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. 

body politics and the willies

When I made it through the first trimester of pregnancy with my milk supply intact and no soreness like I'd been warned of, I thought George and I were free and clear to keep nursing through this pregnancy. My goal has always been to breastfeed on demand until two, when we'd switch to the no offers/no refusals game plan, which would lead to weaning in due time. George has nightweaned himself, with the transition from our bed to his own, and, anymore, only asks to nurse a few times a day; on some especially busy days, he's only asked once. Regardless of frequency, however, it's a part of our relationship I don't want to give up, and certainly not prematurely (not to mention: it's my only way of getting him to sleep without the aid of one adept papa). 

One thing I hadn't worried about and, hence, hadn't prepared for, was the nursing heebie-jeebies. As in, a total aversion to breastfeeding my child. We've had a great and easy road and I've never felt even a twinge of the body-related resentment toward George that I'd heard expressed by some other mothers or discomfort with breastfeeding created by the over-sexualized and unfriendly-to-nursing culture in which we (unfortunately) live. So when, a few weeks ago, slight soreness gave way to OH MY GOD DON'T YOU DARE COME NEAR MY BOOBS, KID I was shocked and bummed and guilty-feeling. My poor, sweet, little dude just wanted some noms. I hoped the feeling would go away -- that it was just a fluke -- and I'd be able to enjoy that part of our day like I had in the past. But it hasn't gone away. And it's kind of messing with me. 

I am so incredibly comfortable with enforcing my need for personal space. Anyone who's shared my bed can tell you that I am not to be bothered in the middle of the night. Cuddling? Hell no. I don't like to be tickled, either, so call me a joykill but stay away from my knees if you value your nose's structural integrity. I can say no, believe strongly in my right to do so and can safely say I've never willingly compromised my body for someone else. Until now. And I'm doing it three + times a day. 

Maybe I just need someone to feed me cotton candy while I nurse?

Every time George's little hand opens and closes to say he wants milk, I cringe. It hurts, it's hot and I just want it to be over. And I feel like the world's worst asshole. My supply is dipping, so there's no telling how much he gets, and as though he's trying to make up in time what he's lacking in product, he wants to stay latched on FOR. EVER. Through the entirety of the morning -- 6:30 to 8am, and again through his whole nap, waking when I desperately extricate myself. I've read so many articles and blog posts  for tips, and some of the suggestions work, if briefly. Some of the voices are genuinely reassuring. But I'm still having a hard time parsing my belief in respecting my own body and limits while maintaining what's obviously an important facet of my relationship with my son. 

Parenting comes with a healthy dose of self-sacrifice and I daresay anyone who argues otherwise is doing it wrong. I don't think, however, that you're obligated to hand over all body autonomy if doing so is giving you the willies. To forsake my own comfort especially around such a potentially intimate body part seems innately un-Feminist. Is it? Is there an intersection of feminism and motherhood with a permanent red light? It seems that the short answer is yes; the long answer no with a but. And that makes me uncomfortable, too. To be the first woman to yield to my son -- whom I am (with luck) teaching that women's (and everyone's, really) bodies are to be respected and protected, especially in a political climate that decreasingly supports that idea? I'm probably over thinking it, but it seems to set a precedent I don't like. My best bet may be to grin and bear it: to never let him think he has to convince me, both because that's the kindest way, and because it doesn't teach him that coercion is an option. 

I'm devoted to child-led weaning, so I'm sure I'll continue gritting my teeth until oxytocin overcomes the heebie-jeebies, George gives up on his own or the new baby brings back my supply, any illusions of control over my own chest wash away with a new, never-ending batch of spit-up stained laundry, and breastfeeding becomes the hormonal love-fest it used to be. And I'll continue to question my own politics, my own motivations -- to check in with my methods -- because doing so is healthy. It keeps me relevant, or at least as relevant as a stay-at-home mom can be (ha!). 

on tramps

This week, a male sports columnist -- a single father to a son -- wrote an opinion piece for CNN.com, a website I only visit when I'm directed there by others' outrage. He asked the parents of America to stop dressing their daughters "like tramps" and, in an undoubtedly purposefully creepy and inflammatory way, described a young girl as "the sexiest" person in the room. He posits that we can blame retailers like Abercrombie & Fitch if we want to, but the problem is really that parents don't set boundaries in favor of acting like their childrens' friends, allowing them to wear halter tops and Juicy Couture track suits, enabling perverty weirdos (who may or may not work for CNN) to leer at them. Lowering their self esteem via teensy padded bras. 

Well. 

I agree with him on one point: parents DON'T set boundaries, but it's nothing to do with buying size 6X thongs. Little girls live in the world with the rest of us. The world where famous women are simultaneously glorified and demonized for their bodies, their appearance, the lengths to which they go in order to stay relevant and beautiful. These little girls have mothers who diet, buy fashion magazines full of altered images of already nearly physically "flawless" women. Mothers who buy Spanx and padded bras and minimizer bras and ask apologetically before they leave the house if they look halfway decent. We present to them a framework of femininity that leaves no room for fat unless you're also hilarious (and sexless). No room for short. Or too tall. Or broad-shouldered or thin-lipped or round-assed lest you suffer the same fate as Jennifer Lopez who cannot be called beautiful without the qualifier of CURVY, even after carrying twins. 

And if you misstep? If you somehow fail to strike that perfect balance of demure but hot, available and eager but hard-to-get, if your skirt is half an inch too short and your expression reads less-than-interested? WHORE. You think you're too good for me, bitch? Fat slut. Ugly. You'd be kinda hot if you weren't such a bitch. These have all been said to me, without provocation, after polite refusals of come-ons. If you find that surprising, you haven't been in a bar recently. And by recently, I mean ever.

What LZ Granderson's article (which I will not link to, but is fully google-able) about child tramps failed to address is what got us here in the first place. What makes little girls want to dress scantily, suggestively. Why it's not their fault, or their mothers' fault for buying the stupid crap, but all of our fault for wondering aloud in the doctor's office while reading US Weekly if Jessica Alba is pregnant again because she looks a little... thick, if you know what I mean. We don't set boundaries, but failing to do so at the mall is the least of our problems. We need to identify the ways in which we propagate this poison. Start saying, in front of our daughters, I LOOK FUCKING GREAT TODAY, instead of, "Do these give me a muffintop?" Better yet, I AM A GOD DAMNED GENIUS WITH A CROCK POT or whatever other affirmations actually matter to their lives. Start setting an example of good. Of smart and interested and involved instead of not-really-pretty-but-trying. Yes, stop buying that glittery "girly" junk, those track suits and gross underthings, but if we imbue girls with worth beyond or instead of their looks, they won't want it anyway. 

There are ways to address the problem of sexualizing children without further marginalizing women, without insulting sex workers, without contributing to the very mindset that created all those horrific screen printed slogans. LZ Granderson just wasn't interested in going there. I am, though, and I'll keep rooting for girls, advocating for them instead of shaming them for participating in the cultural mess we made long before they got here. 

Sorry, Chelsea; it was just too perfect not to use. Love you/miss you.