Judy Sunde Hanawalt

Things I'm Thinking About

Tag: children (Page 1 of 2)

Mom Brain

October 10, 2018 / / 2 Comments

I think every mother knows about “mom brain.” It starts in pregnancy and persists through the first year of baby’s life–or longer. It’s a foggy, forgetful, fuzzy state of being that makes new moms feel like they are sleepwalking through their days. Some people call it “momnesia.”

In my first pregnancy, I felt like an alien was taking over my brain–it wasn’t working the way it used to, and I felt like I couldn’t trust it. Toward the end of another pregnancy, I had to stop driving; I was worried about my absent-mindedness, and didn’t think I could navigate the roads safely. My group of friends called it “placenta brain;” our minds had been commandeered, along with the rest of us, for the nurture and growth of baby.

I read an article recently, “Why ‘Mom Brain’ is Good for Mothers and Babies,”  that confirms that mom brain is real, and it’s a positive thing. It’s also worse than I imagined. Gray matter is permanently lost. No wonder moms are forgetful, absentminded and emotional!

Pregnant women lost a significant amount of gray matter, in a pattern similar to what happens during puberty—another time when women experience a surge of sex hormones like estrogen. This adolescent “synaptic pruning” doesn’t mean we get dumber as teens. Instead, the brain is simply becoming more efficient and refined, in a process associated with healthy cognitive and emotional development. In other words, the teen brain is “leveling up” into greater maturity as it sheds extraneous connections between neurons.”

The biggest changes were concentrated in regions of the brain that help us navigate social interactions and form close relationships with others. The areas that showed pruning were specifically related to the “theory of mind” network—that is, the part of the brain that tries to figure out what people are thinking and feeling. The researchers speculate that this may enhance mothers’ ability to accurately guess their infant’s emotional states and meet their needs.

Mothers’ brains are rewired to better understand the thoughts and feelings of others, enabling them to anticipate and meet their babies’ needs. So yes, it seems that–as many a teen has feared–a mother can read her child’s mind. Her brain has been remodeled to super-power status. I believe we have always sensed this; the idea of mothers having “eyes in the back of their head” expresses the same idea. Now we  know that it’s not extra eyes, it’s fine-tuned gray matter.

To give babies the best chance of survival, pregnancy hormones signal the brain that a big, big change is coming and some radical housekeeping is needed immediately to prepare for the demands this tiny, helpless human is going make upon arrival. Guidebooks and supportive family and friends are helpful, but in the middle of the night when the baby is still crying, it comes down to just the two of you: mom verses baby. A mother must be able to understand and meet her baby’s needs, or at least understand that her baby is in a very, very bad mood, she shouldn’t take it personally and it will eventually pass (wait–I may be thinking of teens again).

The pregnancy brain-pruning process may give mothers a jump-start on maternal instinct, but that doesn’t mean that a man, or a woman who hasn’t given birth, cannot reach the same place of relational insight and caring. According to an article in Psychology Today, brain changes occur in dads as well as moms, but maybe not in such a head-spinning way. The “leveling up” to relational maturity can be learned; there is no doubt that caregivers other than mothers are able to step in and master the art of speaking baby.

The symptoms of mom brain do fade, but the benefits are permanent. When the baby gets a little older, life doesn’t feel quite as overwhelming. Equilibrium eventually returns. Mothering can then become a way of relating to the world, with eyes that are able to see everybody as somebody’s baby, and respond to them with compassion and care.

I Sit and Think

October 4, 2015 / / 0 Comments

I Sit and Think

I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.

–JRR Tolkien

I found this poem in The Lord of the Rings and loved it. It made me think of my almost-empty nest, how much of life is now in my memory, of the seasons to come that I will not be around for, but mostly, how I look so forward to hearing those returning feet and voices at my door. It makes me tear up every time I think about it.

It’s a cozy scene, Bilbo tucked in by the fire with a cup of tea, remembering and dreaming. For me, it’s also proven to be a brief scene. Just about the time I get settled in to reminisce and be melancholy, those footsteps and voices do return, and I’m pulled into the present.

Sometimes it’s scheduled in advance. As the summer winds down, one of my girls likes to come home and harvest apples from the little apple trees in our yard and make applesauce to put up in jars. We planned another day to make jars of salsa while there are still tomatoes and peppers at the farmer’s market . As my canning shelf begins to fill up, I’m thankful for her energy that encourages me to do things I love to do, but would become just sweet memories by the fire if we didn’t do them together.

Other times, it’s unexpected. A few times in recent weeks, I’ve gotten a text from one of my kids that says something like, “Are you doing anything right now?” Usually I am doing something–whether cozied up with memories or a more workaday task–but since much of my work is flexible,  I often can say, “Not really, why?”

Last week, a daughter needed help to buy a bed, mattress and linens from IKEA, drive it all to San Francisco, push/pull/carry it up to her third floor apartment, and build it. As the the head board came  together, we were proud of ourselves until we came to a critical point and realized we had switched two pieces (“Oh that’s what the A and B on the bottom of the legs means!”). We hit another snag when the center beam was not included in the bed box, which extended the project into the next afternoon. Finally finished, we sagged, sore and happy, onto her lovely new bed.

The week before that, one of my girls was inspired by the crisp fall air to bake–at my house. She came over and we spent the afternoon making pumpkin bread and pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies with orange frosting. She left the next day, her bag loaded with fall goodies to share with her roommate and friends.

I’m snuggled up with my laptop now, relishing these sweet new memories and waiting for the next footsteps and voices at the door.

A Gift

October 2, 2015 / / 0 Comments

One Christmas, I made flannel nightgowns for my four daughters. They were stair-step sizes, the oldest 9, the next 7, then 5, and the youngest 3. The girls loved them and wore them every night. On cold winter mornings, they sat on the heater vents on the floor, waiting for the heater to blow and puff their gowns into little balloons of warmth.

I had chosen an easy pattern, without any buttons or buttonholes, so the neck openings were a little big. On my littlest girl in particular, one side would always slip, falling off her shoulder.

When that littlest girl was 16, the sister closest to her age moved out to go to college. She claimed the newly-vacated room, which had more space and light. Cleaning out the cast-offs she left behind when she changed rooms, I found that little pink nightgown, wadded up in the back of her closet.

I held it up, hem to the floor, trying to picture that little girl, tugging at her pjs to cover up her tiny, soft shoulder. How could she have been so little, this woman-girl with attitude and plans big enough to fill the house? In my heart she’s still that little girl, even when my mind loses track of her in that  grown-up person standing in front of me. This time the nightgown is gift to me, a tangible memory.

I know you’ve heard it so many times–how fast they grow up. We older moms say it because we still can’t believe it. We hope maybe you can learn from our experience,  and make time keep it’s boundaries better, keep it from rushing ahead so fast. 

Signs of Life

October 1, 2015 / / 2 Comments

There’s some sort of wrench on the table–a bike tool–and bike parts, frames, wheels and chains cluttering the front porch. There’s a pair of muddy cleats in the corner, and matching muddy hiking boots on the porch steps. Smelly socks and sweats hang out of the laundry basket. Text books with papers stuffed inside are stacked on the counter. Signs of a teenage son living here.

There’s so much life in it–things in process, used and about to be used again, things to fix and wash and get ready for the next event.

He’s the last kid living at home, and he does spread out. He’s taking over the space left open by the others’ absence. Maybe it’s just nice to stretch out after living with so many people. Maybe he misses the commotion, so he creates it with his own stuff.

Whatever the reason, I like it. I miss the commotion too: the coming and going, the scheduling and coordinating, the feeding and the packing up and unloading.

It is nice to have it quiet, I guess–to put my computer down and return to find it in the same spot, to not have to do laundry every day, to throw together small, easy meals. Right now, though, I relish the bother of shuffling a little clutter around–signs of life.

Dog in a meadow

Reclaiming Our Place

August 7, 2015 / / 3 Comments

The cabin has always been easy to love. Our relationship has had a few bumps–inconveniences, really–but I’ve felt only love and devotion for the place. Last year’s busy summer kept us away; I was painfully disappointed not to spend our usual summer vacation there, and I couldn’t wait to be reunited. As we made the long trek across Highway 80, I was excited to get there, anxious to relax and enjoy being there as I always do.

Coming up the drive this time, though, it looked different to me. Hip-high weeds obscured the driveway. The cabin loomed at the top of the drive, looking less welcoming and more shabby than I remembered. The fire ring was choked in weeds and fallen trees. Aspen trees and thistles were pushing up through the deck.  We’d neglected her, leaving her two whole years alone against encroaching nature.

Once inside, I was overwhelmed. The mice had ravaged her, leaving their tell-tale excrement everywhere. The harsh winter had claimed the water heater, and mold coated the refrigerator, which had stopped working. I felt disgusted by the mess, and fearful of getting sick from the respiratory virus, hantavirus, that mice can leave behind in the dust with their filth.

For the first time, I wanted to just leave. Leave the cabin and her horrible mess. This time, she wasn’t easy to love. I didn’t know where to begin. I stood in the kitchen and cried, praying to know how to start to undo the damage of cold and mice and time.  We just had to start.

One person started vacuuming, another carefully spraying and wiping up the scattered pellets with bleach, hantavirus in the back of our minds. Others were reclaiming the deck, clearing weeds, beating down old paths, carving our space out of the wilderness again. We  rolled up mattress pads with pillows, blankets and poop into a ball and threw them away rather than trying to salvage them. Whole drawers went into trash bags. A mattress and everything that couldn’t be easily cleaned was pitched into a trailer to be hauled to the dump. We couldn’t sleep there that night; about 9, we gave up for the day and drove to a hotel in Laramie.

The initial mess was cleaned up, but the mice were still there. We captured or killed at least 14 the first week, and the number rose to 20 before they were all gone. The cabin kept letting them in, harboring those little terrorists, expecting me to clean up after them every morning, disgusting black pellets in the drawers and on the counters, exposing me to potential death. The little intruders were bold–scuttling around the living room, jumping into the dog’s food bowl, prancing through my cookware and across my counter. I wasn’t settled, I was tip-toeing around, afraid of what I’d find around the next corner, in the next drawer, nervous even in my bed that a mouse would leap up on me.

My love had cooled. 

It’s not her fault, I told myself. We shouldn’t have left her alone so long. We should have checked, set traps, been proactive to keep the mice from taking over. It’s not insurmountable, we can do better next winter. But even if it is our fault, even if we can fix it, something has changed. I’ve fallen out of step.

My love had kept me from dwelling on the problems before; now they were all I could see. I strain to see what I saw before, the reasons for my love. Some things are still good. The hot tub, the log cabin the boys are building, sitting on the deck with a beer, the way the dog runs and explores and is so happy, the friendly hummingbirds, hovering around my head when their sugar-water has run out. I remember my love, but it’s stretched and pulled and unrecognizable because of  the anger and fear that crowds out my peace of mind.

I have an idea: I need to take a walk to the meadow, that place where I first fell in love with this place. It wasn’t easy and convenient then, before electricity, the well, comfortable beds–but I could overlook the hardships because I was focusing on the beauty: the giant aspen, the bubbling brook, the wildflowers, the big, open sky. I need to get back to that vision of this place or I won’t be willing to put up with the work of keeping the cabin clean and safe and comfortable. I’ll give up and leave and go where it’s easier.

We have an investment here. I can’t just leave it behind. It’s not just me–the whole family counts this as solid ground, a place that will always be home, a place we can always come and find serenity. I don’t have to do this alone. It’s all of us. When I’m tired and discouraged, someone will come alongside and pick up the burden.

By the time we were packing up, ready to go home, I had made peace with the cabin. The mice were gone. Holes were patched. We had a plan, thanks to a pest-control expert named Gene from Laramie, to keep them out. We decided to come again in a few months to enjoy a Wyoming mountain fall weekend, to hear the bugling elk, to see the golden aspen trees, to soak in the hot tub under clear, cold skies and then to close the cabin for the season. We want to return in early spring to open it up for the summer. There won’t be mice again–or at least, the cabin will have a fighting chance against the wilderness.

It’s a tension we have to live with, the balance between maintaining and discovering, working and resting, pushing back the wild and loving the wildness and beauty of this place. 

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