passing over

As I think is the case with anyone who has ever had children, tradition became more important once I had a kid. Where holidays were stupid or creepy or commercialized or boring or patriarchal before, they are now kind of... not so bad. This year saw our first Passover seder with George and my first Passover seder in a long time. Atheists can hang during most Jewish holidays, but Passover is heavy on God, the "reason for the season" looming too large to work around, the very basis of the celebration being so literally religious rather than cultural. No doy, right? It's a religious holiday. But so much of Judaism is about being Jewish, about being together, remembering, about righting wrongs and doing good and eating and having fun. If you don't like the closed-minded aspects of orthodoxy, you can leave them in favor of the easy-going, loving arms of Reform. All this is great until you start talking parting seas, plagues and killing firstborn sons; then, you lose me. Because I don't walk under ladders and I hold my breath as I drive past cemetaries, but smiting and miracles? God offing kids to make a point? No. Thus, I've always pretty much opted out of Passover.

But now? I have a firstborn son. A son I want to have a cultural identity and childhood memories to support that identity. I want to give him traditions to pass down, or at least roll his eyes about with his siblings when they go out for Chinese food on Christmas Eve. The gift of relative universality -- of being able to accept an invitation to a new friend's home to eat a nasty sandwich of horseradish and matzah, sing familiar songs and know without a doubt that you will leave wine-drunk -- it's no college education or heirloom jewelry, but everything we inherit can't be one of the hits. I'm learning that I can participate without agreeing. Say the words for their own sake. Swallow my indignation and suspend my disbelief while we tell a round-table version of one of the world's oldest stories, whose moral is of perseverance and vindication. I can teach my own firstborn who, according to legend, would've been spared, not to take his own privilege for granted. I can teach him that not everything requires such a critical eye. 

If George grows up liking once-a-year kugel and flourless macaroons, knowing the best places to hide the afikomen and able to sing songs in sloppy Hebrew, well, that may not be the explicit purpose of Passover, but it's good enough for me. 

newsflash

In looking at old photos this afternoon, I had a realization.

I truly gave birth to the cutest human being to ever live. 

Yep, the race has been won.

patience

Patience is not something that comes easily to me. Until, oh... about two years ago, I didn't often see the need for it. The suspension of disbelief was similarly useless; I like facts presented in a timely fashion and the decisiveness that set-up allows. As anyone who's had to wait nine months for something can attest, patience quickly becomes a virtue as there is no other option, and while pregnant I'd like to think I grew more patient than I'd ever been (others might argue; you probably shouldn't ask around). This only intensified (out of sheer need, mind you, not some complete change of character on my part) after George was born but I'm still a long way from calling myself a patient person. There is little to no instant gratification in parenthood. In fact, the first few months or so of your child's life are spent giving of yourself -- your free time, your attention, your hygiene, your rest and a thousand other things -- to a blob that has the audacity to take without offering so much as a thanks, then shit and puke all over your clothes. Newborns, of course, are lovable little tyrants but that doesn't always make their care more gratifying. You've spent, and continue to spend, hours researching exactly the right way not to fuck up your offspring, or, at least, I did. But when the sign language you use, the gentle way you parent them to sleep and the completely organic diet to which you adhere don't have immediate, obvious effects, it's easy to feel like your efforts are futile. Especially when that girl you went to high school with feeds her kid Pepsi and brags on Facebook about how beautifully cry-it-out worked for them, while her child sleeps soundly through the night and smiles in all his photos. 

I began to think my newfound patience would never pay off. Still nursing George to sleep for naps and at night, unable to leave his side lest his little heat sensor go off and abruptly end the peace. His verbal skills not exactly where I expected them to be when I was naively imagining my child, despite all the hours spent reading, the careful communication and constant narration of daily tasks. His frustration still apparent at times, no matter how many signs with which we outfit him or freedom we give to express himself. 

But then? It started to come together. Poor George; I am a little slow on the uptake. It's obvious that he is happy. Confident. Communicative. Kind. Secure and appropriately attached to his parents, who he knows are on his side. It's obvious while watching him play with his friends -- visually checking in with me but never clinging, reacting with utter sorrow when he's accidentally hurt someone. When he plays too roughly with the cats and offers up his own "gentle touch" as consolation without being prompted. When he signs that he's sleepy rather than fighting a nap; he knows someone will be there, responding to his needs in waking AND sleep. While watching him navigate our every-Sunday breakfast spot, stopping at tables and waving at waitresses like the mayor of Diamond Jim's, it's clear that he feels good about himself and is open to new things, new people, unafraid to fall on his face on the linoleum (repeatedly) or meet a family of total strangers and quickly, easily win them over. He approaches things with abandon which some might argue is the norm for a baby with few negative experiences from which to draw conclusions. But I've seen enough scared, timid children, unsure of themselves, their surroundings and how they (are allowed to) fit in to know this approach to life, at this stage, is not necessarily a given regardless of circumstance. 

It didn't really occur to me that I had been parenting all this time with my disbelief suspended, operating on faith that my methods would eventually work. They were, for the most part, the ways I instinctively deal with my child, but so many go against the modern ways we're told to raise children that they no longer go without saying. I mentioned to my therapist that I didn't feel ready to have another child until I knew without doubt that I hadn't screwed this one up. She -- a parent of two grown women -- laughed at me, of course, and said that you never get to that point, but an attentive parent can see in her child when she's perhaps gone astray. Maybe not immediately, but soon enough to turn the whole operation back around and find the fork where you went wrong. This is comforting. Also comforting is watching my little guy, my cat-kisser and identifyer-of-vegetables confidently find his place in the world. 

so excited, so unslept

Dear George,

Someday, you will be sixteen. You'll fall in desperate, soul-crushing love and feel profoundly misunderstood and you'll live and die by some songs whose lyrics will later make you cringe. I will have long since been embarrassing you. You'll get drunk for the first time and deliberate over where your covert makeout sessions should be. You'll learn to drive -- and love driving away from me, no matter how good I am at this mothering shit. But oh my god, kid, is it going to be awesome. Nothing else feels like that age, so immersed in your ownness. Self-conscious but invincible. The world will be your oyster. 

And, too, someday (should this all go according to plan), you will be thirty. You'll be driving around with your baby in the backseat, asleep, and one of those cringe-worthy songs will come on. But instead of skipping it, letting it lie in your past with regrettable outfits and boys, you'll turn it up louder and sing along. 

Love,

mama

hideout

Our house is small. It's cute, and I like it, and I don't even keep the space I have tidy, so I can't justifiably wish for more. But having a toddling baby doesn't always jibe with also having such a tiny home. We have a lot of stuff, some of which is valuable -- both sentimentally and otherwise -- and while I respect the methods of child rearing that dictate we must create an entirely child-friendly space, it's just not realistic for my family. Plus, I want my records out and accessible. I want George to grow up with a respect for the delicacy of certain things, looking forward to the special occasions when he is allowed to handle our treasures. After all, there are lots of no-touches in the world, for kids and adults alike. 

This is not to say that our house is one big barrister bookcase of Hummel figurines. Nevertheless, I still feel bad sometimes that George has such a limited play area. That, unless a door is shut, he can never escape my eyeshot. He needed a hideout: a cozy little retreat all his own for looking at books, for talking to his cow and baby about what a jerk mama is when she won't let him pick at the electrical outlet covers. I'd been looking at teepee instructions and tutorials online and in pattern books for awhile before I finally decided to just wing it. (This is by no means a tutorial, but if you're similarly inclined to fly by the seat of your pants, maybe this will give you an idea or two.)

I used:

• four 4-foot-long dowels
• some white twill that I already had
• some ikea fabric that I'd been saving for something special
• some hot pink suede cord leftover from moccasin making
• a scrap of yellow broadcloth.

I made pretty haphazard triangles that measured three feet on the bottom edge, just folded them in half and used a yard stick to cut a relatively straight diagonal line that would create a triangle when the fabric opened back up. The triangles are 3 and a half feet tall. 

For the dowel casings, I cut 3 inch wide strips the same length as the triangles' diagonal edge. As I sewed the triangles together at the long sides, I folded the casings in half (wrong sides together) and sandwiched them between the teepee side pieces. To make an opening, I cut the front piece in half lengthwise, then sewed partway down. I made some bias tape and bound the unfinished edges of the flap. For a little extra stability, I reinforced the top of the flap with a triangle of scrap fabric. I didn't want to get out the iron, so the triangle is uneven, but oh well. 

I looped a piece of suede cord around the tops of the dowels, and tied them up tight. I made the whole thing after George went to bed last night (in about 2.5 hours), so it was set up for him this morning. 

He was freaking STOKED. As soon as the next Joann circular comes in the mail, I'll get some shredded foam to make a big matching pillowy cushion to lounge on. 

For now, though, he's perfectly content crawling in, sitting for awhile, then crawling back out to check on Rody.