Lyric Stage Presents Mirette

This weekend, my daughter and I were able to attend a stage production of Mirette, presented by Lyric Stage, at The Majestic Theatre in Dallas. Mirette is the musical theatre adaption of one of our favorite Caldecott Medal-winning books, Mirette on the High Wire, by Emily Arnold McCully. In Mirette on the High Wire, a young girl, Mirette, meets a mysterious and melancholy gentleman at her mother’s boarding house in 19th century Paris. Over time, Mirette learns that the melancholy boarder is none other than The Great Bellini- the greatest tightrope performer in the world. But Bellini has developed a debilitating fear of the wire and has thus removed himself from the spotlight to practice his craft in seclusion. Curious and brave Mirette immediately becomes obsessed with learning to walk the wire herself, setting the course for her and Bellini to work together to overcome their anxieties and fears, both of the physical act of tightrope walking and the mental gymnastics required to perform at such great heights.

While my daughter is 7 years old and loves children’s theatre, I was still a little concerned about how she would handle a true theatre production as they tend to be longer and not geared specifically toward children. But to my delight, she loved it! She was able to follow the storyline based on our experience with the book, and the cast of characters- acrobats, a juggler, a mime, opera singer, and ballerina- kept her enraptured for the entirety of the performance. It was very special to both of us to see a young girl not much older than my daughter practice and excel at something deemed “dangerous.” The entire performance spoke to her love of adventure and daring.

Speaking of daring young girls, let’s talk about the star of the play, Mirette, for a minute. Young Emma Grace Freeman shone so brightly as Mirette that neither my daughter nor I could tear our eyes away from her. Emma Grace absolutely owned the stage with her beautiful voice, refined acting skills, and incredible presence. I loved that my daughter was able to identify not only with a strong female character, but also with a brave and talented real-life girl.

The Lyric Stage adaptation of Mirette was an absolute delight. The show has finished its run at The Majestic, but Lyric has two upcoming shows in their Wonder of Women season that I know we’ll go see. First up is Abyssinia, based on the Joyce Carol Thomas book Marked by Fire, which runs February 14-16, 2020. Then hold on to your slippers and get ready for Cinderella in June 2020! My daughter lit up with excitement when she heard the announcement that Cinderella is coming to her favorite theatre. And so did I! We’ll see you there!

Today Was a Crappy Day

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Today was a crappy day. A REALLY crappy day. Normally I would go down the list in excruciating detail, describing all the things- big and small- that made it crappy, like my 4-year-old’s sudden independence regression where he won’t even step foot into the bathroom by himself and has seemingly forgotten how to put on his own underwear; about my 6-year-old’s mood swings from heck, which are new to us these last few weeks and are super fun; or even the epic battle I had with my 4-year-old over him chewing on GRAVEL today. GRAVEL. And then my husband… well, let’s just say I thought back and counted on one hand the number of times he’s washed a load of laundry in our almost 10 year marriage. (He’s good at other things.) Those are just a few of the challenges we experienced today. So tonight? Tonight I’m exhausted. And emotionally spent. And ready for a nice, long break from all these humans whose lives depend on me.

But if you follow me on social media, you probably think we had a great day. Restaurant pancakes for breakfast with everyone wearing pants and smiles? Success. Calm crafting in the afternoon? Hitting it out of the park. But it’s not true, not really. The pancakes came with a side of hissed threats that if they didn’t stop crawling under the table, we were never going to eat at a restaurant again. Crafts ended when the whining over the Emler’s got to be more than I could handle and I sent everyone to their rooms, including myself. Sure, we did all the things, but almost every single minute was fraught with conflict and bickering, both between my kids, and between me and my kids. They served it up like Federer, and I took the bait too many times. We were just off the rails today.

I wish I could say that when bedtime came around, we snuggled and read books and reconnected and apologized. But we didn’t. They were tired. I was tired. And all I wanted was for them to be asleep. So I rushed bedtime- no books, no stories. Just two hugs, kisses, and ugga-muggas each, then lights out.

I think it’s ok to admit when we’ve had a crappy day and that sometimes our children do not behave like the angels we make them out to be on Instagram. And it’s certainly ok, even healthy, to admit that I am not nearly as perfect a woman, mother, and human as I make myself out to be on Instagram. So here’s my confession: I wasn’t a great mom today. My kids got under my skin and I fought back. I didn’t pick my battles, so I fought them all. I was impatient and short-fused, irritable and sensitive. And like the predators they are, my sweet angels picked up on it and began to circle. So yeah. It was a crappy day.

But maybe tomorrow I’ll have the perspective to see that this crappy day is just a drop in the bucket, that not every day will be like this. I’ll read all the mommy-powerment quotes and articles and essays about how we must extend grace to ourselves and our littles, and how each day is a new opportunity to be and do better. And maybe I’ll believe it. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll remember that these children of mine are actual, literal treasures, entrusted to me by a gracious God to raise into good, kind humans. But tonight? But tonight I’m tired, and I want to wallow in our (my) failures for a hot minute. We had a crappy day and I don’t want perspective right not. Right now all I want is a glass of wine, maybe a few Oreos, and some Netflix.

The Mommy Wars Gave Me Breastfeeding PTSD

This week, August 1-7, is World Breastfeeding Week. This is a week set aside, worldwide, to bring awareness to the importance of breastfeeding, education to those who don’t understand or support it, and celebration of the women who do or have done it. I fully support and encourage breastfeeding- it’s natural, it’s beautiful, it’s nutritious. But I want us to be careful of putting too much emphasis on the quality of a mother based on her ability or desire to breastfeed. Because of the pressure often placed on mothers to breastfeed exclusively, many mothers suffer at the hands of well-intentioned friends, co-workers, mothers-in-law, and even strangers who think they know what’s best for each individual mother and child. Because of this pressure and desire to be a “good mom,” I developed metric tons of guilt and shame surrounding my breastfeeding journey, leading me to term what I now have as Breastfeeding PTSD. This is my story.

My first child was born in August 2012, smack dab in the middle of the Mommy Wars. If you weren’t a new mom in an affluent suburb during this time period, let me explain. The Mommy Wars inundated every aspect of motherhood. You’re a working mom? That means you aren’t spending enough time nurturing and raising your kids. You’re a stay-at-home mom? That means you aren’t setting a good example for your children, especially your daughters, of what a self-sufficient, fully-empowered modern woman looks like. You don’t spend hours making, mashing, and packaging your own fully-organic, non-GMO, BPA-free, grass-fed, farm-to-market, ergonomically-correct, grown- and picked-with-your-own-two-hands baby food? That means you’re exposing your babies to cancer and setting them up for a lifetime of obesity, ADHD, and failure.

And the crowning jewel in the Mommy Wars crown- You don’t plan, or are unable, to breastfeed your baby well into toddlerhood? That means you must not be mom enough; you have failed at the most basic, natural, sacred element of not only motherhood, but womanhood itself. To this point, who remembers this polarizing 2012 TIME Magazine cover that fanned the flames of an already contentious situation? The struggle was real.

Thankfully, hallelujah, and amen, we are moving away from this ridiculous model of guilting and shaming moms for not fitting into a single mold. Moms come in all shapes and sizes, with different values, beliefs, and lines drawn in the sand. It’s been a breath a fresh air to hear more and more about women supporting each other as #mombosses, no matter their employment status or other parenting choices. I am especially excited to see traction in the #fedisbest movement, because shouldn’t a HEALTHY CHILD and a HEALTHY MOM be the ultimate goal and marker of success, no matter how that happens?

My breastfeeding journey was a rough one, especially in the climate in which my children were born. My milk supply was never great- in fact, it was downright abysmal. I would spend up to an hour nursing my baby, then the next 30 minutes or so hooked up to a medical-grade breast pump to encourage an increase in supply, only to start the entire process over again almost immediately. I was spending more time with my breast pump than my newborn. I walked around smelling like IHOP for months because I was taking so much fenugreek, eating so many lactation cookies, and drinking so much Mother’s Milk tea, all of which make you smell like syrup. I became isolated in my own home (save for my weekly standing appointment with my lactation consultant), chained to a very strict nursing and pumping schedule, which lead to mild post-partum depression, maximum dissatisfaction with motherhood, and crushing guilt. But I didn’t dare stop. What would the other mothers think? I felt like I would die of shame if another mom caught me mixing a bottle full of evil, harmful formula.

But finally one night when my daughter was 7 months old and I was doing my nightly sob over my last pumping session of the evening, my husband demanded I stop. He had been so supportive up until that point, tried to encourage me the best he could with his useless nipples, but he knew it was a losing battle. And he loved me and our daughter enough to tell me. With the unspoken finally out in the open, I felt relief wash over me. I’d received the permission I didn’t even know I needed to throw in the towel. I had done the absolute best I could, but I was spiraling and it was time to stop. So I did. And you know what? My daughter survived. She adjusted to the formula and after some trial and error, we found a bottle she would happily take.

After the guilt began to subside, I reveled in our newfound freedom. Friends are getting together for a play date? Let’s go! Daughter wakes up for her night feeding? Here’s her bottle, daddy- go feed her! I slowly became more comfortable bottle-feeding my child in public, and even had the courage to mix a few formula bottles in front of other people. Because at the end of the day, fed is best. I was still caring for my daughter, whether her milk came from my body or not. And we were both happier and healthier for it.

Unfortunately, and for reasons I still don’t quite understand, I would repeat the breastfeeding failure shame cycle again when my son was born two years later. I’ll blame it on the hormones. But I would realize and adjust more quickly this time- only four months in the valley with him. Then straight to bottles and formula for him too in order to protect my own mental health, thereby protecting the rest of my family.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I love breastfeeding. I am so proud and envious of women who are able to devote so much of themselves- body, mind, and spirit- to the task. I celebrate them and all the women who came before them this World Breastfeeding Week. But for those of us who struggle- physically, emotionally, mentally, or all of the above- I just want us to be kind and gracious to ourselves and to other mothers in the trenches, no matter what those trenches are, because we all have them.

So happy World Breastfeeding Week, breastfeeding mommas! I am so proud of you! And happy Fed Is Best Week (yes, I made that up), formula-feeding mommas! I am so proud of you, too!

As seen on For Every Mom.