I’m thinking through a few big posts (politics this election season, attachment parenting and all this new press it’s getting), but I don’t have time to write one of them today. I thought I’d celebrate this lovely third.of.a.year, though, with a few glimpses into our lives right now, both narrative and photographic.

First the narrative:

• We’ve learned that Bram loves yogic ohms, and if he’s crying and we ohm to him – or sing his name that way – he’ll calm down almost every time. Sometimes his crying will even become controlled first, so that though he looks bewildered as to why it’s happening, he’ll stop crying and start ohming with us. It is magnificent to watch his out-of-control cry become a strong, controlled sound. Lovely to think that we might be teaching him to harness his own emotions instead of letting them take over.

• We’ve had a whirlwind weekend to round out his first four months. Dinner with our wonderful midwife/now friend, her wife, and their little girl (in the country, which it turns out is delightful!), lunch in a neighboring city with dear friends, and a wedding shower for Bram’s Aunt Laura. We kept the boy out past his bedtime both nights, but that seems to have caused me more anxiety than it has him. In fact, he slept through! the! night! last night (from 10pm to 6:30am), so maybe we’ll plan more outings soon. Having woken so well rested, we all spent the morning laying about in bed, probably the most relaxed morning we’ve had as a family of three. Then we took a family walk to visit other friends (who were nice about my whining re: the heat). We deviated from our no gluten, soy, or dairy a little this weekend, though, which seems to be catching up with Bram now in the form of an upset stomach and a little bit of rash. This afternoon has been rough, but otherwise: a triumph of a weekend. I’ve thought “this is the best weekend of my life” so many times since B was born that I think I need a new scale. Weekends used to be nice. Now they’re often things of glory.

• Finally – though I’m sure that lots of you already know this – we’ve been THRILLED to learn this week of the birth of a beautiful new baby. Congratulations and strong-baby-making to the moms over at Love Invents Us! Happy new world, sweet Monkey; happy new big-brotherhood (in the literal not the Orwellian way), Yogi! It’s such a joy to imagine the four of you together. J and I await each new photo with childlike pleasure.

Now the photographic:

A photo my mama took before our Mother’s Day brunch together. How different this Mother’s Day was from last year’s. Still, I’m thinking of all the women out there who are struggling with infertility or child loss, for whom this holiday is a crushing affair (many of whom, I know, are readers). May you find every bit of the joy we found this year in a Mother’s Day to come. And may you find peace in the meantime.

I had to send the AAUW a “work-action” shot. This was tricky for me because unlike some of their fellows, I’m neither an astronaut nor an acrobat. This photo is pretty much what my work looks like these days, so this is what I sent. I don’t expect to see it showing up in their advertisements, but it brings me pleasure to think that this is what my work looks like right now.

Oh my gosh, this little girl. I’m not sure how much her mamas would want us writing on here, and I want to respect their privacy, but I had to include this photo because we L.O.V.E. this child, and it seems that we love her about as much as she loves Baby Bug Bram. [Why didn't anyone ever tell me how much little kids adore each other?!?] Anyway, this child is bold and fearless and just full of bounding sweetness (and the perfect amount of mischief for a twenty-first-century girl). She is a total life force. B is lucky to count her among his first friends.

Our serious boy. His high, curious eyebrows. His widow’s peak. His elephant Shmuel.

Possibly my favorite new photo of my two favorite people.

Aunt Kippie is a bringer of lightness and laughter.

Bram adores his Uncle Buddy.

Snugging with Aunt Laura during her wedding shower.

Baby loves to stand. Mama loves the way baby’s naked toes stretch and squish out when he does so.

Our lazy morning.

Postscript: I recently got a comment from a woman who lost three of her four babies, full term, to Factor V Leiden (the clotting disorder I have that they think kept E from developing feet). I haven’t written her back yet because, honestly, I don’t know what to say. I read an article about Toni Morrison recently wherein she (having lost an adult son) says we shouldn’t tell grieving people we’re sorry; we should just hug them and mop their floor. I think this is just about right. Only I can’t hug this woman, or wash her floor. I can’t do anything besides hold space for this knowledge. For those little beings. For her grief, and for all that love.

We just passed our anniversary of making Bram (May 2nd), so this little being has been with us for over a year now.

I submitted grades last week, so I’m teaching-free for the next year, which is just: wow. My first writing deadline is June 1st, though, so there’s no time to revel in this blessed freedom. I’m working on my sex chapter now, which is a particularly intimidating one. Wish me luck.

And in even more exciting news, J ran a 5k yesterday! She’d never run a mile in her life before she carried and gave birth to this Rabbit, so this fact is especially amazing. SHE is especially amazing. She liked it so much that she’s already planning a 10k, and she’s moved her runs to 5am so as to make sure there’s time for them. My exercise-resistant, sleep-loving, already-sleep-deprived wife is preparing for a 10k, and she’s willing to get even less sleep to do it. I did not see this coming, but man am I impressed. Also, this just in: running-J is sexy.

And in even MORE exciting news, our boy rolled from back to front! And then he did it again! And then he did it again! And THEN (the next day) he laughed for about a minute straight! I’m not even sure what was so funny, but it was like he discovered he could do it, and it felt too good to stop. It was a total life-high for both J and me. I’m absolutely certain there’s no sweeter sound.

Let’s see, what else. I walked the 5k wearing B in my new woven wrap (a Storchenwiege Leo Black and White). J and B got it for me for Mother’s Day, and I love, love, love it, love the support it offers. I adored our stretch wraps until these last couple of pounds, but a fifteen-pound baby calls for woven cotton. There’s not much in the material world that makes me wish I were rich, but woven wraps seem to be a weakness. I’m sure it serves as a replacement in my mind (heart?) for breastfeeding (which I still long to do), but regardless: this boy loves to be worn, and I love to accommodate him.

Oh, and our (probable) new sitter is coming for a visit this morning. I think we’ll just sit down over tea and talk through her expectations and ours to be sure it’s a good fit. She’ll be with B on Monday and Wednesday mornings from 7:45 to 12:15, and J and I are both having a hard time with this. He’s only ever been away from us (both) for two hours one time. And though I went back to work pretty quickly after he was born, I never really went back to work. I did nearly all of my reading, prep, and grading while wearing B, or while he was with J, or while he slept at night. My visits to the coffee shop (and even my one visit to the library) have all been with-baby. So though my work just got more flexible, it’s actually going to be a lot more demanding. I can do some reading with Bram asleep on my chest, but I really can’t write that way. Writing takes a lot of focus for me. And I’m beginning to understand what Erica told me in a comment a few months back: that I need to go away to write so that I can be truly here when I’m here. I can’t do both things well at the same time, and what I’m finding is that I’ll sacrifice my work every time if it means getting to be a present mama.

So here’s the plan: I’ll ride in with J on Monday and Wednesday mornings, and I’ll work in the reading room of her college’s library (which is stunning) all morning: 4 hours each day. On Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, I’ll head to the coffee shop after dinner, giving J and B alone.together time and me 2-3 hours each night to write. I’ll do the same thing Sunday mornings from 8-10:30. And I’ll commit to reading (for work and not just blogs) for at least one hour of B’s (on.my.chest) afternoon nap each day (5 hours a week in total). This adds up to about 20 hours a week, which may not be enough, but my hope is that 20 hours of intense focus will go as far as 40 hours of pre-baby, dawdle-filled work. If what I can get done around the house in 20 baby-free minutes is any indication, I’ll make these 20 hours count. Still, I’m pretty unsettled about leaving Bram with S – though I think she’ll be amazing with him – for nine whole hours every week. Anyone have any advice for letting go of fears and trusting someone else with your little one?

Oh, and a couple of photos:

My true, true, true loves. Who knew the heart could feel this huge?

Mama, Bram, Springtime, and the Storch.

Our sweet B-Rabbit. Attentive. Curious. Beautiful.

Hope May has been sweet to all of you so far!

N.B. I just realized that I published this under J’s log-on. R fail. You all know, though, that her posts all have periods to either side of the title and mine don’t, right? Also, she’s not arrogant enough to describe her running self as “sexy.” :)

- R is taking the boy to his first story time at the public library this afternoon (it’s a baby “lapsit” program). I’m bummed that I can’t attend with them, as I’m at work, but I’m so stoked that they’re able to go. My mom used to be the story time lady at my elementary school, so I’m extremely partial to this practice.

- The first 100-mile Farmer’s Market of the season is this evening at our Co-op. Plus, our regular city farmer’s market starts up this coming Saturday, and our organic CSA starts in three weeks!

- Bram has taken to sitting in his bumbo in the middle of the dining room table while we eat lunch and dinner these days. He watches us so intently while we eat. He’s even reached out for things here and there, and, though he’s too young for any solids yet, we’re stoked to think that he will be an “enjoyer” of food!

- We’re in the process of hiring a part-time, in-home sitter for Bram so that R can actually have dedicated time for dissertating. The young woman that we’re hiring is a talented, enthusiastic musician who is fluent in ASL. We’re so excited that she’ll sing and sign with B. Also, she’s totally happy to accommodate our attachment parenting/cloth diapering lifestyle. We’re also stoked because she’ll be coming over one evening a month so that R and I can have a genuine grown-ups date night! Yay!

- I feel like I’m really hitting my stride with this parenthood thing. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever had, but I think that B is thriving and R and I are strong and connected. B changes everyday. Last week, he decided that bedtime should be around 8pm every evening, so we’ve been enjoying the transition of having an actual evening to ourselves. He’s usually up twice in the night to eat, but he’s so damn sleepy and cuddly that I actually find myself waking up before him in the night, listening for his cues so that we can snug together. He has a new lovey, lapinos the french bunny (featured in the photo below). We think he’s likely teething, as he wants to munch on e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g and he drools like a mastiff puppy. He can sit up with only the slightest parental support. He will not let us wean him from his night swaddler yet, so we’ve stopped trying for the time being.

Mostly, all of this is to say that this kid is awesome, my wife is awesome, and this life is beyond my wildest imaginings. I am truly grateful.

I’ve taught a class a semester here for four years. As I turned off the lights and pulled the door closed in an empty building (I collected essays until 9:15 last night, so I think I was the last instructor there), I reflected on what these past four years have meant to me. When I came to this town, I had only been studying literature for three years, and had only taught for one. I knew I wanted a transatlantic focus, and that postcolonial studies spoke to me, but I was intimidated – completely baffled, really – at the thought of making my own narrow way through such broad spaces. Everything felt new, on the brink. J and I were committed, but not yet engaged. We’d yet to grieve Charleston. To find this little cottage. To find our footing as partners. To meet our wonderful wonderful friends. To sit in silence – in a room full of our loved ones – promising to always uphold each other. To honeymoon in Boston. To be nearly run off a mountain for being gay in rural Ohio. To get pregnant. To lose E. To get pregnant again. To bring our son into the world. J didn’t have an MA or a passion for doula work. We didn’t know I had Graves’ Disease or Factor V Leiden. I’d yet to hear Jack Halberstam speak and feel the puzzle pieces of my scholarship click into place. We had no idea what terrible gardeners we’d become. I’d only just started learning to cook. We couldn’t fathom how deeply we’d love parenting.

When we first got the offer here, we weren’t sure we’d come. I also got a funded offer from SUNY Stony Brook, which houses a higher-ranked program. My mentors in Charleston felt strongly that SUNY’s was the offer to accept. But J and I had a hunch, an instinct, that this was the place for us. So I called the man who would become my dissertation director (though we didn’t know it at the time). Then we packed up everything we owned in a u-haul, put the cats in a carrier on the seat between us, and drove across the country towards a small city we’d never been to before.

Now here we are. I closed that door last night and began to face the prospects of a whole year with no teaching. The last year of a long road of formal education. I found out last week that in addition to the internal dissertation fellowship, I will also receive an AAUW (American Association of University Women) fellowship starting in June. For me, this is a big deal. This is a dream. The AAUW has been funding women in higher education since 1888. They’ve funded some pretty amazing women doing some pretty remarkable things. I’m blown away to be in that kind of company. Truly: aside from my ongoing struggles with medical anxieties and an autoimmune disorder – both of which I’m trying to cure – my life is pretty much perfect. I’ve been striving for so much for so long, and now I’m surrounded by the things I’ve wanted. And you know what? Now that those things are here, they’re even better than I’d imagined.

As I type this – green tea at my side and rain falling steadily from a gray sky outside – Bram is upstairs taking one of his very.few.ever crib naps. (I know I should be doing the laundry, babe. I’m sorry.) We got to spend lots of time this week with our dear C (Kippie), and having her here makes all three of us happier. She even brought us some of this year’s first crop of asparagus, and you know how I feel about that. My mom’s coming on Friday, and we’re planning a trip (B’s first time on the road!) to visit lots of J’s family this summer. It isn’t that things are easy. Really, they’re hard. My writing schedule for the next year is intense. I just finalized the plan last night, and I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me. We need to find in-home childcare we can trust for about eight hours a week, and that’s daunting. Being back at work is hard on J, and though I love doing it, being home alone with B for forty hours a week is tough. We’re both exhausted. But it’s an exhaustion born not of grief, nor of longing, but of doing what we’ve desperately wanted to do. It’s an exhaustion of life coming together.

Now a few photos of that life.

First, Bram and Ramona at three months. He’s not one of those constantly-smiling babies, but he’ll give you one if you earn it, and gods they’re worth the world:

B and his dearest friend. He loves that boy madly:

Bram in Aunt Kippie’s arms:

Sitting up for peace:

B now joins us for family dinners:

I hope this spring is treating all of you kindly. I’m as grateful as ever for this community.

Here’s a little something to rub my gums on while I wait for 5pm (notice B’s new amber teething necklace):

In other news, how flippin’ cute is this kid!?! J.

A few things to note before reading:

- “G” is a little baby to whom J is currently donating milk. His mom has had a rough time.

- In my wife’s fantasy day, SHE makes breakfast and does the dishes. Adorable.

- Oh, for an afternoon stroller (and not in-arms) nap. This WILL happen, right?

- No neighborhood lawn boy – Skip or otherwise – weeds our lawn. If anyone knows of a Skip, though…

- In J’s fantasy day, she has found us an imaginary babysitter [so far we've only left B once, and that was with extremely trusted friends] who both adores Bram AND plays with the cats. The degree to which our cats are neglected haunts me MUCH more than it haunts her. J’s inclusion of this one detail lets me know how much she loves me.

- Does a gluten-, soy-, and dairy-free dessert even exist? If so, someone should make it for us.

- In her fantasy, our boy is sleeping in a sleep sack, which means we’ve successfully weaned him off of swaddling. Gods bless her for imagining us on the other side of this process.

- Finally, how adorable is my wife?!?

I wake up of my body’s own accord at 8:00 in the morning. Bram is still asleep in his crib from the night before. At this point, he’s clocked nine hours, so I know it will be over an hour before he’s awake. I stretch out and open my eyes. R’s warm, sleeping body is curled up next to me. Sunlight is streaming in from the sides of the blinds. Both cats are curled in a warm, contented ball at the foot of the bed.

I get out of bed quietly; careful not to disturb my sleeping family. I creep downstairs, open the blinds, turn on the monitor, and pump. Because Bram is sleeping through the night, I’m able to pump 10 ounces in 15 minutes. It feels good to pump. I can make a big weekend bottle for Bram and two freezer bags for G. Then I get started on breakfast. I know that R doesn’t like overly complicated foods first thing, so I make a simple egg scramble with hash browns and gluten free toast. There’s fresh-squeezed juice and freshly brewed coffee (with real local cream for Renee and coconut milk creamer for me). I set the table with placemats and napkins, and I cut a quick bouquet of flowers from the garden for the center of the table. I turn on NPR very quietly in the background. The morning sun is warm and relaxing. All feels right in our tiny cottage.

First, I hear R stirring. I can almost hear the contentedness of her slowly coming out of sleep, stretching out in the bed, realizing there are good smells coming from downstairs. A few minutes later, I hear her soft footsteps on the stairs. Her sleepy smile and bedhead are just too cute. She’s so excited about breakfast, about the boy’s good sleep, and about the day ahead of us. We leisurely eat and dress. Eventually, Bram begins to stir. I go to him and we have a nice morning nurse. R gets him changed and dressed for the day while I attend to the morning dishes and the laundry.

By 10am we are all fed, dressed, and ready to go. We head out to the Farmer’s Market where we pick up the week’s delicious CSA (lots of hearty kale, heirloom tomatoes, a load of fresh spinach, carrots, peppers, and radishes). We stroll around the market carefully selecting delicious food for the week’s menu. We visit with friends. Bram takes it all in riding around on R’s chest. He seems to delight in all of the sounds and colors and smells. On our way home from the market, we stop by the co-op to finish off our week’s shopping. After the yield at the market, we only need a few items. We pick-up treats for the afternoon and I notice that three more strips have been taken off of the doula flyer that I hung last month. As I already have two families on my docket, this could be the third family that I need for certification. I’m feeling really good about this new path.

After the co-op, we head home. Bram has some nursing while R puts together sandwiches and huge salads for lunch. After lunch, I clear the dishes while R and Bram begin some floor time. Bram’s gotten so good at rolling over and grabbing his toys. He’s started to vocalize a lot more now, and we really feel like he’s grasping the baby signs that we’re teaching him. It seems like we’re on the verge of some big “firsts.” The three of us enjoy stories, toys, kisses, and songs together. When we can tell that he’s getting sleepy, we head outside. Bram has gotten comfortable taking his long afternoon nap in the stroller, so R pushes him all around while I go for my run. We’re out and about for well over an hour. The weather is beyond perfect. We see so many of our neighborhood friends playing with their families, as well. Life is good. 

Bram is so asleep when we get back from our walk that he lets us put him down in the Mamaroo. We’re both able to finish our respective workouts before Skip (yes, Skip) the neighborhood lawn boy comes over to garden for us. We give Skip thirty dollars knowing that our whole garden will be mowed, edged, weeded, and otherwise perfected by dinnertime.

R and I take turns showering and being with the boy. By 6pm, we’re both cleaned up, Bram has been nursed and changed, and there are two fresh bottles for him in the fridge. Our loving and trusted sitter arrives in time for our date night. We feel incredibly safe about leaving Bram with her. They have a good relationship and we can always tell that Bram has been well-cared for when we come home to him. She even does the dishes and plays with the cats while Bram sleeps. She’s a Godsend and we always fall over ourselves trying to pay her more money, which she will only reluctantly accept.

It’s 6:30pm and Renee and I are out on the town. We have dinner reservations at [a restaurant we love but really can't afford] to properly fete our recent accomplishments. The dinner is perfect, candlelit, and intimate. We both love our food and our gluten, soy, dairy free dessert. We arrive at the movie theater (for a movie we’re both excited to see) with enough time to take pictures in the photo booth. The movie is good. Really good. And by 9:30, we’re feeling connected, relaxed, and like no-one has leaked any bodily fluids on us for over three hours. We’re so excited to see Bram that we talk about him the whole ride home. When we arrive, the sitter is feeding him the last half of his second bottle. He’s got that glazed over sleep look in his eyes. She recounts the fun they’ve had, we pay her well, and say goodnight.

Together, we get him into his sleep sack, rock him and sing to him, and put him (fast asleep) into his crib in our room for another great night’s sleep. It’s only 10:30pm at this point. R and I are feeling rested and connected and excited to be alone together. … We go to sleep so excited to meet tomorrow.

The world of parenting, though, has brought with it a slew of new gendered expectations to dismantle. Everyone assumes that because I gave birth to Bram, because I’m breastfeeding him, I must be his “mother.” And while, obviously, I am one of his mothers, I see R as his “mothering” figure. What I hate about this whole conversation, though, is how always already sexed it is. There is no existing way for me to talk about parenting Bram based on my particular strengths, weaknesses, and preferences as an individual without having that language tied to my sex and/or gender representation. For R, the parenting “shoe” fits better. She’s a feminine woman. She is every bit the traditional “maternal” figure. She is nurturing, empathetic, consummately patient, and highly attuned to Bram’s desires. She offers him routines and stability throughout each day (and I don’t think this is just because she’s home with him full-time). As he grows, I expect that she will be the parent more likely to offer reassurances for bumps and bruises, gentle discipline, and consistent boundaries.

The gendered binary that society has constructed around parenting roles would then thrust me into a father’s role, a “paternal” figure. But that’s not sufficient to describe what kind of parent I am to Bram (and our future children). It’s true that, right now, I’m the breadwinner, but that likely won’t be true even two years from now. It’s also true that I tend to be silly and fun, I like spontaneity with the baby, and I tend to get frustrated more quickly when I’m not able to “fix” the situation. I handle our finances, our car, and fixing things around the house. I will likely be the person to teach our kids how to handle these areas of their own lives. I love all of the aspects of parenting: stories, songs, snuggles, baby wearing, feeding, bathing, massage, yoga, etc., but I’m less likely than R to initiate and maintain rituals and routines over time. All of these components put me into the stereotypically “paternal” camp. But concomitant to all of this, I love to breastfeed this baby, and I will likely induce lactation in order to breastfeed future adopted babies. I love intimacy and vulnerability with my family. I want Bram to sleep in our bed once it’s safe (we don’t have an appropriate family bed right now). I offer him sweetness and kisses and soft voices. In these ways, I can be seen to also “mother” him. Bram doesn’t need a traditional mother and father. He needs two committed adults who love each other and brought him into the fold of our family because of that love. He needs to know that he’s safe, that he’s valued, and that he will always have a supportive place to turn throughout his life.

Before he was born, R and I assumed that we would go by “mama” and “mommy,” respectively. These are the terms that we each call our own mothers, so they felt the most natural to us. But now that he’s here and we’re doing this daily work, I feel drawn to a different term. I like the moniker “pomo” for myself. It feels like a hybridization of “papa” and “mom.” It’s also a nickname for postmodernism, whose relativism appeals to me in this regard. It’s a sweet little nickname. And since it’s only mine, it doesn’t come saddled with linguistic baggage that builds constraints and/or expectations into its usage.

I have some reservations in making this switch, though. I worry that, because I’m the more masculine parent, using a non-normative name will cause me to be perceived by others as a secondary parent to R’s “mama.” In some ways, I’m okay with this. I already have the biological connection, the breastfeeding relationship, and automatic legal rights. In this way, it makes all the sense in the world that we should find ways to promote R’s equality in the eyes of the world. I also worry that other parents, namely straight women, might perceive two mothers as being in competition with one another for primacy in the “mother” role. But it’s like comparing apples and asparagus. We are two very different people, occupying two unique and necessary roles, both in our marriage and our parenting. It’s why I hate it when people say “same-gender marriage” or ‘same-gender parenting.” My gender has nothing to do with my sex. Two people with the same genitalia are perfectly capable of possessing wildly diverse skill sets, interests, and desires. This variance is really important to the health and well-being of a child. It’s important to see different subject positions growing up. It’s also important to bear witness to how two different people work together to find balance and harmony. This is where the crux of the movement for the rights of gay parents should be focused. It’s not about two men, two women, or a man and a woman; it’s about two individual people working together as a team to foster the health and development of a child into a contented, capable adult.

I think we’re limiting the expertise of parents through the gendering of parental roles and terms. We’re making mothers and fathers feel like failures when they may offer their children the perfect manifestation of their particular talents. We carve out arbitrary lines whereby one parent can feel judgmental of (or encroached upon by) another parent. R and I are practicing attachment parenting, but I’ve been disappointed by the foundational heteronormativity of this parenting model. I was even more disappointed to learn about the overt homophobia of some of its main champions (namely, Dr. Sears and Jean Leidloff). AP makes the biological bond between mother and child so sacrosanct that the other parent is helpless to do anything but work to foster and emulate that bond. And while there are certain essential truths to most parenting relationships (heterosexuality usually begets a biological connection; breastfeeding usually happens with the gestational parent), these are the lines drawn by early parenting. Yet we see these roles manifest throughout the parent/child relationship long after weaning.

There’s a lot of work to do here. I know that I’m barely scratching the surface in this post. The work of writing about this is important, but the work of finding a way to live my life as an expression of these thoughts is more important. I want to be the very best “pomo” that I can be to Bram, to be the best spouse that I can be to R, and to be a strong, autonomous, androgynous woman to boot. I’ll keep pushing my tie out of the way of my breast pump at work. I won’t be afraid to go to Bram each time he cries. I’ll revel in nursing him in the middle of the night, knowing that this early time is fleeting. And I’ll look forward to the many adventures we’ll have together as a team, as a family. It’s a blessing (albeit often in disguise) to be this conscientious, this intentional, in building our lives. It’s an awesome journey.

This post has nothing and everything to do with parenting. This is a subject that has been the work of a strenuous inner-dialogue, though it’s the first time that I’ve written anything publicly on the matter.

The day that my maternity leave ended, a large road construction project began smack dab in the middle of my route to work. As such, I’ve had to take a longer detour into the office each morning. Along this detour, I pass a settlement of recovery houses by the side of the road. The whole mismatched complex boasts the sign, “Serenity House” at the entrance. From what I can make of it, there are two residential houses with satellite trailers sprinkled on the grounds. Each morning when I pass (a few minutes before 8am), there are small throngs of folks hanging out at picnic tables outside. They are mostly scruffy smokers, some young, some old. There are a number of questionable fashion choices and scraggly haircuts. For some reason, seeing this sight in the morning (maybe because it’s early and I’m still very tired) brings about in me an extremely visceral reaction.

The reaction comes from the truth that I used to be one of those people. For years. This isn’t something that I talk about a lot anymore. To be honest, I’m not sure it’s a topic I’ve ever touched on this blog. In my teens and early-twenties, I had a serious alcohol and drug problem. I first got clean at 17, relapsed at 20, got sober again at 21, and have been clean since then (over eight years). My “program of recovery” has evolved to look very different from the 12-step prescription that’s so prevalent in America today. I don’t go to meetings, have a sponsor, or believe in an interventionist god. I’ve done all of those things in the past, and they were helpful in their own way, but the dogma couldn’t overcome the lack of authenticity that I found in myself in that space. For me, and I can only speak from my personal experience, the constant attention to the problems of my past (and other people’s chaotic lives) kept me in a sick spiral. Breaking out of that mode of thinking about recovery, like breaking out of the cycle of addiction, has been one of the most formative intrapersonal experiences of my adult life.

I find that this topic ruffles a lot of feathers within the structured recovery community. It’s never my intention to offend, but I can’t help but think that the subject upsets people because it casts a little grey area on the black and white rhetoric of 12-step programs. The bent is usually something to the effect of, “those who don’t go to meetings are dry drunks who will use again.” Nothing in life is that clear cut. I value my sobriety. I value my formative years in a structured program of recovery. But now, I value the time and energy that it takes to attend to the life I’ve built out of that recovery. Perhaps that’s a selfish conclusion (i.e., I’m not paying forward the time and attention given me by others). Still, I feel that the life I lead today best enables me to be of service and love to my wife, our son, my friends, parents, and colleagues.

When I sit back and think about what it took for me to get here, I’m floored by the complexity of my experience. While I hit a low “bottom” when I was actively using, I think that I sustained more unhealthy behaviors and relationships over time in recovery than at any other point in my life. Some of this was the by-product of getting sober so young, but some of it is what happens when sick members justify the behavior of other sick members. Dis-ease breeds dis-ease. This was by no means my across the board experience, so I don’t mean to sound petty. I was also inspired to new levels by many of the friends I’ve made in my years in recovery. There are some beautiful, healthy, intimate, vulnerable, loving people out there. And I’ve had the good fortune to share the road with many of them during some difficult times. That said, I haven’t found 12-step programs to be the magic bullet promised. I’m always striving for authenticity, which is fluid, not prescriptive. It’s like the dilemma in R’s last post about food: How do we strive toward higher ideals without sacrificing our critical thinking?

I don’t have the answers to that question, but I’m learning to trust my intuition more readily. I can make healthy choices for myself and my family. I can eat cleaner, locally grown foods. I can parent my child openly and actively. I can protect and strengthen my marriage each day. I can make smart choices of how to spend my time, money, and energy. I can find a way to work for myself while empowering other people. I can fight for my civil rights. I can strive to be a better friend and a better daughter. I can choose to tell the truth. I can choose to amend my behavior. I can choose to accept and love myself as a whole and unique person. I don’t think it’s true humility to walk through each day thinking of oneself as an emotionally diseased person who must submit their agency, as one is not to be “trusted.” I want to find my humility in reverence to life, to nature, and to the experience of love. I don’t need religion for that. And, I find, that as I strive for these goals, I’m able to measure myself by the yardstick of my own life. I spent much of my young life fruitlessly comparing myself to others. Inevitably, I always prided myself on my seeming superiority or chastised myself for my seeming inferiority. But when I take myself on my own terms, I can see the ways in which I have already outpaced my best self of last year. And I hope that I’ll be able to say the same thing with each subsequent year. Mostly, I don’t want to quell that deep inner voice with the thunderous pronouncements of external direction. If I want to teach my children that they need to learn and follow their own internal compass, then I have to be willing to lead by example.

All of this is just to say that I’m the most satisfied that I’ve ever been. Not because everything has fallen into place, not because I’ve solved all of the conflicts in my relationships, and certainly not because I think I have the answers, but because I am slowly surrendering what I think I “know” to what I actually need.

the fellowship: I got it (one of the three I applied for)! I got a full year of dissertation funding through my university. This means that as soon as I’m done teaching this class (in five weeks), I can focus exclusively (work-wise) on my dissertation for ONE WHOLE YEAR. No teaching for a full year. I still can’t believe it. The freedom this gives me to spend lots and lots of time with this baby is indescribably great. It’s just a dream. And the time to immerse myself in my project is thrilling. I need to finish by May of next year. The next twelve months will be full of hard work, but it’s work I WANT to do. I can’t tell you what a privilege this is. I really am over the moon with gratitude, relief, and excitement.

the food: So the story here is that J has had to give up dairy, gluten, and soy to get this boy’s rash to go away. This has meant some changes in the way I cook/we eat, but we’ve used the opportunity to make a shift we’ve been heading towards for years. I have been dogmatically vegetarian for a long time. For my first five years, I felt righteous in the knowledge that I ate (lived) ethically because I didn’t eat animals. A few years ago, I started to think about non-food products – soap, shampoo, make-up – and we began to eliminate things that were tested on animals from our household. What good is not eating meat if you buy from a company that, for example, coats a rat’s eyes in mascara? Isn’t that even more cruel? Then I started to avoid factory-farmed dairy. Especially as we neared the TTC period of our lives (and began to think about breastfeeding), I stopped feeling comfortable buying diary that came from animals that were kept for years on end in tiny box stalls being milked by machines all day, This is worse, I would argue, than eating meat because at least beef cattle have a shorter period of suffering. I still believe in all of this. To my knowledge, we buy no (or very few) animal-tested products. But here’s the piece I didn’t get until now. Not eating meat for so long led me to incorporate more and more fake meat products into my diet. Tofu. Tofurkey. Tempeh. Veggie burgers. And when I started thinking about THESE products, I felt troubled. We’d done so much work to eliminate anything but whole, real foods from our diets – to learn how to cook using single ingredients – but fake meat products are full of ingredients I can barely pronounce. And their status as vegan doesn’t tell us anything about the ethicality of manufacturing them. Because they’re mass produced, I can only assume they’re made in assembly line conditions, by factory workers. How well are those factory workers compensated? I don’t know. How far must the products be shipped to reach my supermarket shelf (i.e. what’s their carbon footprint)? No idea. What’s in them, really; I mean, what ARE all those ingredients? I don’t have any idea. This is something J and I have been discussing a lot lately. She’s been eating fewer and fewer of these products and more and more local, ethically-farmed meat for the last year or so. And now I’m finally on board. So here’s what we’re doing. We’ve stopped shopping at the huge regional-chain grocery in town and joined the co-op. If we can’t find it there, it probably isn’t something we need to eat. And for the record: so far it hasn’t cost us any more money to stock up there than it did at the chain. We’ve started to buy local meat that we can trace back to a farm here in town. We could go visit this summer if we wanted to. There’s very little packaging on our groceries now, which means we’re cutting down on the waste products we produce. I still eat a very small hunk of local, ethical (the cows are pasture-raised and hand-milked only twice a day) cheese each week, which feels like such a delicious treat now that it’s rationed. I’ll still eat gluten if we go out, but at home, I’m cooking with lots of brown and wild rice instead. And it’s delicious. I no longer believe that vegetarianism is the feather in the crown of ethical living. I think it’s too tempting to conclude that you’re being conscientious just because you don’t eat meat. I know I felt that way for a long, long time. Now I’m trying to understand the full effects of what I purchase. What I put in my body. Even if animals don’t die to make a particular food, are they mistreated? If so, I shouldn’t eat it. How are the humans who are a part of making a product treated? If I don’t know they’re treated well, I probably shouldn’t eat it. Who’s ultimately profiting off of my food choices? If it’s a farmer, great. If it’s a corporation getting rich off of genetic modifications, I’m not interested. Or at least not regularly so. Because that’s the other piece here: letting go of all-things-dogmatic. Because anytime we think dogmatically, we think un-critically, right? I mean, that’s sort of the point of dogma. This is true of religions, and it’s also true of political stances and movements like vegetarianism. But what I want to teach our son is to make decisions thoughtfully, not based on black and white conclusions he’s drawn up ahead of time. If I’m out celebrating, and I want to eat dessert but it’s been made with conventional butter, I want to do it anyway, and I want to do it guiltlessly. Then I want to come home and eat only local/ethical dairy for awhile. I want to support my community’s farmers most of the time. I want to impact animals and workers alike as positively as I can manage while still staying joyful and unobsessed. So that’s how we’re approaching this new no-soy, no-dairy, and no-gluten diet. And on that note, if anyone has recipes that might work, I’d love them! I’ve almost never cooked meat in my whole life, so this is all new to me. So far, I’m mostly eating chicken and wild caught fish. Tell me what to do!

the photos:

B visits mommy at work (and is smitten):

Bram and mama greet spring:

See those active arms? That’s our boy. His legs usually move that fast too! Gods help us when he’s a toddler:

This face: