Review: super undies!

When George was 15 months old, our family doctor asked if we had a potty chair; we didn't, and I felt neglectful, so we bought one that day. I now realize that she was casually inquiring, but it worked out: we taught George the sign for potty and he immediately began pooping in his new little chair. It was great, took minimal effort from all parties and I've changed fewer than 20 dirty diapers in the intervening year and a half. Our cloth diaper stash is much better for it, and nobody's missing that in the laundry. It looked like we were on course to be diaper-free around his second birthday, but then someone showed up who began to use all of his precious, precious diapers. 

George wasn't initially swayed by promises of cool new underwear, and we had neither the desire nor the funds to buy an entire new stash of cloth diapers. He was getting too big for most of them, anyway, so pocket-style training pants were an excellent solution. Just his size, easy to pull up and down, and best of all, they looked and felt enough like the diapers he so (suddenly) loved. As he gained confidence and developed the ability to "listen to his body" we could take out the absorbent insert and use them as undies.

I was excited to try Super Undies because they seemed to be exactly what we needed. They were basically identical in concept to cloth diapers, and similar enough in appearance for our diaper-possessive toddler. So, I jumped at the opportunity to review the Super Undies Pocket Potty Training Pants.

I love that they unsnap in the back for easy changes once dirty or wet, and the fabric is the same leak-proof PUL that we've been using in the one-size pocket diapers George has always known. Side tabs made of stretchy lycra allow for relatively easy self-care (an important thing for parents of more than one!). Stuffed with the microfiber insert, the fit of the Super Undies trainers is slightly trimmer than the fit of a fully-stuffed pocket diaper which helps George with comfortable movement and doesn't necessitate pants two sizes bigger than he'd otherwise wear. Without the insert they fit almost exactly like underwear, but give confidence to my cautious guy who's easily embarrassed by potty misses in public. 

Size-adjustable snaps are a big plus for the Super Undies Pocket Potty Trainers, and is the feature that sets them apart from other cloth trainers I've seen. I recommend washing them with care and line-drying only (despite that the company's care instructions recommend a tumble dry), as I've found the elastic to be especially prone to snagging and pilling. Overall, we're extremely happy with them and will be adding more to our stash when Zelda is ready to start her potty learning process.

Disclosure: I received a free pair of Super Undies Pocket Potty Trainers for review. The opinions expressed are my own; I review only products I can recommend. 

gonna hafta face it: i'm addicted to...

Canning. 

This tree lives in our backyard. It's a wonky two-thirds Asian pears and one-third regular old (scientific term) green pear anomaly. There's another giant tree in our side yard that produces few but fat, amazing, sweet pears. Our front yard has two apple trees. Blackberry bushes intertwined with wild roses grow on the other side, keeping George and the chickens busy picking everything less than four feet from the ground, leaving the rest for me. The berries are almost done, but I've frozen some and made jam already, besides what we ate all late-summer long. 

Now, it's apple and pear time. Butters and sauces and straight-up preserving in juice. Our house smelled like a pomander this weekend, in the best way imaginable. 

I can't believe this food is all free. I know we pay for it in rent and yard work, but after failing so miserably in the garden-starting department post-move, I feel lucky to have this goldmine of fruit. I'm making plans for next year. Checking out books, laying out beds in my mind. But in the meantime, we'll still have a little of the summer to hold on to. A mid-winter luxury.

Preserving food is an optimistic act. It says here we'll be, four months from now, in the ice, in the dark. And won't this be nice? A pickle, some jam. Something by which to remember the green, the sun when it shone for 16 hours a day. 

Fall comes quickly here. The mornings turn chilly, the fog rolls in. Nature makes you feel a little better about those jars that don't process right. Ah well, I guess we'll just have to eat what didn't take, what didn't fit. What might've felt wrong to eat in 80 degree weather makes a totally acceptable breakfast when it's 60 degrees. 

It's going to be a sweet winter. 

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The other day, it was my birthday. 

Two years ago, the same dude tattooed my left forearm with a blue bird, a poppy, a banner that says George. My baby -- the first one -- was nine months old; I put on a flowered and pheasant-feathered headpiece, got drunk and walked across the street to get my indelible birthday present: a little bird for Woody Guthrie's tune by the same name, for the bluebird of happiness, for the blue of George's eyes. The poppy for the ones that line California's highways in the summer, growing wild, blanketing the way to Disneyland like a yellow brick road beside the real, wide, gray one. Things I love, that I love to share with him, that I look forward to sharing with him in the future (should Southern California be spared from its imminent ocean-falling-in). He learned to spell his name from that tattoo, can recite "G-E-O-R-G-E George" while pointing to the corresponding letters on my skin. 

Since Zelda was born, I've known what hers would be. My round little same, looking so familiar, so like my own baby photos minus the cleft chin and plus a reddish tint to her hair. She is fat and happy, most of the time, with other dimensions peeking out from behind the good humor: determination; ambition; particularity. Even if she grows out of the resemblance to her mother, I can tell her that once, she looked like I had once looked. Maybe she'll like that.

The marigold-spangled dress, the doll's blue eyes: those are easy. That Goldie came with eyes just like George's, just like mine. The colors match her brother's and together they make a nice pair, on my arms, in my arms, in general. 

We came home and had cupcakes.

It was a good day.

anchors aweigh

When your ship comes in, whom will you invite aboard? I think about this sometimes, especially in the context of having children, and especially recently, after some unpleasant family drama. It's so easy to take credit for the achievements as though your expert puppeteering alone enabled your child to share a toy in that moment (when others are watching) or take early first steps. Of course, when the opposite happens and a fit is pitched, your baby is "slow" to talk, it's out of our hands: just their nature, despite our best efforts. The latter being truer, of course, in both cases. There's nothing wrong with pride, but when it comes at opportune times rather than all the times, well... It's probably not worth much.

And who do I invite aboard my ships, or even the dinghies, I've been awaiting? The people who stand on the pier next to me, looking at the horizon, hopefully. The ones who jump up and down, yelling, "There! There it is!" only to watch a cruise liner pass us by. The ones who silently slip their arm through the crook of mine and wait. The ones who tell me I won't be standing there forever; who tell me it'll be worth it when it feels like I'm wasting my time.

I want to be that person for my kids. You know who I don't want to be? The one telling them they're foolish for believing in themselves, for taking risks and hoping for the best. I want them to ask for help when they need it, knowing I'll give what I can in time, resources and love without strings attached, without humiliating them or lecturing them with unsolicited advice. Moreover, I hope I'll notice their need before they have to ask, and offer freely what I have. I want to be standing with them on the bows of their ships, popping champagne and telling them I always knew it would work out. Whether it's working through the generalities of being two and a half or the difficulty of finding a career, I want to do that because it's what I signed up for.

Sometimes the naysayers -- the ones who treat you like panhandlers on that often embarrassing, often thankless, occasionally fun pier -- are a sneaky blessing. It's helpful, you know, to have examples of what not to do. That doesn't make them likable. And as our modest boat pulls away from its mooring, I am waving that hanky like a motherfucker, because peace out, negative Nancies.

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L'shana tova!