The Changes of Spring

And suddenly, in Isaiah's world, this THING happened. There was no build-up. There was no transition. HEAT appeared.

And just like that, I had to explain it to him: SPRING is here. Or as Nick says, "Just tell him that each day is the best day of his life because the weather keeps getting better and better for the next six months." That's true if you were born on December 20th.

Isaiah's legs are suddenly bare, no more extra onesies and winter caps. The warmer has been removed from his car seat to keep his skin air cool and his plumpy aura pleasant. It's suddenly warm and the first day it went from the 40s to the 80s, Isaiah slept almost half the day, as if his body went into some sort of confused mode that drank all of his energy, "I have to regulate the temperature of this big baby, we need to shut down," is what I imagine his cells and neurons communicating to one another.

It's been about three and a half months since Nick's and my life took a radical turn. And things are indeed different, as I reflect on the past year. I believe Isaiah was conceived during this past week and, if you believe that life begins the moment of conception, Isaiah is technically a year old already. He friggin looks like a toddler anyway, so that feels appropriate to write.

When he's fussy or won't stop making noises, sometimes I pick him up and go outside and show him all the signs of new life in the world. The tulips springing out from the ground in our back yard, the tiny budding flowers, and the tips of green beginning to open themselves into leaves on the trees. Isaiah's fascinated by the color and the wind on his face and I start laughing to myself when I look at him look at spring. For me, Isaiah's the ultimate sign of new life and here he is, grazing the new spring grass with his chubby foot.

The gorgeous weather has also permitted us to go for long walks together and that has made ALL the difference during the day. No more being cooped inside the house, no more praying for the snow to stop trapping us indoors. I feel free! Boundless! And I'm enjoying it while I can because I know in a handful of weeks, my allergies will bound me to the house once more and I will be unable to take meds because of nursing Isaiah. This will definitely be interesting. I'm going to look like a bloated, congested goat.

Isaiah's life keeps changing our world and the worrying, planning, and mild anxiety doesn't seem to stop. Ironically, accompanying all of this is a deep serenity that I was not prepared to find in parenting. Sometimes, when it's just me and Isaiah, and I'm singing him to sleep, I kiss him on the top of his head and can feel the soft spot. A physically vulnerable place on his body revealing his pure youth - his skull is still fusing together, his brain is still growing. And in this place where I rest my mouth, I can feel his heartbeat. His heartbeat. I can feel his actual heartbeat at the top of his head. Something about that often makes me cry. In so many ways, Isaiah is this utterly dependent little thing of a human who can only wiggle around, half roll on a couch, and yelp for his needs. And yet he is his own person. He's a completely separate human being from me and Nick, a person who will grow into his own, and experience his own choices and trials, failures and triumphs. He has his own heart. He doesn't need mine or Nick's.

That realization startled me. Isaiah is his own person.

Somewhere in the future I see myself struggling to let him go. Whether that's his first day at kindergarten, his first boy/girl party, his driver's license, or college decision, I don't know. I can't fathom how this little miracle is someday going to leave us and show us his own heart's identity.

For now, I'm just enjoying those moments of realization and relishing in all the little epiphanies he brings me on a daily basis. For now, that is more than enough.

Isaiah is a gift that is endlessly unwrapping.

Control

My wonderful mama has flown in from Virginia to stay for a weeks with us so she can help out with Isaiah. I never appreciated another set of hands around the house so much in my life. You'd think that between Nick and I, we'd have everything under control.

Shatter those expectations right now. There's no such thing as control when you're learning how to be a parent for the first time. Quite the opposite, you'll find that nearly everything is actually OUT OF CONTROL.

For example - let's take the bathroom.

Once the pride and joy of our house when we got a few things redone, but since Isaiah has come along, it has evolved into a banished and neglected corner on the second floor. It is in such dire need of a cleaning that even NICK said something about how we need to get control of that thing. By "thing," we're talking about the overdue scrubbing of the tub. Our BRAND NEW tub that we've neglected for months now.

Control is a funny illusion of life. We THINK we know what's around the corner because we anticipate problems, we logically hypothesize the risks and factors of every decision and, understandably, wait for the expected outcome.

Remember, though, that an illusion is something that appears to be real. It presents itself as something actual, something tangible, but it is, in fact, not.

It's like how I believe I have Isaiah's schedule in control and then, out of nowhere, he decides he's bored out of his mind and wiggles like crazy for an hour. He's fed, dry, and not tired. He's just wiggling. Wiggle, wiggle.

He wiggles out of his bouncer, he wiggles off the blanket on the floor, he wiggles out of my arms, he wiggles to the corner of the couch. And I think, "I can't control this boy."

Ah HA! Parenting lesson #827462 - NO CHILD IS UNDER OUR CONTROL, PARTICULARLY CHUBBY NEWBORNS.

And thus Nick and I feel out of control at times. We do our best to stay in routine, not make any plans and be nerdy 30-somethings with no lives outside our jobs and domestic responsibilities that include trips to Home Depot. We have learned that control is, quite frankly, laughable.

I thought I had control of nursing Isaiah and yet, still, every stinking week, something comes up. This week, for example, I developed a low grade fever on Sunday. My leg muscles were achy and my whole body was sore. I couldn't believe I was sick. Considering how neurotic I've been about washing and/or sanitizing my hands every time I touch an unsterilized door knob, I didn't think I'd catch any bug.

And as it turns out, I was dehydrated. I kept drinking waterbottles full of H20 and didn't have to pee at all. Miraculously (insert sarcasm there), the next morning my fever broke. I kept drinking and drinking and by the early afternoon, I felt as fine as a shiny new button.

How could I forget to increase my water intake? Nursing, working out, the weather is *just* beginning to warm up...hello? Water? More of it?

Before I admonished myself too harshly, Nick shared a story with me that made me feel oodles better...

The other night Nick woke up in the middle of the night because he heard Isaiah on the monitor. Nick thought Isaiah was just fussing around but he still got up to listen to the monitor more closely. He was alarmed, though, when he realized that Isaiah's breathing was making an irregular high pitched squeak, like he was having trouble breathing. As he started to move quickly toward the door, concerned that maybe Isaiah was sick or in a bad sleeping position, he noticed that the high pitched noise was moving with him, despite he was growing further and further away from the monitor.

"It was my own breathing," Nick told me. "It was my own freaking nose that was making those noises. I couldn't even distinguish my own self from a baby monitor."

Mhm. That's bad, babe, I thought.

So, you have a dehydrated and dizzy mom and a dad who can't hear his own nostrils.

Perfect.

The Irony of His First Laugh

Writing, for me, serves many purposes. Not only is it my passion, my center, my lifelong dream and goal, writing is also cathartic. When I write, it always relieves something. It helps me share the good. It also helps me release the aggravation.

Today, I am writing for the latter.

It is my first taste in understanding how parents can simultaneously love their child and also want to run away to Bora Bora alone and get lost in the beauty of the ocean, away from screaming cries and milk stains and the smell of diapers and the sight of bad eczema.

Today Isaiah was a complete paradox. After sleeping through the night consistently for over a month (I know, I know - we're incredibly blessed and I shouldn't be complaining), he didn't last night. He WAH!ed and AIGH!ed for an hour while I tried everything to calm him down, but...to no avail.

He woke at 8am and was just as fussy. So I stripped him down to his diaper to look for any signs of...anything - rashes, bumps, bruises - signs of discomfort or hurt. Nada.

While he laid on our big bed squirming like a fish out of water with nothing but his diaper on, I couldn't help but laugh at how adorable he looked. His pure smooth skin (except his face where he has eczema, poor guy) and fat rolls...he looked like an enormous human cinnabon, just ready to be eaten. So I leaned over and teased him, calling him my favorite pumpkin and gave him a friendly zerbert on his stomach.

And thus came Isaiah's first laugh.

3 hearty, adorable chuckles erupted from his tiny little mouth and I squealed in delight.

That was the highlight of the day.

The rest of the day he was either fussing, crying, yelping, or sadfacing. I was at my wit's end and contemplated what Bora Bora looked like this time of year. I could hear it calling my name. Liiiiiisssssaaaaaa...LLLLLLLiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssaaaaaa

I was brought back to reality when Isaiah spit up on me for the fifth time.

It was a toss-up between me and his burp cloth for WORST SMELL IN THE LIVING ROOM. We both were covered in Isaiah's regurgitation.

Of course it had to be a night when Nick worked late until 9pm. He walked in to find me on the floor, lightly bouncing Isaiah in his bouncer while his eyelids drooped closer and closer to a close. My other hand was stuffing dinner in my face because I hadn't eaten in hours. Taking care of Isaiah required both hands all day. Food was secondary. By 9pm, I was so ravenous, I felt like I was going to eat a piece of old firewood laying in the fireplace. It looked like a hotdog at the time.

Luckily, I was able to scarf down dinner while Isaiah bounced around for a few minutes. Nick had barely entered the house when I announced that I needed to go upstairs and get my sanity back. "I'm going to take a shower. If you need me, I'm NOT available."

It's ironic that Isaiah's first laugh came today when I spent most of the day near tears with Bora Bora dreams. Nothing, not even the promise of spring in three weeks could alleviate the stress of a restless baby.

And so, I write.

4am Lessons

Before I had a son, I wrote about feminism as a subject. It was a noun, sometimes even a verb. Feminism existed as a THING to be written out, explained, debated.

As the past seven weeks of my life have unfolded, I've either woken up to a new form or writing, or I've undergone some sort of lobotomy where I have no recollection about that kind of writing. You know, the kind of writing where I blatantly write FEMINISM IS THIS, IS NOT THAT, IS MORE LIKE THIS, IS DEFINITELY NOT THAT...

I breastfeed Isaiah and this painful learning process about the wonder of the body and the miracle of nurturing has captivated my writing in new subtleties. His eyes are dark and I stare into them. I don't see anything but openness. His open pupils stare back into the dark storms of my eyelets and I wonder what he sees in me. And I think about the world and what it will tell him about being a boy, a growing man. The window alone reveals a half-snowed road and the neighbor's holiday lights still hanging red and white, yet I see a colder world than the winter temperatures. And I worry.

I don't believe teaching "Feminism" is going to do anything for my son. I don't know if attending gender and women's studies courses are going to save him from a hypermasculine society and sexually-distorted media driven world. Maternity leave has let me soak up the world without paid work and I am listening to the sounds of the news. The conversations around me. The behaviors of strangers in stores. The fragments of life are there for me to observe and I'm not convinced Isaiah will learn how to survive that world with "Feminism."

There's no bargaining in raising a child. The world, as I see it from Cleveland, does not bargain with mothers. It doesn't exchange or make deals. Isaiah, with his soft cooing and heart-melting pouts, will be taught messages about his soul, his worth, his identity...and I'm praying I know how to raise him how to reject most of it.

Counter-cultural child-rearing is going to be a monstrous feat in my future. It already is...And the "Feminism" I knew - the kind that had me chasing conferences, journalists, and blog wars - has quieted itself, perhaps even buried itself. A new ecdysis is shedding, rapidly. In its place are questions of health care and education, public breastfeeding, family consumerism, and equal parenting.

To be of use, for Feminism to be of use to mothers, it must come complete with relevance to women's lives. Ordinary lives and extraordinary responsibility. There is no room, in my son's life, for classes or blogs, podcasts, or lectures.

All he has is me. All he knows is me his mother. His father, my partner. WE are all he will know for a window's crack of time before the rest of the community begins to warm his world with ideas. The doubt and insecurity of my own ability to teach him weighs heavily in my heart.

And so I write. I write him letters. I whisper things into his ear at 4am when it feels like no one else in the world is awake. Just us, mother and son. I whisper things, things far too complicated for his tiny brain to comprehend, but I believe the introduction of my voice as a whisper will allow me into his psyche as a voice of reason. A guiding force of love.

I continue to write him letters and whisper into the night. And pray, that for now, it is enough.

Despite the Dark, We See Light

Each day I make vows and each day I break them.

Is this the practice of new motherhood?

Each morning I make vows to write - write the overdue thank you cards, write my thoughts about this time of my life, write blog posts, write my proposals, write correspondence...write write write.

And I write nothing.

Part of the problem is that my mind still feels like it's been stung by a bee the size of large mixing bowl. I have very little creativity lately.

But what I do have is a lot of honesty these days. I think I'll have to take honest writing over creative writing. Perhaps someday I will create a curriculum to create "Honest Writing 101" to replace "Creative Writing 101."

Isaiah is four weeks old. Last night, as I muted the Golden Globes in the background and fed him, I thought how strange it was that time, productivity, and madness are all measured through this person. Four weeks. That's the only time I have known. Productivity - I'm all milk stains and sleep deprivation and dirty diapers. Madness - these winter storms and flu bugs have me a bit cabin crazy and on my knees, pleaing for spring's arrival. All I know and feel is through him and because of him.

Honest writing.

The truth is that I can't recall a time in my life where everything changed so radically and quickly. I feel like I'm on the other side of life now. Before Isaiah, I thought much of the world was divided between partnered couples and single folks. Now it's cut again with children. Having children is a much deeper difference than the single vs. partnered. The parents - regardless if they are partnered or single - are who I identify with now. The responsibility! The boundaries! The limitations! The joy! The expense! The perpetual worry! These are all things that I knew before, but knowing is shit compared to actually LIVING it.

Honest writing.

Children has changed my marriage. While I work very hard to build and sustain a healthy relationship with my spouse, I can see how the pressures of raising a family cause so much destruction, distance, and departure. I can see why people leave. And I can see how often women give everything away in motherhood. I can see how women can lose themselves; how easy it is to do everything the easy way and shoulder the load alone because it's complicated, time-consuming, and difficult to ask or expect anyone else to do it. I can see how so many adopt the I'll do it all and I'll do it myself" attitude until the entire list of tasks and details of survival has been hitched on their shoulders and the responsibility to care and anticipate needs grows heavier than the dreams dreamed before parenthood.

I think I understand that now.

I need to make and keep that boundary; a line that divides giving all that I have and forgetting my own dreams that were billowing well before my belly ever did. I will keep myself and therefore keep writing. Writing has been paused, but not forgotten. My pursuits have been slowed by not erased. The fear of losing my identity in a diaper is too great for me to forget that I am a person of many dreams.

Isaiah is the greatest joy I have known. He has brought to fruition the reality of unconditional love and, unbelievably, that I am capable of doing so. He has brought an urgency to my art, an expansion to my soul, and renewed sense of goodness in the world and people around me. I believe in people again. I believe in the inherent goodness of those around me because, despite all the darkness of the world, despite all the injustices and short-lived sprees of hope, strangers and friends alike REJOICE in new life. There are beams of sun on faces when they learn a new person has joined the human race. There is an unmistakable and authentic excitement in their eyes when they learn I was pregnant or when they first saw the wiggling blanket in my arms; it seems almost involuntary, as if it could not be helped.

That got me thinking.

If life is so tragic and laden with disappointments, why smile when a baby is born? Why celebrate when another has been created?

In all that adults know of this life, with all that we know about one another - our history of hatred and violence, our tendencies and selfishness, our egos and big heads - how is it that we, with all our flaws and cracks STILL rejoice in the knowledge that more life, another person has been born to this?

Is it that we hope this person will bring more good to the world? Is it that? We are hoping this little squirming newborn will grow to make change? To make a difference?

Perhaps.

But I have come to believe that even with all the pain and woes of living, deep down, we quietly understand the miracle of existence is worth getting excited about; it's worth sharing. And we subconsciously know (even if we have consciously forgotten or deny) that life is good, love is alive, and while the problems and challenges we face will forever taint the horizon, the light that illuminates that very same horizon is mesmerizing.

And we rejoice.

New Motherhood

I have a saying:

Sometimes when there's too much to say, there's nothing to say at all.

There's so much amazing-ness to the new experience of motherhood. I am slowly coming to a schedule, a level of health and clarity where I will be able to write and express the up and down and everything in between about my new life unfolding. Until then, photos will suffice my journey.

The Pregnant Process of Writing

I'm in the last few weeks of my pregnancy and I wish I could write like I used to. I've heard some women measure the differences pregnancy has made in their lives by their physical bodies, the hours of sleep they used to get, how their emotions change. One of the biggest changes for me has been my writing voice.

Perhaps it's the draining of my memory or the lack of focus on one central issue that has prevented me from writing as I used to. Perhaps its the inward-ness I've experienced as a pregnant women. The lioness in me to outwardly roar into the ear of the world has been sleeping with her cub. Instead of love projected into activism, travel, writing, and conferences, my life is love put into daily self-care, methodical practices to prepare for a child, mental quiet to adjust to the radical life changes happening.

My writing is deepening and the evidence is not public. Writing has always been such a private locket for me; a small beautiful thing hanging close to my heart and writing, before it's released to others, has always first transformed me before I let it out. This pregnancy, how I have come to grow with a life within me, has changed my perspective. All of the things I were before I still am, just in a profoundly different way. The awareness of another human could not be more pronounced than in the glowing and growing underbelly of a pregnant woman. There is not one step I take now without effort, not one night where I am restless and drained, not one breath I take that is not shared.

That awareness is a new writing tool, a new gift that I am still marveling in its sheath.

In the next few weeks, a new chapter of my life will begin and I am deliciously terrified of how that will unfold. I worry that I will not be able to write as much, or as well, ever again with new parenting responsibilities. I am afraid that my life will move in a direction that closes the spaces I once reserved for writing. To some extent, I'm sure that is true - a childless schedule typically lends itself to more freedom than a woman with a newborn - but if there's one thing I have learned from the past eight and a half months is that there are some things in life, there are some things that simply call for trust.

And love always leads the way. Love led me this far to birth this child.

Love will lead me back to writing well.

Letter #9

Dear Veronica,

In about two weeks, I'll know for sure (well, almost sure) what gender you are and that seems to be a monumental event to everyone but me.

In some ways, I've already known you as Veronica, but you could be Isaiah, and I'm wondering how that will change if I find you are a boy, or girl, or whatever.

I wish I could be more eloquent about this issue, Love, but the truth of the matter is, I don't give a damn what GENDER you are. I just want you here safe, secure, alive, well, and breathing in my ear.

Nearly everyone but you is irritating me these days and I attribute that to my hormones. The hormones that is making my body grow hair like a gorilla, the hormones that are making me want to make love every night at least once, the hormones that make me feel depressed then ecstatic. In other words, the hormones that are making me crazy.

Having a baby seems like the most natural thing in the world. Billions of women have done this well and have survived and yet I feel like I'm the only one feeling like this. Supported, yet, deep down, I feel abandoned. I look at your father and feel this chemical dependency on him that scares me. I never knew I'd feel this way. Other days I feel like I am falling in love with him all over again as I see how his unfolding fatherhood is shaping him and his thoughts. He and I agree on so many things, it scares me. I thought we'd be in disagreement.

My parents are in town this weekend and they keep staring at my stomach, where you are, and smiling, excited for this new life to come roaring out of me. Sometimes, even though you are inside me, I feel very alone. More eyes are fixated on my stomach than on my eyes. So many people ask, "how are you feeling," rather than, "how are you?" and I feel the difference in my sense of isolation. It's as if people don't see me, and only see you.

You matter. I matter. I just don't know how it all meshes together when it feels like the only reason I matter is because you are in me, growing in matter.

I hope you can see through my jumbled thoughts, Love, and know that you are the most important thing in my life. I love you more than you or I can possibly fathom and not even my confusion and attitude can overshadow the earthquake of love I have ready to share with you. I'm human, you'll see, full of imperfections and selfishness and stupid thoughts. It's good that you know that upfront so you'll understand when I screw up but will always come back and remind you that I love you.

Some days when I walk around by myself, I wish I could hear your voice. I wish we could already have a conversation. Your soul is wise, I can tell, and I know I will learn much from you.

I hope I don't let you down as a mother. These days, my insecurities seem to be getting the best of me.

But you ARE the best of me and worth more than any fear I can harbor in my bones.

Let's keep each other strong these next few months.

Love,
Mom

This Pregnant Feminist Will Eat You Alive

Everything's changing.

The moment was actually split. Plural.

There were two realizations that changed my life. One was the moment I knew I wanted to be a mother. The second when I realized I was pregnant.

Those two moments were distinct and both charged with a transformative power difficult to express.

The moment I knew I wanted to become a mother of some kind was a shock of worry -- what if I couldn't become pregnant? What if my health was not up to par? What kind of mother would I be? How will my life change?

Then the moment arrived when I realized I was pregnant. Everything turned into a statement, not a question. That left me in shock. I am now pregnant. My health is not up to par. I will be a mother. My life will change. All declaratives. All terrifying. No more questions.

I've come to understand my life in terms of my feminism and vice versa. My feminism is subdued or enthralled by the ongoing events and lessons of my everyday life. The more I engage in my life, the clearer my thoughts become, the more complex my issues grow. I wondered how my blogging would be affected -- would I suddenly be thrust into the prego blogosphere? No...I thought to myself, I'm still the same person. I'm not a genre. I'm a womyn of color, pregnant. I am growing fire inside my uterus. You better believe I'm going to be writing about this.

Being a pregnant womyn has pushed me into a new role in this world. It has shifted my thoughts to a future-oriented way of thinking. When I watch the news, it's not longer about me, but how it might affect the future my child will live in. When I see a car accident, I wonder if a child was lost, or if a child just lost a parent. Then I cry.

My eyes are wet with weepiness. As I ran on a treadmill, I stopped to weep into a corner. Then I got up and ran again.

The assault of medical worries and superficial expectations on what makes a "Good Mother" has astounded me. Everything from pre-natal yoga to avoiding bologna...all of the information and "education" has paralyzed me.

The greatest advice came from a friend who simply said, "Listen to your body. It knows what it needs."

There's a new fragility in my life that has gifted me with a strength I do not want to refuse. I want to be a strong mother, a strong womyn. I see the demons of this world who have painted the canvas of motherhood with images of white perfection, middle class luxuries, and the oldest tool of oppression used toward new and old mothers: guilt. I see the expectations heaped upon my life in the short 9 weeks I've been pregnant and am tickled with excitement. The world has no idea who they are messing with. Me. You are messing with pregnant me and my writing is going to fire back at all the mainstream feminisms that have contributed to the locking down, locking up, and criminilization of womyn of color who choose motherhood despite the odds, who choose to have children with or without a partner, who choose to raise their children with less than adequate healthcare coverage, who work and fight and love all in the same day. My blog will be focusing on the issues of pregnancy and feminism, on giving love and attention to all the truthful ways real womyn birth life into the world.

There is no epidural for the kind of birth I want.

Mother of Fourteen, Nadya Suleman

Nadya Suleman, the mother who recently gave birth to Octuplets, has recently launched her own website. The website which says, "We thank you for the love and good wishes sent to us from around the world. The octuplets arrived on 1/26/09. They are all healthy and growing stronger by the day."

Of course, as indicated by the previous post about this issue, there are many issues to debate and discuss in this woman's choice to undergo invitro fertilization as a single parent with a mother who describes her as a little crazy and "not capable" of taking care of fourteen children.

And so the debate continue, I realized yesterday when I ordered a hot chocolate yesterday at a local Panera Bread and couldn't help but hear an outburst at a nearby table, "And how about that women with fourteen kids? What is she thinking?" It's clear the issue of responsible parenting, class, and race aren't going away. The debates are even going into an Angelina Jolie look-alike frenzy. (Suleman denies this.)

As healthy as it is to debate, I've found the comment sections of sites intriguing. Nadya Suleman is (unconfirmed) a woman a color, possibly of Latino background, without a partner or suffucient resources to raise the kids. Is that the reason why people are "hating?" Becuase they don't see her being able to do this?

But when we see entertainment like (old school) Just the Ten of Us, or reality shows like John and Kate Plus Eight, or Cheaper By the Dozen, as Kenny Darter points out, we think it's pretty hilarious when White families, who have the means, have a busload of kids. But if a person without a reality show or partner chooses to, it's deemed everything but good.

It is entirely understandable to oppose this woman's decision. There are clear reasons why and the safety and well-being of the children are priority. However, without sufficient information, except reports from gossip magazines as to how she is going to move forward, I am hesitant to predict that these children are doomed or are going to undergo profound trauma. I certainly hope she gets on her feet to do the best she can and live beyond her own decision to have fourteen children. She has a mountain to climb, fourteen to be exact, but she has legs.

What I find interesting, though, is that throughout history and the world, there are women exactly like Suleman who raise their multitude of children with much less media and attention than Nadya Suleman. There are women who are neither scorned or criticized for the number of children they have. They are ignored. The reaction our country has had to Nadya Suleman confounds me. On one hand, it's portrayed as a medical miracle, but the backlash is calling her crazy and irresponsible. The majority of those reports came out after her financial and marital status were leaked. When we see "single" and "bankrupt," she's selfish. Focusing soley on Suleman and not the children, would we call her crazy, would we criticize her CHOICE if we found out that she had a millionaire's bank account? Or if she had a husband who was a CEO? Probably not, or at least, the criticism wouldn't be so severe.

So what does that say about who gets to have large families? You can and have the freedom, only if you are financially capable? Is and should there be a parallel relationship between resources (house, job, daycare, health care, partner, family support, etc) and number of offspring? Because if there is some sort of invisible rule about class and birthing, then we need to examine it, not just in context to Nadya Suleman, but how that invisible rule extends to all women and families, including those outside our country's lines. Do we have the same reaction to an unmarried Nicaraguan woman who naturally gave birth to seven? How is your reaction different? How is it similar?

The number of children a woman has - either intentional or not - is a layered issue, and often ethnocentric toward western ideals of a two parent unit with resources and health care. It is an opportunity to delve into your own perceptions of the relationship between freedom, choice, resources, and parenting. I just hope that there remains a space to richly discuss the issues that have surfaced without berating another woman or a population of women in the process.

Cross-posted at Bitch Magazine.