summer babe

We're here. This is happening. Berry picking, baseball playing, family in our spare room kinda summer.

to whom it may concern, re: breastfeeding my child

Over the past couple of weeks, attachment parenting has gotten some serious attention. Some things that fall under the umbrella of attachment parenting -- probably most intensely, breastfeeding -- have been discussed over and over by lots of people I know, and I've been witness to and involved in those conversations both in real life and on the internet. I have cold unfriended some folks because educating them was not a high enough priority for me to deal with their ignorance in the meantime. That said, however, I'd be remiss to keep out of the fray because for all of the Psychology Today articles, the scientific studies on the nutritive benefits of breastfeeding past infancy, the anecdotal stories I can send you or post passively on Facebook, there is one point that nobody else can make, and I'm here to make it. I'm making it for you, girl with whom I attended high school, who said, "Just put it in a cup!" And for you, lady I used to work with, who said, "U know she's getting off on it, ew lol." For you, dude I don't even actually know, who instructed mothers to "save the boobs for the infants and men," and for you, guy from college who simply said, "perverted." Oh yeah, and you, lady who insisted that breastfed toddlers and preschoolers will grow up to be "creepy mama's boy"s. I'd like to have a word with allayou.

You see, you weren't talking directly to me. You were talking about another woman, another child (both of whom exist in the real world, incidentally, and have actual feelings, FYI) or the hypothetical offspring of hypothetical women. But I'd like you to meet my 29 month old. There he is! His name is George. You probably already know him, because you know me. That's him, breastfeeding. YES! He still nurses, twice a day or more, and he is nearly two and a half. I know it doesn't matter to you, because I've seen you dismiss this statistic with frankly pretty ballsy ethnocentricity, but he is still well below the worldwide average age for weaning. 

You say having breastmilk is fine, but why not use a cup? Well, riddle me this: when I'm out to eat and some guy in his best polo shirt is trying to impress his date by attempting, but failing, to use chopsticks, do I approach him and say, excuse me, but for god's sake just use a fork? Do I mention that eating his dinner noodle by noodle takes so long that it can't have very much nutritional value? Do I suggest he has an Asian fetish? Of course not, because the way someone else eats doesn't affect me at all. 

Next up, perversion. Are you really calling me perverted? Have you ever breastfed someone? I'd like you to come over at bedtime, watch my child nurse after we read stories and then call our nightime routine perverted. To my face. To his face. Right in our real-life faces. If you can't do that, kindly STFU. 

Benefits? Not too long ago, George had a bug. It was gross. Real gross. We called the doctor, who advised us to start giving him Pedialyte. "He still nurses, so we've been doing that..." "OH!" said the doctor. "Just do that, then. Great!" If you'd care to, please feel free to stop by her office or make an appointment to challenge our family doctor (a regular ol' allopathic physician, so don't go accusing her of being one of those dreaded hippie naturopaths). Her name is Kellie Jacobs and every time we see her, she congratulates me for still giving my children the many benefits of breastmilk (high five, Dr. Jacobs!). Where did you get your immunology/medical degree again?

Now, as for raising someone who will turn into a lecherous cling-on, I suppose that remains to be seen. What do you think about George, though? Does he seem overly attached to you? When we ran into you at the grocery store, or the pizza place, or when we saw you at the park, did he strike you as a kid with no coping skills? Was he whiny and demanding, entitled (you know, more than a normal toddler)? Did he seem unhealthy? Or was he running around, singing Old McDonald to himself, addressing the waitstaff with pleases and thank yous, doling out hugs and pleasant conversation, eating "real food" and drinking water from a glass...? If you saw us, and felt worried for the way my son might turn out, you sure did hide it well! In fact, you (and you, and you) have commented many times on what a bright, happy, funny, beautiful, caring child he is. Thanks again; you were right!

My son has been able to "ask for it" since he began signing 'milk' at five months old (and before that, he "asked for it" by rooting, of course). By many people's stated standards, he should've weaned then. Rather than punish my kid for newfound communication skills, however, I encouraged him. I breathed a sigh of relief: one fewer thing to guess about among the many unsureties of parenthood. If your "ask for it" rule really only applies to kids who can say some clear version of "I need to nurse" (including "I want boobies," which is just fine whether you like it or not, because they aren't your boobies to get offended over), well, I'll leave you with this: You probably aren't someone who finds it easy to say, "I need a hug." That's an assumption I'm making because you come off as uncomfortable with close, open, mutually beneficial relationships. Whether or not that's true is kind of irrelevant, but if you said to me, "I need a hug," you know what? I'd give you one. I wouldn't say, hey man, you seem pretty in touch with your needs, so you can probably come up with a coping mechanism on your own. I wouldn't question your motives or assume you were trying to manipulate me. I wouldn't try to determine if you were really and truly sad enough to deserve a hug. As such, I take my son's needs at face value as well. And when he's ready to give up this coping skill, this source of nutrition and comfort and immunity, his body and his heart will tell him so. If it becomes a chore I can't bear before then, I'll be the one responsible for explaining that to him. Until then, however, I'll be damned if I let some busybody prude try to make me feel bad for breastfeeding my child. 

for girls

On Sunday, as we meandered Goodwill waiting for the baby to fall asleep so we could go eat Mothers' Day lunch, I asked George if he was in the market for anything in particular. He said he wanted a new baby, so to the baby section we headed. Lest you think he was trying to trade in his sister, he did mean a doll; Baby Tony, his little vanilla-smelly Corolle doll, needed a friend, he told me. On the way to the toys we stopped off at the shoe section, because once I spotted a thrashed pair of Wall-E sneakers there and hope to someday find another, wearable pair because I believe in dreaming impossible dreams. I picked up a pair of sandals -- teva-ish numbers in brown and hot pink -- and asked George what he thought. 

"Those for girls." 

What?! "Silly mama, those for girls!" he repeated. 

Okay. I can say with absolute certainty that neither I nor Nathan have ever told him that something was "for girls" or anyone of any gender, for that matter. He owns and regularly chooses to wear hot pink (and purple, and sparkly unicorn-emblazoned) clothes. He doesn't even have a great grasp of who in his life IS a girl (according to him, everyone but his sister is a "guy"). And yet, there he was, poo-pooing the pink sandals. 

There have been a few moments in recent times where I've felt like a contestant on some sort of mean-spirited game show: one where your kid does something, asks a question, makes a comment that requires you to be the perfect parent in response. In this game show, you make the right call and life goes on sort of tenuously as you wait for the next terrifying opportunity to turn your child into a sexist, racist homophobe who eats only simple carbs. An incorrect response, however, is met with a flash forward to your derelict 40 year old son catcalling women on the bus or something. This was one of those moments. I had to stop and suppress the urge to be like what in the hell? I took a deep breath and said, 

"There are no boy or girl shoes, just different shoes that different people like for different reasons." Yes, that ought to do it, I thought. I may have even peered around to see if anyone heard me pull off that expert move. George looked satisfied, even appeared to rethink his dismissal of the hot pink shoes (until he spied a pair of black and red crocs). Feeling like I'd dodged a bullet, or even like I stood my ground and dirty-looked the bullet until it turned around in disgrace, I steered us down the toy aisle in search of a baby doll. Before we made it to the sad pile of naked dolls with one eye permanently stuck open and sharpie stained heads, George got distracted by cars. Something Batmobile-esque caught his eye, but an oversized purple VW Bug with working seatbelts seemed more his speed. I held it up. Then. 

"Mama, this car for GIRLS! I want to hold that one! The scary one!" Good lord. What the crap? I thought we had just settled this! 

"George." I said, "This car is for boys or girls! It's purple; you like purple. Papa has a purple shirt, right?" He looked at me warily. "The black car is for bigger kids." "For bigger GUYS," he insisted. "No," I told him, "bigger kids. Any kids. Any bigger kids." Things were taking a...less articulate turn. I scanned the microfiche in my mind for some relevant article or text on feminism or gender studies and how not to reinforce stereotypical expectations of gender presentation and allow for free expression while supporting your child's own gender identity and and and...

"I want to hold THAT." Huh? "That baby! Oh, so cute! I want to hold that baby! I love it." He was shoving the purple car back at me and pointing excitedly at a half-lidded, cloth bodied doll with limbs akimbo. I took it off the shelf and he snatched it up, cooing at and rocking it like he sees me do with Zelda. He planted a big kiss on its plastic hair. "Is that the toy you choose?" I asked him, and he nodded emphatically. At the cash register, he tried to garner compliments for his new baby by repeating to the cashier, "so cute! Aww, so cute!"

He didn't notice that the woman behind us was buying a black and metallic blue remote control car, and I didn't point it out. It seemed that, despite all my reading, despite my anxiety over the right way to correct him -- gently, factually, without overloading or shaming him -- he figured it out. You know, I'm sure some real a-holes wear pink shoes, but it takes a pretty nice "guy" to fawn over a lazy-eyed, misshapen baby. 

mothers' day in pictures

I've gotta say, after a totally shit week, I really had this one coming. Perfect weather, perfect company, perfect day. 

goodnight, mr. sendak

If this is the world, and in this world Maurice Sendak isn't immortal, then I don't know what. It's a rip off. 

"Childhood is a tricky business," Sendak said. "Usually, something goes wrong."  

"I have been with them in their bedroom, for a good part of their childhood," he said. "They have written to me. They trust me in a way, I daresay, possibly more than they trust their parents. I'm not going to bullshit them. I'm just not. And if they don't like what they hear, that's tough bananas."

“Dear Mr. Sendak, How much does it cost to get to where the wild things are? If it is not expensive, my sister and I would like to spend the summer there.”

We love you so.