What Do I Do With It?

"What Do I Do With It?" is a series of articles written about life, marriage and especially, parenting.  This is article 1.  Hope you enjoy it.

Barefoot Dancing- How to cope

by Heather Weathers

I slumped into the sticky, pleather sofa and stared at the ceiling fan creaking back and forth. It swayed in time with the smooth Eagles melody quietly humming in the background. I had found a few minutes of rest and planned to live it to the fullest.

Chloe, my oldest would be asleep for a few more minutes and the baby had just nodded off after another marathon nursing session. I glanced through the large living room screen door at the laundry pretending to dry in the sultry, Thai sunshine. The humidity prevented the wet clothing from becoming anything other than a moist mound of soured cotton. I peeled my sweaty legs from the plastic and ran through my to-do list: fold laundry, write news article, study Thai, start dinner.

I made my way across the room to the wall of cabinets that pretended to serve as a kitchen. A two-burner hot plate and a microwave worked their hardest to create tasty and healthful meals for a growing family of four. As for the refrigerator- let’s just say that I’ve seen bigger ice chests at college football games. I measured the rice into the cooker and pondered the amount of rice we ate. It was too much to count.

I turned the rice cooker on and the tell-tale red light didn’t blink. I tried again, no light. I glanced back through the living room screen and watched the building security guards race to each floor of the building. At each landing they carefully pushed open the elevator doors to check for occupants.

The electricity was off for the second time this week. The guards didn’t know where the elevator had stopped or if people were stuck in it. This wasn’t one of those fancy buildings with cameras in the elevators and emergency phones. We lived in a pink, concrete heap where if the termites didn’t get you then the ants would. A pair of eyes peeked from behind the bedroom door.

“Mommy, I’m hot,” said the sweet two-year old voice. In the background, the baby began softly stirring. It would only be a matter of minutes before the soft whimper would build into a full-on wail. Surely, she didn’t want to eat again. I sat down in a chair and pondered “how did I get here?”



Rewind Two and a half years.

I was an up-and-coming professional in my chosen field of public relations. I was on planning committees of non-profits and involved in several professional organizations. I drove a luxury car and spent more on my hair, makeup and clothing than our current entire monthly grocery budget. My days were spent hopping from meeting to meeting and eating at fancy country clubs.

After five years of marriage and a year of trying to get pregnant, I finally was. I was elated. I read every pre-natal and pregnancy book available. I signed up for weekly pregnancy newsletters, attended birthing classes and memorized “What to Expect When Your Expecting.” By the end of the first month, we had names picked and half the nursery prepared. The last few weeks of pregnancy I was put on bed rest and after three or four false alarms, I was finally ready to deliver.

After an emergency C-section and a few days in the hospital, we were ready to go home. We drove the mile back home and unloaded the car of the sleeping baby and all the goodies friends and families had bestowed upon us during the hospital stay. Upon entry, we sat Chloe down, looked at each other and without saying a word asked “now what do we do?”

It seemed that in all my preparation, I missed one small detail. What do I do with it? I had forgotten to read anything about what to do once the miniature human was home.

The first six-weeks were torturous. She wouldn’t sleep because she couldn’t eat and she couldn’t eat because she was “a lazy nurser.” Feeding sessions lasted for hours and despite help from a great lactation consultant, we just couldn’t get it. She cried all the time. I cried all the time.

After six weeks of her not gaining weight and me not sleeping, we switched to formula. I felt an overwhelming burden had been lifted and an intense guilt at the same time. All the books told me that every good mother only breastfeeds for at least six months and that if I didn’t do it my child would be less smart, less pretty and have a harder life.

What kind of mother was I? I couldn’t even get my first task done - feed the baby. I had images of teenage drug use and rebellion in subsequent years because of my failure as a mother. So, I retreated back to my comfort zone - work.

My first day back at my job was the exact day Chloe turned six weeks old. I would have gone back earlier but the daycare center wouldn’t accept babies less than six weeks old. I was elated to be returning to the business realm. I was good at this and I knew how to accomplish tasks with ease. I had worked out a plan with my company to work from home three days per weeks so as not to be a neglectful mother.

That first day was heavenly. No one spit up on me, I ate a quiet lunch in peace and at my own leisure. I answered emails and returned phone calls that had nothing to do with a small child. When I returned home that evening, I had more to talk about with Jeff than the color of Chloe’s stool that day. I felt alive again.

The next day I was to work from home. I still had not been getting much sleep and was feeling pretty exhausted and overwhelmed most of the time. I started the morning attempting to proofread my upcoming fall articles. Every time I sat down at the computer, Chloe would cry. She suffered from reflux and had a difficult time keeping food down. It made her very uncomfortable and she made sure to let me know about it every chance she could. As I kept reading, the constant interruption for food and the subsequent spitting up of that food sent me over the edge. I sat down on the floor next to my screaming baby and pondered how to cope. I frequently worked with music in the background and at that moment The Eagles “Peaceful, Easy Feeling” was playing. I laughed at the irony. I didn’t feel any amount of peace or ease at that moment. I wanted my peace back and I wanted to feel easy again. So, I did the only thing I knew to do- we danced.

I scooped that screaming child up off the floor and we swayed to the beat of every song for the next hour. Right there in my bare feet with a pile of work to accomplish, we bonded for the first time. She stopped crying and I laughed again for the first time in almost two months. It was heavenly. Through three different homes in as many countries and with the addition of another child, we still dance barefoot.

Fast forward two years.

I was sitting in a hot, humid apartment in Thailand with a two-year old, a screaming baby and no electricity. My daily schedule no longer involved business meetings. My life was consumed with changing diapers and little else. The electricity flickered back on and The Eagles “Peaceful, Easy Feeling” lifted me off my chair. Of course, there was just one thing to do –we danced.

Nowadays, Four-year old Chloe does more twirling in princess dresses than swaying to the music in my arms. Ava has found her own expressionist moves with a funky side-to-side bob and hip swagger. Every now and then, one of them will lift their arms for me to scoop them up and sway to the beat.

The countdown has begun when they will no longer want to dance to my music. My prayer is even though the beat they dance to may not match my own rhythm, that written on their hearts will be the rhythm that an almighty maker has placed in them. It’s my job to help them discover that music and keep them focused when life is overwhelming - even when all they know how to do is barefoot dancing.