fine reads

We like to read, a lot, my kids and I. Visiting the library is a weekly (and sometimes bi-weekly) thing for us, and I can't skip over the book section of any thrift shop, which is another place we frequent. I try not to deny my kids any books, even though some of George's choices have led to improv work at storytime, to avoid... questionable text either I wasn't ready to tackle or he wasn't ready to hear. Picture books can be surprisingly dogmatic and violent! Despite my willingness to let them take home just about anything, however, there are some themes that I seek out, and qualities I look for in a picture book, to sort of level the field and normalize other realities for my white, (so far) cis-gendered kids who happen to have a "traditional" two-parent family. Unfortunately, these qualities in children's literature are also pretty hard to find, and difficult to search. Nobody's making Amazon lists called "non-heteronormative, multicultural books with ambiguous family situations your toddler will LOVE!" So goes the refrain of every over-achiever: I'll just do it myself. 

In a new series, Fine Reads, I'll be reviewing books we discover that are widely available online at Amazon or, preferably, Powell's, and rating them based on these criteria:

Kids' gender neutrality: I'll be noting whether or not there are gender pronouns used, if the children in the stories have gender-neutral names, or present in a typically-gendered way. 

Family situations: I'll be looking for books that include non-traditional families, including same sex parents, single parent families, children raised by non-biological parents (adoptive parents, grandparents, surrogate and foster families, etc.), or books that simply don't specify who the pictured adults are. 

Multiculturalism: This does not mean books about "the first Thanksgiving" and the like. I'm on the lookout for stories that feature regular ol' non-white or ethnically ambiguous families/children without tokenizing or fetishizing. 

Gentle parenting: Not looking for incidences of punishment or other bummers, though I'm not anti-parents just don't understand situations á la Maurice Sendak's entire oeuvre. 

Story and illustration quality: With obvious bias, but I'll comment on these, too. I'm often disappointed in children's books for their inattention to the story in favor of hip or pretty pictures. 

and, finally, Our family's overall rating: I'll be using a star system, with one being the lowest and five the highest. I'll link to where you can purchase the book for yourself, and no posts will be sponsored or otherwise subsidized unless information to the contrary is clearly stated. I'm not interested in shilling books for anyone, just in providing a resource for llikeminded parents and reading some good books with my kids. 

Are there any other criteria you'd like to see me cover? Leave a comment and I may add it to the list! Look for the first review coming in a few days; we checked out a very sweet title from our library last week! 

on involving my kids in politics

A photo of my son -- a photo (and a kid, obviously) of which I am very proud -- did some laps around the internet last week. On more than one occasion it, my parenting, and my motives were questioned, and that took me by surprise, as George was participating in an activity I would never think twice of. What was he doing?

Standing on the steps of our county's courthouse, at a rally in support of Referendum 74 (WHICH PASSED THANK YOU WASHINGTON), which affords all Washingtonians their right to marry whomever they damn well please.

I was accused of indoctrinating him, of forcing my beliefs on him, and using him for political gain. Those accusations made me sad not because they spoke to me in any real way; they were absurd. I was disappointed to read them, because they meant that people are not engaging their kids in political discourse. To the hand-wringers, a child at a rally is a prop, not a participant, and that speaks volumes of the state of our nation. 

George wasn't plunked down on the steps of the courthouse for a photo-op, and he wasn't naive to the cause for which we were rallying support. We've talked at length this fall about the presidential candidates, the ballot measures that most concern us, and what we, as citizens, can do to make sure our voices are heard and people get a fair shake. So many people he loves -- we love -- are affected by the homophobia that plagues our country, and if anyone feels injustice to the core, it's a toddler. What better time to introduce the concept of privilege (and shedding it) than in these formative years? We are developing a habit of participation, of informing ourselves and thoughtfully considering those around us. If that's indoctrination, well, there are certainly worse dogmata.

That brings me to the other troubling part of the complaints: the assertion that I should give my kids "all the information" and "let them decide." This is a proposition only humored by liberals, and I'm here to say: NO EFFING WAY. Civil rights are not something about which we should even be voting. Were my children to grow up racist, I wouldn't shrug my shoulders and say hey, to each his own! The devoutly religious, the homophobic: they don't (usually) suggest to one another that there might be another way, so what's with the liberal guilt around the only things that are, without question, just and true? I have no problem telling my kids, or anyone else, that some things are right and some things are wrong and my family will not participate in bigotry. For the record, I also often choose what George eats for lunch, when he goes to bed, and whether or not he can oppress his sister despite not detailing every edible thing in the house, the necessary bodily functions that occur during sleep, or what will happen when Zelda is big enough to fight back. 

I was proud to watch the debates with my children, proud to hear what George had to say about Obama and Romney, and thrilled when he could rejoice with me in the victories we won. It's never too early to have these conversations, and never too late, either. In a country where apathy is rampant, involvement is one cure. 

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. 

Fred Rogers wins again

"I'm learning to sing a sad song when I'm sad.
I'm learning to say I'm angry when I'm very mad.
I'm learning to shout,
I'm getting it out,
I'm happy, learning
Exactly how I feel inside of me
I'm learning to know the truth
I'm learning to tell the truth
Discovering truth will make me free."

Sometimes. Just sometimes, you can see a crack open up in that incomprehensible two-and-a-half year old brain that drives your sweet child to pee on the floor even as he is screaming, refusing to sit on the potty (despite that you have not suggested he do anything of the sort). Sometimes it is while Fred Rogers, patron saint of small children and marionettes, is singing the truest words you've heard since the last time he sang the truest words you've ever heard. And that adorable floor-peeing despot will stop ripping up puzzle pieces, stand up and stare at the TV like Mr. Rogers is peering straight into his very soul, then approach you and say, "Mama, sometimes I'm a rascal because I feel something inside, like a crinkly feeling or something. I just want to play. I get intense. I'm sorry, Mama." And if he were alive, you would book a flight to Pittsburgh that very second to throw yourself at Fred Rogers' worthy feet.

our journey to dreamland

That kid right there, he started out as a 12 hour a night sleeper. Does he sleep through the night? people would ask me. Yes! I could say, without lying. Well, without telling untruths, that is, because I was definitely lying. Next to him. All night. And all morning. Because that kid, right there, he slept from midnight until noon as long as he had a bosom for a pillow. Well-meaning folks suggested that I try waiting until he was deeply asleep, then rolling away from him to go about my day. As though I hadn't tried that. Have you ever forcibly waited until noon to get out of bed? If you had, you'd know that the urge to pee strikes around 9:30 and that scenario probably doesn't need further explanation. 

He woke up if I even thought too hard about scootching over, and it went double for naps. The penalty for my ambition was always the same: an underslept baby with one target for his displeasure. Me. so, I got a Kindle and went with it. I was so well-read back then, you guys. 

He slept in the sling, with his papa, too. That was nice. On weekends, I got a break from lying down with him (Let us pause for a moment, parents of more than one, to laugh and laugh. 

Hoo boy! Yeah. Okay. Anyway.) and that continued until he was well over a year old. At fifteen months or so, he nightweaned and moved into a crib, a change prompted by his obvious need for more personal space at night. His kicking and flailing were keeping everyone, himself included, awake, and the crib gave him boundaries he seemed to enjoy, coupled with room to move and make sheet angels. But getting him to sleep at night was HARD. I'd nurse him and hand him over to Nathan, who put in one to two hours per night sitting next to the crib, singing and humming, shooshing and patting. And naptime? I, pregnant and afflicted with a bad case of the breastfeeding heebie jeebies, was unable to nap-nurse like we'd always done. So Nathan dashed home on his lunch break and made a nap happen, then drove back to work, rarely having eaten.

George was elated to receive a hand-me-down toddler bed, but fell out of it a few times, so we reverted to the crib. It started feeling a little desperate, like this particular toddler was going to need this papa-led patting and shooshing routine well into grade school. Nathan and I had no evening time to ourselves, the lunchtime dash was kind of ridiculous, and, more than once, we both wondered aloud if this level of attention was counterproductive. We knew families who "Ferberized" their kids, and if Facebook and casual conversation were to be believed, their evenings were full of primetime television shows and cocktails. In short, they seemed to be having a lot more fun than we were. But, we persisted, because being unresponsive to our son's expressed needs felt like the wrong thing to do. 

The funny thing about raising kids is that things gradually get better and sometimes you don't notice. I couldn't tell you the date of George's last dirty diaper (because that would be pathetic, a little), and I don't know exactly when he stopped throwing all of his food on the floor. Similarly, the sleep routine got shorter and shorter until we decided to try something new. 

For the past month, I've been putting George to bed. We do "stories and nummas" -- books and a nurse -- and then he lies down. I turn off the light and we talk about his day. I sing Moon River and Take Me Out To The Ballgame, really slow, as per his request. And then, I leave. I leave him there, blinking at me in the hallway light, saying no, I love YOU! And I shut the door. And he goes to sleep. 

I never thought we'd get here. Or, rather, I knew we would, but it seemed a far-off fantasy like I'd imagine when he was a baby. The patter of jammy feet on wood floors, the eating of grilled cheese and soup on blustery days: these feel like distant, hazy idyls to the mother of a six month old. What I'm most proud of, besides his accomplishments as an independent sleeper, is that we got here by honoring his needs, his wishes. We kept him feeling safe, and in that feeling of safety, he grew into what we hoped he would, what we needed. I sometimes miss the feeling of lying there next to his baby body, devouring a novel while he snored, looking down to see his eyelids flutter open that gummy good morning smile. But another funny thing about raising kids is that there's always a next thing, another thing to love. And that retort? No, I love YOU, mama. God, is it good.