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. 

a child's garden of...dirt

On Facebook the other day, Dee posted a link to an article about a play garden. George likes to mess around in our fallow raised bed, though between him and the chickens this has proven a bad pastime for the growing season. Our family plot will be locked down with chicken wire this year, high enough to keep a curious toddler and his three clucking cohorts at bay until their "assistance" is needed, but I wanted George to have a place to grow things of his own, to dig and hunt for worms and shovel away to his heart's content. I also wanted it to have some sensory components aside from the squishy mud, and The Imagination Tree's post about their sweet little garden gave me some inspiration. 

Ordinarily, I am not one to recommend shopping at the dollar store, as I usually find thrift shops more fruitful and less, well, crappy, but when you've got about 20 solid, no-cry-guarantee minutes to get supplies for both a garden and dinner, you do whatcha gotta do. At the dollar store, I found:

• a pinwheel
• a muffin tin for mudcake making
• a mat to kneel on
• a bamboo windchime

And at Home Depot, which shares the parking lot with the dollar store -- another place I would not ordinarily discuss patronizing, as there is a lovely local hardware shop and there are myriad pleasant little nurseries around -- I got:

• a mint plant 
• a lavender plant
• two colors of posies
• cedar edging

At home, we already had a little trowel, a shovel and some terra cotta pots. I found some rocks and stones in the yard and piled them in one corner of the garden.

I used some of the soil from our raised bed, as it needs to be supplemented anyway, and made a large-ish dirt pile in the hopes that George might not dig up the plants. The rocks and stones, I imagine, will gather some critters underneath (looking for and identifying bugs is currently a hot hobby around here), and a blackberry branch that needs to be pruned back is holding up the wind chime whose cheapness is, honestly, rather obvious. The dull clinking adds something nice to the space, though; I'm glad I thought to buy it. Already, the scents of the lavender and mint waft around when you walk by...especially when a certain hapless gardener is accidentally crushing the plants with his galoshes. 

An hour of this morning was spent playing in the new garden, a good portion of which "makin' dinosaur fossils!" with his little raptor. Sometimes I am confounded over the fact that two years ago, my full-sentence-speaking, archaeology-interested child was this small and drooly:

His sister enjoyed the view from her little coccoon, and maybe she'll be big enough to dig around a little, herself, by the time summer's really here. Because summer doesn't really get here until August, anyway.

Happy spring!

america's pastime

Did you have a security blanket when you were a kid? I did. A literal security blanket called blanky, homemade and possessing of one perfect blue broadcloth square that I could find in the dark, with my eyes closed, by running my fingers along the blanket's hem until they lit on the threadbare area I liked to work between my thumb and forefinger. I always assumed this was a universal thing, the security blanket. Not necessarily a blanket, but some soft, snuggly object dear to each child. Before George was born, I bought a few different things I anticipated might become his blanky -- a Kathe Kruse sheep head with a floppy flannel body, a little "taggy", a beautiful upcycled monkey -- and I made some quilts but none of them took hold of his little heart. For awhile, I actually worried that George's lack of attachment to an object was abnormal. It turns out, however, that often securely attached children don't need a security object (go figure). So, eventually I gave up on finding him a blanky of his own.

Fast forward to the opening of Christmas stockings, 2010, when George received not one but two small, vinyl soccer balls. The ramp-up to complete ardour was gradual enough that I didn't notice it happening until Soccer Ball's (and, for that matter, Number Three's, as he dubbed the other one) accompaniment was necessary for leaving the house. This coincided with the beginning of a very unexpected body-and-soul obsession with sports.

We are not "sports people." Nathan has a passing interest in baseball; we go to one Mariners game a year, on Fathers' Day, and he watches the World Series when he can, as we don't have cable. We don't get invited to Super Bowl parties; we don't follow basketball; I am confused by soccer and despite several promises to attend, I've never made it to any of my friends' hockey games. I actively avoid buying clothes for George that have sports themes, because they're usually so tackily gendered and come emblazoned with stupid sayings like Daddy's Little Super Slugger All Star Champion. And yet. 

My son -- the one for whom I bought ballet slippers and baby dolls -- began not just running, but "running the bases." He started talking about "baseball guys," "football guys" and "basketball guys." He perfected his slide into home by practicing it over and over on the living room rug, and would gleefully demonstrate it for you regardless of the venue and how appropriate it may or may not be to lie on the floor there. When he outgrew his cool old Adidas, he picked out some new sneakers, declaring them "baseball shoes" and begged in specific terms for a red baseball shirt unlike a toddler whose whims are forgotten in a matter of seconds, but daily, randomly, like someone who was legitimately pining for a freaking red baseball shirt. 

All of this without owning books about sports, without watching television shows or movies about sports, without any friends or family who are particularly enthusiastic about sports. 

Before I had kids, I argued vehemently that, in the nature vs. nurture debate, children's interests are nearly 100% nurture. That we feed our girls pink princesses and our boys blue trucks and thereby they learn to be docile or aggressive, caretakers or just-plain-takers. I really, really believed this to be true until having my own kid who has flatly rejected so many of my attempts at piquing his interest in things he just doesn't care about. It pains me on two fronts: 1) I feel like a Feminist sell-out, because this implies that male and female humans may actually be wired differently, to play and process things differently, and 2) because I HAVE A SPORTS-OBSESSED SON. 

Real talk: When I found out George was a boy, I consoled myself (I always imagined myself with only girl children) with my steadfast knowledge that I could make him the good kind of boy. A pint-sized feminist from the get-go, who was equally happy in dress up dresses and mud puddles. A kid essentially without a gender identity, until THE MAN weaseled his way into my radical son's little brain somewhere around school age. The funny thing about that, aside from...you know...its fundamental absurdity, is that I never considered that I would fall so madly in love with my kid that his interests wouldn't matter. I didn't have a fantastic model for this, myself, so who can blame me for my misconceptions?

 

I still shake my head in amazement over George's full-bore love affair with sports. I'm consistently baffled by the details he knows, and where he could've picked them up. But, I'm pretty proud to say that we found him a red baseball shirt on one of two excursions specifically for that purpose. Pre-George me would've said hell no; no child of mine will wear a Super Slugger Baseball Game Day t-shirt. But? Mine does. I never thought you'd hear me yelling, "go, go, go, run the bases!" or telling my child that baseball players do, in fact, wear rainbow striped pajamas similar to the ones he didn't want to put on after his bath. But I yell that multiple times a day; I have used that line not only for jammies but food, socks and boring errands. The most surprising thing of all is that I think it's really cute. All of it. The clumsy slide, the devastation over being too little for the bat he keeps eyeing at Target, the rapt attention to Ken Burns' Baseball documentary, the requests to see "basketball kids" whenever we drive past the high school where Nathan took him to see a game once, and the undying love for his now well-worn, filthy soccer balls that appear in nearly every un-cropped photo of him. 

He is most assuredly not the child I envisioned myself having, but what I've learned is that I appreciate other qualities more than the superficial things I pictured, and those traits I truly value are not mutually exclusive with sports fandom. I'm raising an empathetic kid who gives hugs freely, who frets over pictures of sad cartoon animals, who loves being read to, who loves music. He's trusting and confident and communicative. And he has interests that he's cultivated all on his own, which assures me that he's not too easily influenced. I'm still hopeful that he'll be amenable to the idea of dance class, but I also can't wait to see how cute he looks in his tee ball uniform. I hope he always feels supported in his interests, no matter how misaligned they are with mine. 

big car

You know that one present? The one you were really, really hoping for? Or maybe even didn't know you wanted until the paper was tearing back and you caught the first glimpse of what would become, for however long, your most prized possession? 

I hope yours was under the tree (or beside the menorah) this year. Happy Holidays; I'll be back, you know, eventually. xoxo

busytown birthday

We are a household of ardent Richard Scarry fans. Of the few child-related things Nathan brought with him to our relationship, the Richard Scarry Lithuanian Children's Dictionary is easily my favorite, and George has taken a shine to it, as well as the big, beautiful Nursery Rhyme book, the silly Cars and Trucks book and the Busytown television show (not to mention the handful of other, small, Golden Books we've accumulated). The kid loves Huckle and Lowly, Hilda Hippo and even the sort of creepy apparent watch thief(?), Bananas Gorilla. So, it followed that he'd have a Busytown birthday party. The only other theme option was Wall-E, and despite my son's undeniable, undying love for that particular trash-compacting robot, I'm trying to avoid full buy-in to the Disney machine for as long as possible, even when it includes environmentally conscious messaging and strong female leads.

We thought about inviting lots of people, like we did last year, but the house is small, the days are shorter than our childless friends sometimes realize and we were all varying degrees of sick, so it was a good thing we stuck to George's besties and, of course, Mimi (my mom) who came through in a major way on the present front. More on that later.

George has been to plenty of his friends' birthday parties, plus mine, and he was really excited to have a party of his own. He "helped" us get ready, mainly by standing in the way of the vaccuum and eating all the snacks before guests arrived, but once people showed up he made the rounds giving copious hugs and generally being a pretty adorable host. He interacted comfortably not only with his little friends but also their parents, which is a relief on two fronts. I want him to be at ease with people of all ages, and I'm so glad that we have parent-friends whom he genuinely likes and trusts. It's incredibly interesting to see his social skills developing in the way they are; he's attentive and grateful and those are both things I hoped for, but didn't want to be too didactic about. 

For favors, I made each of the kids a Lowly doll (half of which we forgot to give out),

and Nathan made a little plywood apple car for the kids (and my mom) to sit behind and have their picture taken. 

I found some Busytown fabric at my favorite local quilt shop and made a little bunting and table cloth. We also used some of the stuff from Richard Scarry's Best Ever Make It Book (link at the bottom) -- a crazy awesome $1.99 Value Village find -- to make the invitations, spruce up the cupcakes and decorate the house a little more. 

It was cute and (for all intents and purposes) went off without a hitch but, more importantly, George had the time of his life. He was thrilled to have everyone over and every time he passed by me, he was either giggling or had to stop and tell me "havin' fun!" 

He got amazing, thoughtful presents, including this one from my mother, that is already the source of unending cuteness and hilarity:

He's a lucky little chicken, and I'm lucky to be able to celebrate him. Happy birthday to my best dude, who will soon be my oldest, but always my baby.