The Octomom, The Media & The Mind

In less than a fortnight since I wrote my last post, the tide of media and public opinion towards the Octomom—Nadya Sulemon—has turned. I spent part of this afternoon at the hairdresser and had a chance to read through a short stack of tabloids. To my great amazement, I no longer recognized evil Nadya—the witch-mom I had come to know via television and the Internet. Instead, I came face-to-face with a new and improved Octomom who bought diapers at Target and frolicked in the yard with her children. At first, waves of criticism crashed into Nadya, brusquely exposing her shortcomings. She was portrayed as deranged and suspicious. Now her media image softly ripples out over the airwaves. We see her lovingly welcoming two of her newborns home, accepting the help of volunteer caregivers and leading circle time with her children. What happened? The media invested so much energy in ensuring that we demonized Nadya, and then turned 180 degrees, and invited us to love her. But instead of feeling frustrated, today I was reminded that the media, like the mind itself, is fickle. One day, it craves something, often desperately, and the next day, it wants nothing to do with it. And just like the media, our minds are engaged in a constant monologue, issuing breaking news at every turn. Our mind fights to stay “on,” in order to maintain control. If we dare seek out silence, in order to better listen to our hearts, we are tempted to do something--anything--to keep our minds occupied. The fickleness of the mind, of my mind, hit home when I attempted to get out of bed this morning and found that my eyes wouldn’t open and my body wouldn’t move. My daughter is learning to sleep independently, in her own room, and on some nights she’s up every hour, and on others she nearly sleeps through the night. When she sleeps well (which means that I sleep well), I think of her as “good.” But when I’ve got to drag myself into another room six times a night, I find myself labeling the night, and by extension, my daughter, as “bad.” Even though I know (in my heart) that my daughter is a beautiful soul (a being that transcends mere “good” and “bad”), there are moments when I allow my mind to label her behavior. And trusting my mind is dangerous business—because the needle flickers back and forth all day long and won't decide on one extreme or the other. On days like today, I wish for a lobotomy, or at least a brief respite from my mental chatter. What would it be like if I woke up everyday and didn’t judge, or begrudge, anything. What if I refused to be mad or glad about the weather, or how much I slept the night before, or the state of disorganization in the house? What if I welcomed everyday with the same open arms, knowing that it will bring a little bit of every flavor of experience and emotion? Will I ever get there? Can someone give me a map? Because most days, I lose my way sometime after breakfast, when most of Ayla’s scrambled tofu ends up on the floor and my coffee gets cold while I scrub it clean, mumbling under my breath that she really should learn how to use a spoon. What do you do to maintain a non-judgmental perspective on your life as a parent? Do you have stories to share on this topic?