one of those

Some days you need a reminder that your kid is cute and fun, just two after all, and not deliberately making you miserable with the most ridiculous, terrible, clichéd garbage you never thought would be a part of your reality. Let me paint you a little picture. A woman is wearing an outfit cobbled together of things that were left downstairs when the rest of the laundry was taken up to be put away. She has an infant in a carrier on her front, and she is holding a small boy up in front of her. They are in a mall. The small boy is screaming. Is she swinging him, for fun? Is he screaming with delight? Oh no. No, no, no. Also, the baby is crying. 

We're having one of those days. One of those everything-goes-wrong kind of days where you try to turn it around with a trip to the Children's Museum but that doesn't work out either, and you resort to the mall's play area which proves to be your gravest error yet. A day when you beg the universe for a break and instead get a diarrheal cat. 

If you'd have seen me moments prior to the swinging/screaming scene, you'd have caught me calmly saying, over the fussing directly beneath my face, George, I know you're disappointed, but we will walk until Zelda falls asleep and then come back to the play area. Let's find a place to buy a snack. You would've seen me try to quiet the fussing with a quick nurse, then hurriedly corral one boob back into my shirt while I chased after my toddler who had seized a golden opportunity and run off. I was doing pretty well...and then I wasn't.

His priorities are not your priorities, I repeated to myself, as I carried him to the car. It didn't make me any less frustrated. For all the gentle parenting resources I could list, all the redirection and communication tactics I know, sometimes I'm still that lady. The "did you see that lady?" lady. Ach.

So I put him to bed when we got home -- a nap was sorely needed -- and looked at these photos of the art project we did yesterday. An exercise in tape and placement. I asked him: Would you like to make a pond or a tree? I cut out shapes and he put them where he wanted. We taped them on, one by one, together, and with markers he added some eyes to the fish, some bubbles.

The pride on that face. To say he was pleased with himself would be an understatement. I thought because he's not able to draw figures that look like figures yet his finished product would be more abstract, less "correct" about where everything went. But sand was at the bottom, the frog was at the top, and the plant was planted right in the dirt. Go figure.

He's pretty alright, that boy. Even though he tees me right off sometimes. He apologized, by the way. I'm sorry, Mama. Sorry for being a rascal.

I know, I said. Let's just try again. 

do you hear that, world?

First, he said he was painting a picture of Mama. Here's one eye, and two eyes, and hair and some legs.

I asked again: "What are you painting?" This is a tree. Here are some leaf-es.

I'm painting like an artist, he said. "When you're painting, you are an artist," I told him. Do you hear that, world? I'm AM an artist, he replied. He doesn't quite grasp contractions yet.

I couldn't make that shit up.

When he was finished, he explained that he'd painted a picture of Mama and Zelda, when Zelda was in Mama's belly. It sure was purple in there, he told me.

george's new room

My first priority when we arrived at the new house was to get George's room in order. I wanted to make it clear that his stuff was still his stuff, it was all here, and his comfort was important to us. So, while Nathan and his dad did the heavy lifting, I arranged toys and put away clothes and generally made his room as Georgeish as I could. It's been a work in progress, as kid rooms always are, but we seem to have reached a good spot and I think we'll let it stay like this for awhile. With his sister crawling, some of the growing pains we thought we'd dodged in the beginning are rearing their heads and it's important to me that he, at least for now, have a space that's safe, baby slobber free, and his. Somewhere down the road, they'll share a room -- maybe this room -- but for as long as Zelda's co-sleeping, this area is George's and his alone. 

I love this room. It's bright, like the rest of the house, and unintentionally very green. It's cheerful but not in that saccharine way that kids' stuff can be. At least, to me. 

It's full but not brimming. Lived-in, with a bed big enough for two, or three, or four. There's art on the walls and not even most of it was made for children. I like that.

That closet, man. It's a secret lair. Another whole person could sleep in there, but right now it holds Zelda's clothes and a someday-to-be nook for hiding out when your mom's annoying you. 

"Do you like your room?" I asked him this morning. "Do you want some tea?" he replied. "Some CHOCOLATE tea?" I'll take that as a yes.

three months

Three months passes quickly these days. This year. Suddenly I have a six month old I set down on the rug in the living room, only to see her little face peek into the dining room while I help her brother with play doh. Her brother, who asks me to help him build a Curiosity space ship to blast off from the swirly turquoise and green ball he's rolled into planet Earth. There are many planets in our solar system, he tells me. That's true.

And the other one, the one who's scooting her chubby buns around a full 2 months earlier than George even considered trying? She's one of those babies who gives babies a good name. Who gives expectant parents hope. Who sends fear straight to the heart of new boyfriends whose dates coo at her gummy, grinning face and exclaim Oh, I love babies! Sorry, dudes.

We moved, we've been entertaining (and entertained), and posts about those things may be coming up in addition to some real talk about potty learning and having two kids. But right now, we're enjoying the fleeting nice weather. I hope these three months have treated you well. 

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.