Angels Over My Angels

I’m a catastrophist with a vivid imagination.  This means that when I began driving, at age 30, I kept picturing myself mangled in a gory episode of vehicular carnage - like something you’d find in that Troy McClure driver’s ed film on The Simpsons.  

When my children were born and I assumed full responsibility for tiny, helpless beings that I loved more than I had loved anything previously, I had similar visions of disaster.  Would I drop them?  Roll over on Mr. R if we co-slept?  Would I turn my back at the grocery store and find Lady A in her stroller gone? 

Those fears were not relieved by anything I read.  In fact, most parenting material just made things worse.  Much worse.  Parenting magazine has a monthly feature called “It Happened to Me” that details horrible accidents, such as a child dumping a cup of boiling water  (placed near her by the server) on her lap at a restaurant or a baby rolling off the lap of a sleeping parent.  

The very helpful book Super Baby Food not only gives a Bible worth of tips for healthy eating and saving money, but also brings every disaster lurking in your home into the clearest focus possible.  And let’s not begin to discuss the omnipresent babyproofing industry.  Since forewarned is forearmed, all this information is meant to do parents a service. Except for the fact that while some accidents are preventable, others happen the second we turn our attention away, or result from the most seemingly harmless of actions.  

So much is entirely beyond control. 

Our children have certainly given us a greater familiarity with mishaps.  Some have ended in momentary pain, like a head bumped on the corner of a table because the corner covers were (thanks, kids!) recreationally removed.  Others have created more lasting and visible injury, such as when Mr. R initiated a very unstable hug that caused him and his dear friend to fall into a coffee table.  Mr. R ended up with a big goose egg on the outer corner of his right eye.  And then there are the events that required a trip to the E.R., such when during X-reme Horseplay (after bath and before bed), Mr. R slammed Lady A's right pinky finger in a bedroom door. The last two incidents were almost cinematically foreshadowed.  Unfortunately, J and I were powerless, or just too slow, to act.

But what about the times when the momentum of an accident is stopped in its tracks? 

A few weeks ago between the end of a morning birthday party and lunch, I was rushing to buy Lady A some desperately needed shoes.  I lifted Mr. R from his carseat on the street side and instructed him to stand near me on the sidewalk as I removed Lady A from hers.  I was just about to slam the rear passenger side door when something told me to check first.  

Mr. R’s fingers were in the little space between the two side doors!  

I screamed, more like barked, at him, “Don’t you ever put your fingers there again!  I could have smashed your little fingers right up.”  He began to whimper at my explosion, his little lower lip quivering.  I felt horrible and bent down and hugged him.  I apologized, explaining in kiddoese how scared I was that I could have hurt him very badly.  That we might have had to go to the hospital.  That I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. We made a plan that next time he’d either sit in the front seat or wait close by me on the sidewalk.  For the rest of the afternoon whenever I thought of what might have happened I almost threw up.

Naturally, this isn’t our only incident like this, but it has left the strongest impression.  How did I know not to slam that door, something that in most circumstances I would have done automatically?  Was it luck?  Common sense?  Or was it something more divine or extra-sensory? 

There’s no way to know.  

The world becomes a more magical place when you have children, but it also becomes a place fraught with danger.  All the information out there about safety provides us neurotic worrywart parents with an inexhaustible catalog of horrific what-ifs.  We are extremely lucky, blessed really, that in even our worst family disaster, the finger slamming, Lady A's pinky was fine.  

I’m not religious, but after each near miss, I have to look up and say, “Thank you.”

Operation Potty Train

I might turn out to be that nutjob of a mother who wakes up her seventeen year old to do SAT drills because the neighbor’s kid is at Yale. Right now, I am the kind of mother who takes her son to his pre-preschool visit and tears up watching him participate in classroom activities, but then an hour later is having an anxiety attack because the changing table in his room is being used for storage. Apparently, most children in his incoming class have been potty trained, and I completely freaked at the thought that my two-year-and-eight-month-old son might be the only one still wearing diapers.

We had planned to visit Target, a.k.a., the hundred dollar store, after we left school.  What does that place not sell?!  I found a package of adorable Paul Frank monkey underpants, which I all but willed to save my son from the scourge of diapers and deliver him to the toilet.  And before Labor Day, please.

So, Thursday morning, when Riley woke up and requested to wear his new underwear, I was elated. Our somewhat shameful “Big boys use the potty” and “Don’t you want to use the potty like so-and-so?” spiels and that blessed monkey had had some effect.  It did give me pause that I had not done major research on the subject.  I had neither prepped Riley with a story book, nor had I purchased some $20 tome on how to potty train your child before dinnertime.  But then I realized that children all over the world somehow learned how not to wet and soil themselves at or (way) before the age of three using only tradition and common sense.  So armed with what I remembered from friends and the little bit I’d read – something about a reward system, a timer and lots of liquids- I forged ahead.

I set the timer for ten minutes.  We went to the bathroom, washed our hands and then Riley requested, no, make that demanded, his treat.  I had a few somewhat hardened marshmallows left over from our last abandoned attempts at training. What kind of incentive was that?  Not far from, "Sweetie, if you keep up the good work, I'll give you some dessicated meatloaf!"

“What would you like for your treat, Riley?” I asked.

“Chocolate!”

Panic once again.  John had to leave for work in 30 minutes.  Yes, CVS was open. No, I wasn’t dressed.  No, John could not get ready for work and take care of a potty-training two year old and an all-over-the- place 14 month old.  So, I threw clothes on myself and Aria, got her in the stroller and ran to CVS, where two bags of M&Ms were $6.  $#@% them for charging full price for one bag, thereby FORCING me to buy two. 

Back at home, Riley was thrilled at the prospect of his reward, which I doled out in threes.  Sure, I was motivating him with refined sugar crap, but wasn’t I redeeming myself with an educational component - making him identify the color of each piece of candy?   Then I began worrying that he might be potty trained, but he'd either have teeth like the mountain people in Deliverance, or he’d be a child diabetic.  Was giving him potty experience before starting Class #2 at his preschool worth these risks?

Yes.

I am proud to say that today’s potty training was a success.  Riley only wore a diaper during his nap.  He wore Pull-Ups to our lunch outing and even tried unsuccessfully to use the pee-pee corner at the playground. He had two accidents, both number two related, which is a whole other ball of wax, no pun intended.  After dinner he stayed dry for a half hour.  Victory! On we would soldier to tomorrow.

I hope Operation Potty Train doesn't leave me with an ass that needs its own congressperson - I'm powerless to resist all those M&Ms in my freezer.  Also, I have to remember that, even though I am literally giddy at the thought of having only one child in diapers, Riley will be potty trained when he’s good and ready. Now please, dear reader, DO NOT go back to my post A Mother’s Promise http://momsnewstage.blogspot.com/2011/07/mothers-promise.html and look at how many compacts I’ve confessed to breaking in this little tale.  It might make you wonder about me. 

I’m wondering about myself as I stick my hand in that bag.  

P.S.  Today, Friday, Riley has REFUSED to use the potty.  

Mom in the Spotlight: Liz Zorek

Liz Zorek currently lives in her hometown of Amarillo, TX, with her husband and their two daughters, Anna, age 2.5 and Marie, 1. The Zoreks recently moved to Amarillo from Chicago, which is Liz's husband’s hometown, as well as where Liz attended college and lived for the past 15 years. For the past 10 years, Liz worked in advertising while photographing children and families in her free time. As of 2011, Liz launched into photography full time, and she is so excited about this new chapter in her life! To view her work, please visit www.givemeawhistle.com.

You had a pretty demanding job when both of your girls were born. Can you talk about that a little bit? How did you manage that?  

I was lucky to have been with the same company for seven years when Anna was born, so I was able to return from maternity leave to something very familiar.  I did have to change the way I was working -- meaning, doing work on the train to and from work and sometimes finishing things up after the girls were in bed, but I have technology to thank in those situations since it allowed me to be productive while not needing to be physically in the office.

What made you finally make the break?

I really loved my job and the company, but came back from maternity leave after having Marie and felt like I needed more flexibility in my hours than the job was able to provide. I found the difference in the demands of going from one baby to two to be much more than I anticipated!

When did you realize your passion for children's photography?

I started doing kids portraits in 2004 as a sort of side hobby as a counter to my "corporate" day job. I've always loved photography and portraiture, and especially love using it as a historical record for mannerisms, character, interests, and just general development as people grow and change. I decided to specialize in kids' portraits because I am fascinated by their honesty and innocence and gumption -- and how quickly they change from month to month and year to year. I love trying to capture their little essences, and after having my own kids, I really appreciate how much more precious those types of photos become as time goes on.

Did you get training, or were you primarily self-taught?

Besides a couple of photography classes during college and after, I haven't had any "official" training. I was a film major in college and my career for the last ten years was in film production, so I've had tons of experience putting shoots together for clients in a commercial realm. To develop my style and way of working with photography though I've just tried to shoot as much as possible - literally, every day -- even if the only subject I have to work with is a bowl of oranges, just to practice lighting and camera techniques. It seems like there is always something new to learn, which is what keeps me coming back.

What made you decide this could be a viable business opportunity that could work out well for your family?

For me, it fulfills everything I want and need in a "job" -- it gives me an enormously inspiring creative outlet, which I've discovered is something I actually need (vs. want) in my life, and it allows me to set my own hours and dial my commitments up or down depending on the needs of my family. Besides the actual shoots, I can do pretty much everything else while the girls are napping or asleep at night.

What is it like starting a business from scratch with an infant and a toddler?

In one word, sleepless. Starting a business of any kind is pretty crazy since it requires so much time and attention to get the wheels turning and gather momentum, and adding the full-time attention that two really little ones need on top of that means that you are basically working two full-time jobs at once, at least in the beginning. For me, it is so easy to lose track of time when I'm working on prepping or posting a shoot because I get so absorbed in it that I don't even notice the clock. There have been a lot of really late nights or times when I should have been taking care of other things around the house but have had my head in the computer instead.

How do you think your former job prepared you for this new stage?

Besides the day-to-day workflow, it taught me how to be a professional at delivering a product to a client, and since it was in a creative field, I'm using the same skill set to bring a shoot to life in terms of prep and post and establishing a schedule and setting expectations.

You recently moved from Chicago, IL to Amarillo, TX - quite a change! What has that been like for your family?

Whew, quite a change for sure! I grew up in Amarillo, so although it's been a huge culture shock to come back after being gone for 15 years, I'm grateful for the opportunity to live close to my parents while the girls are so young. We've been here now a little less than two months, and it's already been amazing to watch the girls bonding with their grandparents in a way that's impossible if you live in a different state. It's also been a challenge because I've had to completely rebuild my client base here. It's definitely been hard to leave so much behind, both with our friends and all of the contacts we had made there over the years. We miss everyone!

What do you want your girls to understand about working motherhood?

I really hope they can imagine what kind of life they want to have and then work a career into that picture vs. having their career dictate what kind of life they have.  For me, having my own work makes me a better mama since it gives me my own community and creative outlet outside of the day-to-day world of holding up a house.  And the fact that I can carve my own path is what makes this work for me and my family.  I hope they find the same fit for them, in whatever form that takes.

Top Ten Tuesday: If You're Going to Ban Kids - Then Ban These Folks, too!

When I checked my Yahoo e-mail and saw an article called “The No Kids Movement is Spreading” http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/parenting/the-no-kids-allowed-movement-is-spreading-2516110/, I once again got my oversized cotton-granny-left-over-from-maternity-days panties in a wad.  Children banned from a resort I get, but from certain hours at a Missouri Whole Foods?!  What the focaccia?  

Before I had children I thought that the parents who couldn’t quiet their kids were complicit in the whining or screaming; that that particular parent/child unit had conspired to ruin my meal or trip.  Now, as a parent, I know that 99% of the time, nothing could be further from the truth. No one, and I mean no one, is more desperate for that baby or child to be quiet than the parents are.

Now that I’m a parent, I also understand even more than before, that there are places that children simply do not belong,  like nighttime screenings of non-kid movies or upscale restaurants.  For a young child, who should be at home in familiar, quiet surroundings, i.e. his/her bed, it is sensory overload.  Of course, the kid is misbehaving!  I would act up too if someone kept me up way past my bedtime and took me to a loud, uncomfy place.  Most of us know that either you hire a babysitter, or you stay home eating take-out and watching Netflix.  For the folks who abide by unspoken rules, someone else’s crying kid at the theater or restaurant is nothing short of an outrage.  

But, on a plane? Shopping? Really?

What are parents supposed to do? And babies, while they can be messy and loud, can also be ridiculously sweet and cute.  In the best scenarios, children are a social lubricant, making people kinder to families and loosening the flow of child-related stories. While I get that a bratty, ill-behaved pre-schooler can give everyone fantasies of child abuse, banning all children under 6 is overkill.  Furthermore, there are far, far more egregious public evils than obnoxious kids, crying babies included.  I’d listen to a thousand babies crying as opposed to being privy to some adult behaviors that have become the norm these days. If you’re going to ban babies, then ban the folks below right along with them.

1.   People who text at the movies or at a live performance.

2.   People who bring fast food into enclosed public areas, forcing everyone to feel like Colonel Sanders and Ronald McDonald just sprayed down the place with fryer grease.

3.   People who speak on their cell phones as if the connection is made of two Styrofoam cups and a string and they’ve called someone in Papua New Guinea.

4.   Men who, on public transportation, insist upon sitting with their legs at a 135-degree angle while their seatmates are forced to attempt to squeeze back into the womb.

5.   Women who never learned that sexy has little to do with sausage-casing style clothing and baring more skin that at one’s yearly OB-GYN visit.

6.   Men who, without shame, check out the parts on nearly every female passerby.

7.   Males who think everyone needs to see their boxers.  

8.   People who, upon seeing you holding the door open, breeze right through without a thank you.

9.   People who never learned that chewing should be an inaudible activity.

10.   People who think that cologne and perfume are for public enjoyment. 

Leaving Mulatto Heaven

As a family, we were having a stellar evening.  We’d finished dinner by 6 p.m., and had walked to a new neighborhood café for gelato, fulfilling to Riley our promise of an ice cream night.  Finding every table occupied, we decided to enjoy our confections at a nearby park.  It was super cute to see Aria practically shove her face in the cup of tiramisu and vanilla gelato she and I shared, and to see Riley try to keep from spilling his melted “soup.” After we had finished, we decided to let the kids run off their sugar at the Murray School playground. 

After about ten minutes, however, Riley quickly became tired of his favorite seesaw and wanted to go to the playground across the street from our house.  Once we’d decided to leave, John and Riley ran up ahead to look at a mosaic of the cosmos above the school entrance.  I carried Aria to the same spot, and there she was.

My heart sank.

She was an African-American girl of about fourteen with obvious learning issues.  She had demonstrated her mental shortcomings on more than one occasion by asking obvious questions, like was the stroller I had just been pushing mine and why wasn’t I bringing it down the flight of steps leading to the daycare entrance (my words not hers). She lived near the in-home daycare the kids attended, and I saw her every now and then in the afternoon at pick-up time.  I had never seen her with a parent or guardian figure, only with friends.  Tonight, at 7 p.m. on a Saturday, she was alone, unless you counted the phone she kept checking.  She had grown up, and out, quite a bit since the last time I'd seen her.  Puberty was in full force! She wore a pair of not quite Daisy Dukes and a v-neck t-shirt that gave everyone an eyeful of her décolletage. 

"That yo' baby?" she asked.

I knew just what she was getting at.  "Yes."

"Um, how come I ain't neva seen you wid her, only wid him?" She gestured over at Riley, sitting in the stroller, John holding the handle.

"Well, she's my baby."  I don't know what was keeping me from saying "Gotta go, see you later."  I didn't know why I was letting this pain-in-the-ass girl make me uncomfortable.  Was it that I didn't want to be rude to a child with a glaring learning disability?  Or was it because I knew she was asking me something I'd be dealing with often enough as the mother of mixed race kids, and I needed to train myself how to give matter-of-fact answers without becoming flustered or enraged? 

"But, how come I see you wid him, but not wid her?" she repeated.  

I didn't know what she wanted me to say.  Maybe I should have pulled her aside and confided in her that I liked to kidnap light skinned babies.  I walked away toward John and Riley. 

"Who da Daddy?" she asked.  Was this girl truly an idiot, was she messing with me, or did she think I let random white men hold on to my kid’s stroller?

I pointed at John, who looked a combination of bored and annoyed, as well as unsure of why I couldn't put the kibosh to this whole exchange.

She followed me.  "I like her hair. She mixed?" she asked.

"Yes." I said, pointing at John, hoping this would end this ludicrous interrogation.  

It did not.

"Who his daddy?" she asked, presumably referring to Riley, sitting unusually calmly in the stroller. 

Oh so now I'm some baby mama who gets knocked up by every white man in town? This had become the most ridiculous and maddening conversation I had ever had. I would’ve been less irritated trying to teach chess to a kitten.  I pointed at John again.  "Okay, bye." I said, and our family walked away.

"What was that all about?" John asked.

"Some stupid girl who lives around the corner from Lucy's." I answered.  "Look at her, with her ass and boobs all hanging out, alone on a Saturday night. That fool'll probably be pregnant in about six minutes."

I was muttering and sputtering like some character on Sanford and Son.

"Whoa," John said, once again taken aback by an after-the-fact caustic rant about someone who had pissed me off.  

As we walked to Butternut playground, John and I discussed what had just happened. I gave John the gist of our "conversation" from the beginning, trying to make sense of where she was coming from.  In her world it was not uncommon for women to have babies with several different men.  Also, she probably didn't know any white people on a personal level, so the idea of someone like me married to someone like John had to be a foreign concept. We discussed the poor schooling and poor parenting that she was a victim of, and how brazen she had been to question an adult that way.   

As annoyed as I was by the girl's ignorance, and as indignant as I was at being lumped in with the baby-mama set, I couldn't help feeling sorry for her.  Just from the little bit I'd knew of her, her home life and social life were severely lacking.  I was sure the evening's attire was not an anomaly, and it did seem possible, if not likely, that she'd be pregnant in a few years.  What would her prospects for success be, let alone those of any child she might have? Was any kind of intervention possible?

I began to realize that the run-in had me so out of sorts because it shook me from my illusion that here in Hyde Park, our family blended in, that no one found us odd, or a curiosity.  Hyde Park is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the country: multi-million dollar homes stand within blocks of Section 8 housing, people with multiple advanced degrees live in close proximity to folks who have barely finished high school, and the neighborhood is home to every race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation and creed.  In addition, Hyde Park is ground zero for mixed race families.  We know at least 10 families where one parent is white and the other is African-American, to say nothing of transracial adoptions, gay parents and other racial or ethnic combinations.  I had begun to think of Hyde Park as Mulatto Heaven, a term coined by a friend of a friend at a picnic last summer, a picnic with quite a few mixed-race families in attendance.  (Note: the original speaker of this term is himself half black and half white.) Mulatto Heaven is a perfect description of our ‘hood.  When our children become more aware of race, as is inevitable, the fact that they are Hyde Park residents will have provided them with an upbringing rich with human diversity.  They will be well acquainted with dozens of families who don't conform to the norm - where the parents aren't racially matched.  They might realize how different they are when they are in other parts of Chicago, and of course, in other parts of the country, but Hyde Park will feel like home, like their caramel tower.

Furthermore, it was infuriating to have had my legitimacy as a parent questioned.  Your children, related by blood or adopted, are literally a part of you; to have a line drawn between you and your child is hurtful.  I know it happens not only to parents of mixed race children, but also to the dark-haired/dark-eyed parents of blonde-haired/blue-eyed children (or vice-versa).  I'm sure some people are merely curious, but they have no idea of the pain they create with statements like "S/he doesn't look like you at all."  When I'm at the receiving end of such a statement, I want to go off.  But with my children present, I can't go there.  I don't ever want them to think there is something wrong - that there's a reason to be angry about our different complexions.  So like our dear friend from Seinfeld (pardon the second TV reference), George Costanza, I go home and stew about what I coulda, woulda and shoulda said, and what I'll say next time.  

I've choreographed my response like this.  The next time someone asks, "Is she yours?" I'll pause and give a withering stare. During this pause I'll imagine slapping his/her face and then giving a good shove, think Alexis and Krystle on Dynasty (Damn those TV references again!).  "Do you want to see her birth certificate?" I'll ask.  Then I'll turn on my heel and we'll walk away.  

On Husband Bashing and Other Sports

The topic of husband bashing has been on my mind lately.

But, let us call it Indirect Spousal Criticism, or I.S.C., instead.  Husband bashing sounds petty and violent, like hitting your hubby over the head with a grill pan because he doesn’t make the bed.

This is probably a little dangerous of me to write.  And probably a bit stupid.  My husband will read this at some point.  But I know there are readers who agree with me, and others, especially single moms, who might think me an ungrateful so-and-so who should get back in her handbasket and make a return trip to you know where. 

Let me say that I love my husband dearly.  He is a great guy and a fantastic father. Barring work obligations, he is home every night before 6:30 p.m. to help with the witching hours.  Yep, just gets home for the point in evening when the kids act like they are on crack and you have a strong urge to survey the scene from the sofa, drinking wine straight from the bottle. He regularly takes Riley for super fun outings like riverboat tours, museums and to the lake.  He’ll grapple with Aria’s 19^th nap put down of the afternoon.  When I am sick he picks up the slack so I can sleep.  He continually compliments my ability to seemingly do it all.

So what is my problem?  I ask myself the same thing, as I prepare to hop in that handbasket.

Like most mothers, I am the C.O.O.; I want things done a certain way.  My way.  I remember seeing a gentleman on the Today show promoting his book.  His premise was that today’s Dad is a far cry from the do-little father of the 60s.  Today’s Dad makes an effort, so even though he might not do it your way, Mom, you should let him do his share.  Children benefit from seeing partnership and different ways of going about things.

Okay. Makes sense. I’m not perfect and my systems may need some tweaking.  And I’ll admit that the baby has fallen off the bed on my watch, too.  But when John decides to watch a game and Riley draws on the wall, or when our home smells like one giant diaper because of delayed garbage removal, this different strokes stuff is very hard to swallow. 

So running to the phone I go, to vent. 

My problem is I want another me. I want someone who once he’s home lives by the fast food rule.  Not the one in The Happiest Toddler on the Block.  The one that goes, “If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.”  Being home these days is constantly supervising, cleaning, cooking, straightening up; it’s a perpetual game of whack-a-mole. Going out is no picnic either.  Just getting out of the house with two little ones can be an ordeal, and no trip out is complete without bringing stuff in - diapers, wipes, milk, something we ran out of between big shopping trips.  Sometimes it’s too much to have to ask, delegate or negotiate.  I want someone who picks up where I left off, and who knows my system. Someone who does something about the fact that the contents of the kids’ hampers could fill a Mini-Cooper.  Someone who sees what needs to be done and just does it.

I might sound a bit petulant, but here’s the thing.  We both work. I work part-time.  When I come home I’m instantly plunged into mommy duty as well.  Yes, I do spend more time at home with my children than John does, and while there are some fun, sweet, silly times, there is constant vigilance in terms of maintaining safety and schedules.  Frankly, it is easier to be at work, where I am only responsible for myself.  Resentment brews because I feel that my share of the housework is like pushing a boulder up a hill, while John’s duties have a sanctioned cut-off because he has to work. 

And yes, his losing his job would be a debacle.  I KNOW this, but sometimes, when I feel particularly overworked, I would love just the pretense of being asked if I need help.  Is that so wrong?

Everyone knows the classic line, “You complete me,” that Tom Cruise says to Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire. When I was younger, less of a snarky cynic and looking for HIM, this line made me yearn for my soul mate, the one who began where I ended.  Perpetually finishing each other’s sentences (in a good way), we’d be in each other’s heads and live happily ever after.  Of course, this is totally unrealistic.  And the "you complete me” idea is just as unrealistic where housework and childcare are concerned.  We have different things we need to get done, different ways of seeing the house (where is the pill that makes you blind to dirt and clutter?), and we are both exhausted. But completing domestic tasks should be more feasible, not to mention more practical and obvious, than fairy tale love, shouldn’t it?  Perhaps that’s why in a marriage where little kids are the focus, unfinished chores can be far more disappointing than the absence of constant earth-shattering romance. 

Now, as far Indirect Spousal Criticism is concerned, it would be better to confront the problem directly.  But that would mean constant fighting.  Instead, I choose my battles with hubby, and save the small stuff for my girls.  It’s my pals who give me perspective - letting me know whether I should get over it or get on with a “talk.”  Personally, I think I.S.C is a godsend. Otherwise there might be a lot more hasty calls to lawyers and movers because of some unwashed dishes.

Mom in the Spotlight: Katie La Varre

Photo: Cheryl Mann.
Jeff Hancock and Katie Saifuku La Varre in Mantle, SPDW 2004.

Katie Saifuku La Varre was a founding member of Chicago's Same Planet Different World Dance. She received a BFA in dance from SUNY-Purchase, studying with Kevin Wynn, Larry Clark, Neil Greenberg, Bert Terbourgh, Kazuko Hirabayashi, and Sarah Stackhouse. She spent a semester abroad at the Rotterdamse Dansacademie in the Netherlands and was on scholarship at the Alvin Ailey American Dance Center. She was a company member of Melissa Thodos and Dancers, and has danced independently for The Dance COLEctive, Cerulean Dance Theatre, Christy Munch, Emily Stein, EduardoVilaro, Shelby Kroeger and Randy Duncan. She served as Rehearsal Director for Melissa Thodos and Dancers for one season and was a guest artist for Capacitor Dance in San Francisco. Katie is a licensed massage therapist and is certified in Bodywork for the Childbearing Year.

How many children do you have? How many boys? How many girls?

I have one boy, Leo.

How old is your son?

He’s 2.5 years old; he was born in November 2008.

Sleep is a hot topic for parents. This can be a question that makes some proud, and others completely discouraged. How many hours of sleep did you get last night?

I went to bed at 11:30 p.m. and woke up at 7 a.m. I usually try to go to bed earlier, definitely by 10 p.m. during the week.

Sounds pretty good to me! When does Leo go down?

He eats his dinner at 6 p.m., and has a bath at 6:45. From about 7-7:30 we watch a TV show, followed by a whole bunch of stalling. By 8 we are in his room, for stories and brushing teeth. Yes, believe it or not, we brush teeth in the bedroom, and by 8:30 it’s lights out. Mama needs her personal time! He wakes up at about 7 a.m.

Where were you in your dance career when your son was born?

I retired from performing in November 2007 from Same Planet Different World Dance Theatre after being with the company for over ten years as a founding member. I was also the Co-Artistic and Executive Director, and continued this position before and after my son was born in November 2008. I resigned my duties as of May 2009.

Has motherhood changed the course of your career? If not, how are you staying on the artistic path you originally set out on?

I chose to retire as a performing dancer for many reasons,but starting a family was definitely at the top of the list. Since the company was celebrating their ten year anniversary, it was the perfect time to retire, and I felt satisfied with my performing career. I was leaving without injury, still felt like I loved dance and was excited about the next chapter in my life.

As director, I wasn’t sure how motherhood would affect my career. I “inherited” the directorship - I didn’t start the company and never dreamed that I would be running a non-profit dance company. I quickly realized that having a newborn, and managing a company for zero pay simply wouldn’t work. Also, my co-director was out-of-state earning her master’s degree so all the responsibilities were mine. It was no problem to run rehearsals, as I could bring Leo with me, and even carted him along to some school shows. But it was another thing to try and find time to write grants, attend performances, participate in board meetings and oversee the details of running an organization like that.

I struggled with the idea of letting the company go, but when I finally decided to resign, a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders! I now longer had to deal with twenty-something dancers, didn’t have costumes all over the house, and could focus on being a mommy.

I see you are a massage therapist. What drew you to that line of work?

I started massage school while I was performing and running SPDW Dance, working full-time as Special Events Supervisor at the Park District of Highland Park, and teaching three modern dance classes in the Chicago suburbs. Clearly I was looking to make a change! Dancers need jobs that pay great hourly rates, but full-time positions are often not practical due to rehearsal schedules and performances. I loved learning about the body, and always had willing dancers to practice on when I was still in school. It was a great career as a dancer, and is the perfect career for a mom. I work two days a week at the Elysian Hotel Spa and schedule private clients around Leo's naps and activities. People are very appreciative of massage therapists, and they gush about how great you are- something I wish my son would do!

Biggest piece of advice for new moms, especially creative, career-driven types?

The thing that has saved me, from pregnancy until now, is the love and support of my girlfriends. I NEEDED to hear that I wasn’t the only one experiencing all the strange things that happen to your body when you are pregnant, or how terrible the first three months with your baby can be, or how you have moments when you hate your husband and wish that he would leave, or the overwhelming joy your child can bring. Motherhood can be really lonely and isolating, so make a new friend!!!