkie heaven, yes, but it was also intellectual. Scholarly. It was revitalizing and legitimizing to be in a roomful of current and future professional women all interested in the empowerment of pregnant people, and the healthy growth of new families. I sat next to midwives and naturopathic doctors and doulas and other mothers and did the same assignments, dove head first through the same hoops, and I can say without hesitation something I never would've guessed before arriving in that classroom: the floor beneath those hoops was the same distance away for all of us.

Prior to the in-person portion of the class, I fretted pretty much constantly about everyone else's expertise as it related to my own (or lack thereof). Reading their forum responses to our readings, I was drawn to the credentials that I don't doubt were dropped on purpose to assuage their own self-doubt, because, as I learned, our guts were all teeming with butterflies. But in discussion I quickly realized that the field was level: future midwives who had not, themselves, yet given birth worried about their lack of experience. Women who'd had one baby pointed out that they hadn't had two. Older women had trouble with technology and pregnant ones lamented the fog that settled in their minds, making them lose their train of thought. Most everyone dreaded the practice teaching we obviously had to do. When I worried about how I'd be received, as I now know others did too, I neglected (as did everyone else) to remember that we were all taking a class whose main purpose was to imbue us with the ability to be unconditionally supportive. Predictably (in retrospect), there was no (or very little) competition; there was only admiration, constructive feedback, and a lot of over-sharing.

I thought I would leave the training further determined to teach natural-focused childbirth classes to those who are traditionally excluded from participation in them. Teenagers, poor families, those whose cultures hold the medical model of care and allopathic physicians as superior, godlike. My vision of that was flawed in many ways but the most flagrant flaw was that I would have presented my own steep bias. During my own childbirth class I closed my ears to the information on cesarean birth because I thought doing so would ensure my "perfect" outcome. Willfull ignorance is never okay, and is not a state I prefer. Still, unchecked, I may have imposed that on others, which would've been a disservice of such ridiculous proportion I can hardly stand to think about it.

My vision has changed, obviously, partly because my belief in "the facts" has solidified (for a good read on this, see Dr. Claire Wendland's article called The Vanishing Mother which totally blew my mind). I don't need to dance around the reasons for, for example, elective induction because I believe in the data that says it's a bad practice; I believe in people's concern for their babies, and in their ability to understand the data. And, as I realized while listening to Kim James, doula, educator, and fancy lady, I believe so strongly in these things that it doesn't matter if pregnant people make a different choice than I would. As long as I'm giving them all the facts I can move on with confidence that I haven't shortchanged them with a lie of omission, or myself by letting my belief in nature, support, knowledge and women waver by failing to present every side.

I don't know how long it'll take me to collect the baby dolls and pelvises and posters I need or to develop a curriculum, but I'm excited. As one of my classmates and fellow at-home mamas said in our closing circle (because it is hippie Bastyr in the hippie PNW), it was nice to realize that I still have valuable skills. I'm in a nice position, since you can't make less than nothing, and that is what I earn right now. I could, theoretically, offer workshops for free or very cheap. I can, in the immortal words, go my own way, easily and without much risk. I can, and plan to, take my time gathering resources, observing others, and continuing my education, because even though I feel fairly good about the content, my delivery needs quite a bit of practice and refinement.

Finally, I'm glad that my kids saw me doing something that had nothing to do with them, and in which I was clearly emotionally and intellectually invested. I have no problem with motherhood as an occupation, and the fight over its legitimacy and importance is a hill I would more than willingly die on, but until the kids stop needing me so much, I'll think of this as my night job. My other night job, I guess. I hope that's your takeaway from this long story of my long weekend: motherhood is fucking legitimate, whether you're doing it, and only it, full time, or teaching others how to follow the path of their intuition and bodies to the moment it becomes manifest in their arms. Neither is frivolous, neither is easy, and for some reason I am still learning that. Happy Mothers' Day, mamas. 

how to talk so people will listen

We love George's school. His main teacher is an unexpected gem whose willingness is boundless and who takes pride in her work. The director is a consummate professional which, in the field of early childhood education, encompasses more qualities than I could even begin to list but includes public singing, fundraising, the fielding of complaints both valid and not-so, maintaining accreditation as an honest-to-god school, and being universally beloved by all children ages 2 to 7. There's a giant dirt pit and a lizard and blocks, and George literally has a full-blown tantrum 90 percent of the time when I come to pick him up, he so deplores the idea of returning to his normal, boring, non-school life. 

Everything is hunky dory, there, mostly, or as close to it as you can get when a dozen or so preschoolers are invloved, and I enjoy fulfilling my obligatory parent hours by helping out in the classroom. The other day, it turned out to be lucky that I'd planned to stay because Teacher 1 was dealing with a family emergency and Teacher 2 was spring breaking in Mexico, leaving Teacher 3 to muddle through with a substitute, the two of them short a set of grown-up eyes. Perfect! I thought. And, well, it was... kind of. 

It's jarring when you hear adults speak to kids in ways you wouldn't. Ways you find upsetting, even though the adult is clearly loved by the child they're speaking to unkindly. In my time in the classroom that day, I heard Teacher 3 tell a child to "lose the attitude" - a phrase that, in addition to being wholly unhelpful in actually modifying behavior, is, I think, too colloquial for her to even understand. I watched Teacher 3 inattentively blow a kiss to a little boy who approached her with a finger stinging from a berry bush prick, then tell him he was fine despite the tears welling in his eyes. When I offered to take him to find a band-aid, my own hand still smarting from when I'd untangled another kid from the same overgrown bush, she guiltily helped him toward the nearest first aid kit without sympathy. A little girl pushed her way through the pre-recess line up and, after being pulled aside for a chat, was told as she frantically pulled her boots on and fretted that her friends would leave without her, "If you'd been nice, you'd be outside with everyone else right now." When a child's finger found its way under the rockers of the storytime chair, Teacher 3 flat out ignored his wails and tears, saying, without looking, "you're fine." 

Thankfully, in that case, the substitute pulled him onto her lap, dried his tears and held him, affirming that it fucking hurts when someone rocks a chair onto your fingers. 

What struck me as I thought about all of these interactions was not how abominable they were, but how normal they were, in truth. Teacher 3's reactions and communication style wouldn't draw much criticism from most people; she may even be applauded for her non-coddling approach which would surely encourage the kids to self soothe and shake off what were, in actuality, minor injuries. But I couldn't help but think about what kind of response I'd expect from a friend if I said, "I just got stuck by a thorn! My finger is killing me!" Or, even, the inexpressable-by-preschoolers but easy-to-spot, "I stubbed my toe! Man, this whole day has been fucking TERRIBLE." What kind of friend would tell me I was just fine, and to get back to work? What kind of friend would ignore me completely? So why do we do this to kids? 

I've been trying to decide how to proceed. If I'd like to take it up with Teacher 3 -- a young, inexperienced but enthusiastic woman with undeniably good intentions whom I do not want to bias against my son -- or with her boss. Do I want to suggest some reading material, or offer some facts about development, or suggest that the director give her some leads? Do I assume my son's love for her, which he freely states, will see past what I think is a less than stellar communication style? Do I consider this the first in what will surely be a long line of people speaking to him in ways I wish they wouldn't? 

And, of course, my delivery matters. Because if I offer my opinion unhelpfully, it could easily come across as "lose the attitude" does to a four year old. Confusing. A nebulous affront. I'll say it straight, too: I could never be a preschool teacher long-term. My patience runs thin with only two. 

What would you do? What resources might be helpful in reevaluating this widespread dismissive way we talk to kids? Or would you let it go?