Weight, Height and Happiness

Elliot turns four months old today!  When I sent these photos to Tyler yesterday (with Elliot and I both emerging from our mid-morning nap), he wrote back: "Such a little boy!  No longer a baby!"

Likely over 20 pounds now (he was 18.5 at his last pediatrician visit nearly a month ago), our little boy wears nine month old clothing and has already nearly outgrown his crib.  I'm watching him on his swing now (as he looks at our bonsai tree and smiles) -- legs already dangling off, and wondering how much longer he can stay on it.

I got an awesome text from one of our best friends this morning: "How's he doing?  Weight?  Height?  Happiness?" -- and it nearly stopped me in my tracks because why isn't this something that's talked more about at the doctor's office? (it's like a blog post I wrote about for the Maternal Health Task Force when I was pregnant here).  Not saying we ought to be checking babies for baby depression (oh geez, I can only picture that...), but isn't disposition also a key piece of overall health and well-being?  We check weight and height almost excessively (there was a two week period when Elliot was sick with an awful cough/cold and we needed to take him in almost every other day; his weight and height were taken every single time!)  While his doctor calls him a "high growth baby" (indeed he is!), there's no way too much was changing every other day.  Yet meanwhile, I've never been asked about his general disposition, temperament, or all-around happiness.  Obviously something like "happiness" is hard to quantify, much less compare and plot on a bell chart (not that you'd even want to); whereas weight and height are easy to plot and graph and turn into percentiles.  But the danger in that is it can easily become obsessive -- I remember Tyler and I being bewildered when our friends would spew all of their children's statistics and percentiles, and now I have to prevent myself from offering that information to anyone who asks a simple: "How's Elliot?"

As I'm starting to figure out, "happiness" for a new parent is a tricky thing.  Ask nearly any American parent what they want for their children, and they'll say, "I want them to be happy" (I've inserted the modifier because I've also asked dozens of low-income Indian mothers want they wanted for their newborn baby through my work at LifeSpring.  By far the most common answer: "education".  Tells you something about the two cultures, but that's the subject of another blog post).

Yet how do we instill happiness in our children?  For someone who thinks about (and reads about) happiness quite often, it's funny that I haven't really thought about this very deeply since Elliot was born.  It's not that I didn't care about his happiness, of course.  But as new parents, we were still quite low in the parental equivalent of Maslow's hierarchy -- taking turns staying awake at night, for instance, to make sure Elliot was still breathing, for goodness sake.  When a college friend resumed work after maternity leave, she posted on FaceBook: "Operation Don't Kill the Baby is complete."  I laughed because there's truth (or at least feels like there is -- babies are thankfully so much more resilient than we give them credit for).  At business school reunion, another friend told me that her mantra for the first three months post-partum was: "Feed baby. Heal mama."

And so with Elliot's birthday today to mark the end of Q1, it feels like a major transition point.  We are no longer afraid to change his clothes for fear that his little arms would break (seriously, why don't they make newborn clothes easier to put on?? -- the only times Tyler and I would snap at one another during those blissful early weeks was when we were putting clothes on him -- "I thought you knew how to do this?? Watch his head!")  While we still wake up twice every night to feed him, he now knows the difference between night and day, and goes right back to bed after feeding, barely even opening his eyes through the process (rather than being up and wanting to play at 2am).  For the most part, we can now differentiate between a tired cry and a hungry cry and a gassy cry, and respond accordingly (which makes us feel like super hero parents, rather than hopelessly clueless and incompetent -- WHAT DOES HE WANT?!?!)  

And with this transition, I find myself thinking more about happiness: how do you raise a happy child?  With Elliot, it seems to come naturally: he smiles in the morning as soon as he wakes up and sees you; he smiles at the baby in the mirror; he smiles at shadows and the literal dance between darkness and light; he smiles at Mr. Panda; he smiles on the diaper changing table (which, much to our surprise, has become his "happy place").

All morning, I've been thinking about that poem that I just posted: "You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth."  It's an amazing visual and analogy.  Being strong and sturdy and stable... yet remaining flexible, yielding -- with the ultimate purpose of setting the arrows to flight.  It reminds me of an amazing quote by Hodding Carter I read shortly after giving birth to Elliot: "There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children.  One of these is roots; the other, wings."

As I reflect on these quotes this morning, I realize that happiness is important but not sufficient as an end in and of itself.  Besides, I can't give Elliot happiness anyway; it's his own journey to find that on his own (while I could have guessed that Mr. Panda would bring smiles, I never could have predicted that looking at shadows would bring such wonder and delight).  Plus we all know happiness is fleeting.  

Instead, what I hope to help instill as he grows up is meaning -- reminding him of our shared roots as a family -- his tribe; while helping him discover his own wings as a unique individual.  Because perhaps meaning itself is what helps us move from situation-specific happiness to something even more lasting and fulfilling as we move throughout life: joy and purpose.

A baby blessing

The Prophet - by Kahlil Gibran

And the woman said speak to us of Children.

And he said:

Your children are not your children.  They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.  They come through you, but are not from you.

And though they are with you, they belong not to you.

You may give them your love, but not your thoughts.  For they have their own thoughts.  You may house their bodies, but not their souls.  For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.  Let your bending in the Archer's hand be for gladness.

For even as God loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Perfectly imperfect

Ever feel like the universe is trying to tell you something?  These were two of the pics that showed up on my Instagram feed this morning:

A couple of years ago, sitting over beers in Nicaragua, one of my best friends and "twin" told me her favorite quote, which became my phone's wallpaper for a while:

This morning sitting in meditation, a thought occurred to me that takes this insight one step further: "There is a crack in everything... that's how the light gets out."  It's not in projecting the perfect images of ourselves that we connect; it's by being real, honest, and vulnerable that our true light emerges and real connections forge.

I've been proud of my (far-from-perfect) morning ritual, which I've been committed to for the last few years.  It's what I nerdily-call my "power hour" and consists of 20 minutes meditation, 20 minutes movement, and 20 minutes journaling.  Over the weekend, I watched a video from Robin Sharma (you either love him or hate him) that talked about his 5am club (the first time I heard that, I was intrigued but in my I-love-sleep phase... I'm still in my I-love-sleep phase but now 5am is a luxury).  He talks about 20 minutes intense movement, 20 minutes inner insight (through meditation, journaling, etc), and 20 minutes learning -- whether it's reading, watching a TED talk, doing a online course, etc.

I decided to try this last piece out and this morning finished an incredible book Tyler says has been trending in the dad blog space: Love That Boy by Ron Fournier -- who writes about outsized parental expectations, coming to terms with his son's Asperger's, and learning to love his son for who he truly is.  Even for parents whose children are not autistic, it's a book that hits home: "Dreaming big is how mothers and fathers seize control from chaos, which is the essential ingredient of parenting these days."  At the same time I'm highlighting passages like, "If you're an Ivy League graduate, you probably expect the same gilded path for your child," I find myself torn about buying books recommended by friends at my Columbia Business School reunion, with titles like "How to multiply your baby's intelligence" and "How to give your baby encyclopedic knowledge."  The marketplace for raising perfect children is immense -- starting from when babies are still in-utero (another friend and Harvard alum told us about a belt I could purchase and wear while pregnant, which plays classical music to the fetus to help spur development).

And yet while our apartment is slowly becoming inundated with baby gadgets and gizmos a-plenty (and woozits and whats-its galore... sorry, Elliot and I were dancing to Disney radio this morning)... I know that the biggest present we can give to Elliot is our presence (couldn't help the pun, sorry again...)  Seriously, though.  Last night, as Tyler and I were watching "The Americans" (our recent obsession) and balancing Elliot on his feet facing us (his recent obsession) -- he would just turn his head to each of us, smiling until one of us turned to him, and then would give us the biggest smile that would light up his face, mouth wide open.  We'd each smile at him for a few seconds, then turn back to the TV.  Finally, Tyler (in many ways the better parent of this duo), said we weren't being fair to him, turned off the Americans (okay, paused it for later, let's be real), and turned all our attention to Elliot.  He couldn't be happier, which made us happy, which made him happy... etcetera etcetra... 

It made me think about a lecture I heard a couple years back, about self-esteem.  The biggest foundation you can give a child around self-esteem is providing them two things: attention and acceptance.  I think about that a lot now with Elliot.

I'm committed to accepting Elliot for who he is -- now (when it's easy) and in the future (when it's no-doubt harder).  And I want him to accept who he is too.  But how can he do that without me mirroring my own self-acceptance?  Harvard's "Red Book" just arrived this morning -- a literal red book highlighting what all my classmates have been up to over the last five years (leading up to my 15 year reunion later this month).  Five years ago, I could barely even read through it -- when I did, I got caught up in waves of insecurity and competition.  This morning though, I read through it with surprising delight -- feelings of love, connection, and gratitude.  Partly, it's me and how much I've changed (no-doubt spurred by my morning practice); but partly it's also others and how much they've changed (my college ex-boyfriend writes about surviving cancer and what that's meant for him).  Of course, I can't pat myself on the back so much -- I can barely make myself read my own entry even this time around (like hearing your voice played back on a recording).  But going back to the Insagram posts and my own a-ha ("the cracks let the light out"), the entries that speak the most to me -- the ones that make me want to seek them out at reunion (including my ex-boyfriend... we parted on not-great terms) -- are those that are real.  And honest.  And far from perfect.

These are the lessons that I'm only realizing now (ever the late-bloomer), and ones that I want to teach Elliot and (god-willing) his siblings.  As a recovering perfectionist, I realize the quest is not one towards perfection, but about balancing the "perfect imperfection" of the present and growth towards the future.  We're all perfectly imperfect.  The courage is in not only accepting this, but actually embracing this -- in others... and perhaps hardest of all, in ourselves.

Morning delights

Me and Elliot at 5am this morning.  The kid literally smiles in his sleep! (drawing by the talented Jiae Hwang)

And a magical Seoul sunrise to boot...

Wonder and awe

I took my first walk with Elliot this morning around the lake by our house (hooray clean air! yellow dust be gone!)  While he was asleep for 99.5% of it, I found myself (astonishingly) being present and aware, noticing so many new aspects to this lake (which I've walked around dozens of times before).  Things like a red tree amidst all the green, or the patterns that the trees' shadows make on the footpath.

There's a talk I heard once on mindfulness meditation, around really seeing things for what they are -- not merely what we've named them.  For instance, if you glance at a tree and think "tree", it's easy to walk right past it.  But by removing the label "tree" from your mind, it becomes easier to see the individuality and uniqueness of this object -- its colors, patterns, branches.

Of course, babies do this inherently -- seeing the wonder of just about anything.  When we first took Elliot home after our stay at the mama/baby spa, I remember seeing him transfixed, staring at our wallpaper, hardly blinking, he was so mesmerized.  After their first walk together towards the lake (alas, it was too cold to actually go all the way), Elliot's grandmother said that Elliot's eyes were wide as saucers, just taking everything all in.

The beauty is that babies have this magical way of helping us see through their eyes (and slowing down, which is a crucial part of the presence process, and the part that's insanely hard for me).  Without the mental models we've developed to simplify our life ("tree" - let's move on), even an "ordinary" branch generates awe and wonder.  See exhibits 1 and 2 below from our walk through the Imperial Palace Park in Kyoto last week:

Turns out there's an app that lets you see what your baby sees, based on their age.  Pretty cool, I just downloaded it and am excited to check it out.  But it's more than just sight alone.  There's something in the way that babies see beauty in the ordinary that's inspiring, spiritual even.  Now that the weather has (finally!) gotten nicer, I'm looking forward to many more walks with the little guy, and seeing more of the magic.

How to travel with a baby (Bolender style)

Just got back after an incredible long weekend in Kyoto, Japan.  True to traditional Korean custom, we kept Elliot predominantly nestled inside for his first 100 days (easy to do between the bitter winter winds and industrial yellow dust of spring, blowing in from China).  But then true to Morente-Bolender form, we left for our first international family vacation less than a week later.

Luckily for us, "international" from Korea means just a 90 minute flight to Japan.  And even luckier for us still, Elliot's grandparents joined in on the adventure!

All of which brings me to some tongue-in-cheek early lessons on how to travel with a baby (Bolender style):

1. The more adults, the better.  For us, a 4:1 adult:baby ratio was just about perfect.  This ensured one person was carrying Elliot or pushing him in his stroller, while the other three trailed behind, carrying all of his stuff (only a mild exaggeration; gone are the days of us packing light: he had one suitcase, two shoulder bags, a refrigerator pack, and his stroller/car seat, while the adults shared one small suitcase per couple).  To be extra safe, carry all his stuff on board while we check in ours.  Included in one of these bags should be one toy new to him... in this case, Mr. Japanese Lion-San (who he couldn't wait to get in his mouth) and his bouncy ball (guaranteed to turn frowns upside down).

2. But much better than toys is seeing and experiencing the world.  Sometimes that's looking out the window, transfixed at the world outside (like during his first train ride).  But other times, that's just being in awe of the shadows inside (the hugest eyes watching the shadows that the bridge cast inside the car!)

3. Get a house, get a house, get a house.  Staying in one (instead of in a hotel) was seriously the best decision that we made (besides choosing a destination 90 minutes away and going with Dan and Kris on this admittedly training-wheel plane adventure).  Luckily for us, we found an incredible house: traditional Japanese architecture with original wooden beams in a quiet neighborhood where you go to bed listening to the babbling neighborhood stream and wake up to birds chirping away.  Elliot was just thrilled to see trees outside -- a far cry from our 29th floor high-rise at home (Toto, we're not in Seoul anymore).  

View from my meditation cushion upstairs:

The house let us enjoy meals in...

And gazing out.

4. Along the same theme, spend Day #1 nearby the house.  Luckily for us, our house was a 10-15 minute walk to beautiful tree-lined paths, temples, and gardens.  We checked out Philosopher's Walk, the Nanzen-ji Temple, and the gardens of the Heian Jinja Shrine -- stopping for lunch to enjoy what we learned was a specialty of the area: tofu (you can bet Kris and I were more excited about this than Tyler and Dan).  

You'll see in the pics below that Elliot moves from a carrier to a stroller.  A baby's cries never sounded so loud as along a quiet walk along a peaceful stream in a sleepy Japanese neighborhood (the carrier didn't come out the remainder of the trip).

5. Spend just as much time gazing at the baby as you spend gazing at the scenery outside.

6. Make a list of things you want to do.  Halve that list.  And then halve it again. (this is inspired from how our good friend (and one of Elliot's godfathers) used to serve up my plates when we used to date post-college -- "I think about how much I would eat, and then I half it.  And then I half that again").  

For us, this was easy: top of our Kyoto list was the Fushimi Inari Shrine -- thousands of orange gates up the Inari Mountain leading up to the shrine of the rice god (of course, this would have been a bit easier had Elliot been okay in his carrier.  Instead, Tyler and Dan carried him in his stroller over steps up half the mountain like a little emperor!)  

Remarkably, the earliest structures of this shrine date to 711 and was transferred to the present site in 816.  While Kris and I were smitten by the dozens of wooden foxes along the path (seen as messengers to the rice god), Elliot liked the bright red flags at smaller altars.

7. Rest when tired.  As Andrew says: "Nobody likes to overdo a day."  Here's Elliot immediately following the Fushimi Inari Shrine.

8. Don't forget date nights!  On the suggestion of our friend, a former NY pastry chef and now-Asia food blogger, we bee-lined to Kyoto Gogyo to check out their burnt miso ramen.  Ah-MAY-zing.  While we are both known to get overly excited, we easily felt it was our favorite ramen, perhaps ever (we later took Dan and Kris two days later and ordered the exact same thing all over again).

 

Later that weekend, we went on a micro-date -- a walk to revisit Philosopher's Walk, this time minus a crying screaming baby.  We noticed temples we harried past previously, and stopped to buy artwork from this artist.

9. Throw in a celebration or two.  We arrived on Children's Day and left on Mother's Day (which, in Japan, is celebrated as Parents' Day... but shh, don't tell Tyler and Dan)

10. Last but not least: As amazing as the sights are, staying in and snuggling is a perfectly acceptable way to spend a vacation (see #3).

All in all, an incredible first trip with Elliot -- the first of many to come.  But for now, I think Elliot would agree: it's nice to be back home.