Attachment parenting

am extras un fragment din cartea lui Jean Liedloff, The Continuum Concept. descrie ce traieste copilul tratat pe principiul "nu-l lua in brate ca se invata, lasa-l sa stea acolo singur in patut."
pe mine m-a miscat ff tare incat l-am citit plangand, dar am inteles multe lucuri pe care inainte le gandeam gresit.

cartea e minunata. eu, si alte mamici de pe forum am primit-o de la Katami ( ). daca o mai vrea cineva, sa-mi trimita mail. kata, banuiesc ca e ok, nu ? cartea e in engleza, dar nu e ff dificila, are pe alocuri greselute (de ex. scris "sale" in loc de "safe") pt ca a fost scanata si convertita in pdf. insa din context, puteti deduce cuvantul corect. (imi propusesem eu sa o traduc dar nu am timp. e munca migaloasa si de durata)

fragmentul e ffff lung, imi imaginez ca nu aveti atata timp si chef sa il cititi, dar eu il las aici


The newborn infant, with his skin crying out for the ancient touch of smooth, warmth-radiating, living flesh, is wrapped in dry, lifeless cloth. He is put in a box where he is left, no matter how he weeps, in a Limbo that is utterly motionless (for the first time in all his body's experience, during the aeons of its evolution or during its eternity in the womb). The only sounds he can hear are the wails of other victims of the same ineffable agony. The sounds can mean nothing to him. He cries and cries: his lungs, new to air, are strained with the desperation in his heart. No one comes. Trusting in the rightness of Life, as by nature he must, he does the only act he can, which is to cry on. Eventually, a timeless lifetime later, he falls asleep exhausted.
He awakes in a mindless terror of the silence, the motionlessness. He screams. He is afire from head to foot with want, with desire, with intolerable impatience. He gasps for breath and screams until his head is filled and throbbing with the sound. He screams until his chest aches, until his throat is sore. He can bear the pain no more and his sobs weaken and subside. He listens. He opens and closes his fists. He rolls his head from side to side. Nothing helps. It is unbearable, He begins to cry again, but it is too much for his strained throat: he soon stops. He stiffens his desire-racked body, and there is a shadow of relief. He waves his hands and kicks his feet. He stops, able to suffer, unable to think, unable to hope. He listens. Then he falls asleep again. When he awakens he wets his nappy and is distracted from his torment by the event. But the pleasant feeling of wetting and the warm, damp, flowing sensation around his lower body are quickly gone. The warmth is now immobile and turning cold and clammy. He kicks his legs, stiffens his body, and sobs. Desperate with longing, his lifeless surroundings wet and uncomfortable, he screams through his misery until it is stilled by lonely sleep. Suddenly he is lifted; his expectations come forward for what is to be his. The wet nappy is taken away. Relief. Living hands touch his skin. His feet are lifted and a new, bone-dry, lifeless cloth is folded around his loins. In an instant it is as though the hands had never been there, nor the wet nappy. There is no conscious memory, no inkling of hope. He is in unbearable emptiness, timeless, motionless, silent, wanting, wanting. His continuum tries its emergency measures, but they are all meant for bridging short lapses in correct treatment or for summoning relief from someone (it is assumed) who will want to provide it. His continuum has no solution for this extremity. The situation is beyond its vast experience.
The infant, after breathing air for only a few hours, has already reached a point of disorientation from his nature beyond the saving powers of the mighty continuum. His tenure in the womb was the best approximation he is ever likely to know of the state of well-being in which it is his innate expectation that he will spend his lifetime. His nature is predicated upon the assumption that his mother is behaving suitably and that their motivations and consequent actions will naturally serve one another. Someone comes and lifts him deliciously through the air. He is in life. He is carried a bit too gingerly for his taste, but there is motion. Then he is in his place. All the agony he has undergone is non-existent. He rests in the enfolding arms, and though his skin is sending no message of relief from the cloth, no news of live flesh on his flesh, his hands and mouth are reporting normal. The positive pleasure of life, which is continuum-normal, is almost complete. The taste and texture of the breast are there: the warm milk is flowing into his eager mouth; there is a heartbeat, which should have been his Link, his reassurance of continuity from the womb: moving forms are visible that spell life. The sound of the voice is right too. There are only the cloth and the smell (his mother uses cologne) that leave something missing. He sucks and, when he reels full and rosy, dozes off. When he awakens he is in hell. No memory, no hope, no thought can bring the comfort of his visit to his mother into this bleak purgatory. Hours pass and days and nights. He screams, tires, sleeps. He wakes and wets his nappy. By now there is no pleasure in this act. No sooner is the pleasure of relief prompted by his innards than it is replaced, as the hot, acid urine
touches his by now chafed body, by a searing crescendo of pain. He screams. His exhausted lungs must scream tooverride the fiery stinging. He screams until the pain and screaming use him up before he falls asleep. At his not unusual hospital the busy nurses change all nappies on schedule, whether they are dry, wet or long wet, and send the infants home, chafed raw, to be healed by someone who has time for such things. By the time he is taken to his mother's home (surely it cannot be called his) he is well versed in the character of life. On a pre-conscious plan that will qualify all his further impressions, as it is qualified by them, he knows life to be unspeakably lonely, unresponsive to his signals and full of pain.
But he has not given up. His vital forces will try forever to reinstate their balances as long as there is life.
Home is essentially indistinguishable from the maternity ward except for the chafing. The infant's waking hours are passed in yearning, wanting and interminable waiting for rightness to replace the silent void. For a few minutes a day his longing is suspended, and his terrible skin-crawling need to be touched, to be held and moved about, is relieved. His mother is one who, after much thought, has decided to allow him access to her breast. She loves him with a tenderness she has never known before. At first, it is hard for her to put him down after feeding, especially because he cries so desperately when she does. But she is convinced that she must, for her mother has told her (and she must know) that if she gives in to him now, he will be spoiled and cause trouble later. She wants to do everything right; she feels for a moment that the little life she holds in her arms is more important than anything else on earth. She sighs and puts him gently in his cot, which is decorated with yellow ducklings and matches his whole room. She has
worked hard to furnish it with fluffy curtains, a rug in the shape of a giant panda, a white dresser, a bath and a changing table equipped with powder, oil, soap, shampoo and hairbrush, all made and packed in colours especially for babies. On the wall there are pictures of baby animals dressed as people. The chest of drawers is full of little vests, Baby- Gros,bootees, caps, mittens and nappies. There is a toy woolly lamb stood at a beguiling angle on top and a vase of flowers - which have been cut off from their roots, for his mother also 'loves' flowers. She straightens baby's vest and covers him with an embroidered sheet and a blanket bearing his initials. She notes them with satisfaction. Nothing has been spared in perfecting the baby's room, though she and her young husband cannot yet afford all the furniture they have planned for the rest of the house. She bends to kiss the infant's silky cheek and moves towards the door as the first agonized shriek shakes his body. Softly she closes the door. She has declared war upon him. Her will must prevail over his. Through the door she hears what sounds like someone being tortured. Her continuum sense recognizes it as such. Nature does not make clear signals that someone is being tortured unless it is the case. It is precisely as serious as it sounds. She hesitates, her heart pulled towards him, but resists and goes on her way. He has lust been changed and fed. She is sure he does not really need anything therefore, and she lets him weep until he is exhausted. He awakens and cries again. His mother looks in at the door to ascertain that he is in place: softly, so as not to awaken in him any hope of attention, she shuts the door again. She hurries to the kitchen, where she is working, and Leaves that door open so that she can hear the baby, in case 'anything happens to him'. The infant's screams fade to quavering wails. As no response is forthcoming, the motive power of the signal loses itself in the confusion of barren emptiness where the relief ought, long since, to have arrived. He looks about There is a wall beyond the bars of his cot. The Light is dim. He cannot turn himself over. He sees only the bars, immobile, and the wall.
He hears meaningless sounds in a distant world. There is no sound near him. He looks at the wall until his eyes close. When they open again, the bars and the wall are exactly as before, but the light is dimmer.
Between eternities looking at the bars and wall, there are other eternities that take in both sets of side bars and the distant ceiling far away, at one side, there are motionless shapes, always there.
There are times when there is movement and something covering his ears, dimming sound, and great piles of cloth on top of him. At these times he can see the white plastic corner inside a pram and sometimes, when he is tuned face up, the sky, the inside of the hood and, occasionally, great blocks that stand at a distance and slide past him. There are distant treetops, nothing to do with him either, and sometimes people looking down at him and talking to one another usually but sometimes to him. They shake a rattling object at him more often than not, and he feels, as it is so near, that he is close to life and reaches
out and naps his arms in anticipation of finding himself in his place. When the rattle is touched to his hand, he grasps it and puts it to his mouth. It is wrong. He waves his hands and the rattle flies away, it is brought back by a person. He learns that to throw a thing away win bring a person. He wants this promising figure to come, so he throws the rattle or any object at hand as long as the trick works. When the object ceases to be returned to him, there is the empty sky and the inside of the pram hood.
When he cries in the pram, he is often rewarded with signs of life. The pram is jiggled by his mother, who has learned that this tends to keep him quiet. The aching want of motion, experience, all that his antecedents had in their first months, is slightly lessened by the jiggling, which, in its meagre way, gives him some experience rather than none. The voices nearby are un-associated with anything happening to him, so have little value as fulfilment for his expectations. Still, they give him more than the silence of his nursery. His continuum experience quotient is near zero; his main actual experience is of want.
His mother weighs him regularly, proud of his progress. What usable experience there is takes place during his few minutes' daily allotment of time in arms, plus piecemeal scraps, which are acceptable to his separate requirements and added towards their quotas. At a moment when the baby is on his caretaker?s lap, a child may rush up shouting and add the thrill of having action around him while he is sale. There
is the welcome hum of the motorcar when he is buffeted pleasantly on his mother's lap as it stops and goes in traffic. There are dog barks and other sudden noises. Some can be accepted in a pram: others, without the in-arms safety zone, frighten him. The things that are put within his reach are meant to approximate what he is missing. Tradition dictates that toys be consoling to a grief-stricken infant. But it does so somehow without acknowledging the grief.

adinaaaaaa, muta si linkul meu, poooti? io-s pe fuga si l-am bagat acolo

smrtas, acu citii mesajul tau

em, io am postat ghidul ala. si da, e for real, ca altfel nu-l recomandam, nu?
pai pt doc nu e mai simplu sa vina la o ora decenta, intr-o zi aleasa de el, sa taie jum de ora si, apoi, sa ia un plic gros?
versus sa vina cand vrea Doamne Doamne sa nasca gravida, eventual la 3 dimineata cand el voia sa plece in conecediu la 5, sa o gadile 12 ore de travaliu pt ca, apoi, sa ia un plic de nastere naturala, mai subtire? sper ca ti-am raspuns

hai ca am mutat eu linkul... deci carti ap, jaques salome (7 parti) si nu numai: http://www.4shared.com/account/dir/3504 … aring.html

Ultima oara a fost editat de katami (2011-10-16 13:47:23)

de la kata citire: http://www.4shared.com/account/dir/3504 … aring.html
"mami, tati, ma auziti?" de jaques salome

Alte surse AP misto:

http://www.positive-parents.org/2011/06 … ow_15.html
http://mamamule.blogspot.com
http://www.drmomma.org/
http://www.conscienceparenting.com/

Si mai am, numai ca trebe sa le caut

Eu as vrea titluri propriuzise de carti AP, ce merita citite. Pana acum eu am citit si mi-a placut:

The Continuum Concept - Jean Lieadloff
The Attachment Parenting Book - William and Martha Sears
The No Cry Sleep Solution - Elizabeth Pantley.

Acum citesc Nightime Parenting - William Sears, sa ma ajute sa gestionez mai bine cele N treziri de noapte ale lui David

LE. Cine vrea sa citeasca cartile de mai sus, cred ca putem rezolva, daca am timp le trimit prin posta si cand le terminati mi le trimiteti inapoi

Ultima oara a fost editat de blueeyes (2011-10-16 18:27:04)

kata, e orientat AP, are apreciere si din partea lui Sears, deci departe de ea n-o fi Cert e ca nu prea e aplicabil la David sau cel putin nu sunt destul de hotarata sa ma apuc sa aplic metodele din carte...

blue, io am zis, vorbesc din auzite ( http://alexcreste.blogspot.com/2011/09/ … ution.html ), nu am citit personal cartea

katami a scris:

blue, io am zis, vorbesc din auzite ( http://alexcreste.blogspot.com/2011/09/ … ution.html ), nu am citit personal cartea

kata 

Am citit comentariul, ce sa zic, Raluca are dreptate - functioneaza la bebeii care au un temperament mai linistit, in mod sigur nu la un high need baby, cum cred ca e al meu. Si eu am patit la fel, cum ii scoteam sanul din gura, cum se trezea, asa ca am renuntat la plan si facem totul cum faceam inainte - aka il alaptez de cate ori vor muschii lui 

Si totusi, kata, ma ajuti te rog cu titluri propriuzise, ca sa stiu ce sa-mi cumpar? 

Ultima oara a fost editat de blueeyes (2011-10-17 16:35:27)

blue, eu personal atat am citit