other people's children

Until pretty recently, kid-wise we've existed in a pleasant little social bubble, surrounded by friends whose children are nice to be around. Friends who know they can correct my son if they need to, whose children seem comfortable taking gentle direction from me. We have similar, though definitely not identical, parenting styles and expectations and when someone has the occasional bad day it's easy to shrug it off for exactly what it is: an off day, not a behavioral problem. After all, kids are kids just as people are people and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to shove one of my friends every now and again, or steal an especially delicious-looking apple from someone's grasp. 

I can see the end of those glory days, though. George is old enough to enjoy playing at the local totally awesome play place/coffee shop which we'll no doubt be frequenting this rainy season, while I am gigantic with baby and the toddler energy exceeds the confines of our house. While there the other day, a little boy of about three took it upon himself to police the train table, snatching toys from George's hands, pushing him away and -- what turned out to be my last straw -- gloating as he wrested from George's grip a plastic friend-of-Thomas, "That's right; you're not smart enough." Um, say what?

I am all for children working out their own conflicts. In fact, in our little group there's rarely intervention unless the fight for a toy escalates to fit-throwing, or someone's being especially hoard-y. But in those cases the grabbing is never mean-spirited, it's just... wanty. They have no concept of denying others to get what they want. Empathy isn't generally counted among the virtues of the under-two set. But insults have never come into play. To chalk that up to age or verbal skill is wrong, I think; we've all heard of or have our own story of a very young child calling someone stupid or using other hurtful language. This was a first, though: I had to stand up to someone, albeit on my knees, who was saying shitty things to my kid. I moseyed over to the train table and said, "I think everyone would have a lot more fun if you shared with the littler ones." 

It didn't work. 

Last night, we went out for some pizza with my mom. A family with two little girls sat down about a yard away from our table. One girl looked to be about George's age, and one was three or four. The younger one immediately began screaming the kind of shrill, blood-curdling scream that would signify something being very, very wrong. But no! Life and limb intact, she happily dumped the majority of a shaker of parmesan cheese on the table while the screaming continued, unaddressed. Uncorrected. The other diners' shoulders tensed with every scream. George looked at me, alarmed. The woman next to us plugged her ears. And it went on. And on. Nobody took the kid out of her high chair, nobody advised her of an appropriate volume for the situation. Nobody talked to her. She just. Kept. Screaming. Finally, the shrieker's mother stood up to use the restroom and noticed the woman behind her, fingers in ears. "Ha!" she said, "This lady's plugging her ears!" SCREAM. George began to whimper, and I said, "You know, actually, it's really upsetting our son, too." 

She wheeled around. "OH! Then we'll just leave!" Sassily. Like, I was supposed to feel bad? 

Funnily, I did feel bad. I felt bad for the little girl. I felt bad over the fact that her parents were setting her up to be "that kid." The screamer. The one who ruins dinners, who perpetuates the unfortunate reputation of toddlers everywhere from dining rooms to airplanes. Did she want to have a restaurant full of eyes boring holes into the back of her head with every scream? Of course not; she didn't know any better. But, nevertheless, it seemed like my job to protect my worried, whimpering son, much like I intervened with the train table dictator. Neither situation won me friends, and both left me wondering a little if I should've just let it go. I want my son to be able to fight his own battles, but I also want him to know I'm on his side. That I'm paying attention, and I'll be his back-up when his own assertions go unheeded. There are, of course, biggies and littles. I'll continue to let him try to hold tight to the ball until someone stronger takes it away; he'll learn to adjust his expectations, to broaden his horizons... or to follow stronger kids around and seize on a weak moment to recapture his ball. But there's little to be learned from enduring a meal set to screaming. There's no need to harden yourself to insults. At least not at nearly-two.  

I've been the mother of the shover. I've been the parent scuttling out of a quiet room with a hollering baby, grimacing and mouthing sorry! At my behest, George has given countless "gentle touches" to wronged bonk-ees, kids who found themselves at the end of his kick, and I am well aware that he is no perfect specimen of manners and propriety. I neither want nor expect him to be. But I still hold him to some standards. I want him to succeed. I want him to make friends easily and feel comfortable in all environments. That, to me, means equipping him with some tools: knowing what's appropriate, when, for example. I wish I could ensure for him that these bits of unpleasantness wouldn't arise. In fact, I wish for all of us a life wherein nobody screams during dinner or tells us we're not smart enough. Am I wrong to try to ward off the inevitable? Maybe. But if, given my example, my son turns out like me: an unapologetic shush-er of mid-movie talkers, expert in polite assertions,with the bonus of knowing his mom will stick up for him? Well, that's probably fine by me. 

an autumn jacket (and a little something extra)

I've had this pattern sitting on the top of the pile for quite awhile, waiting until I didn't have to scale it to fit George. He's finally a true pattern size 2, and with a few alterations, I had visions of the perfect fall jacket. 

I'm a sucker for a peter pan collar, and the necessary changes were so easy -- lengthen the sleeves, turn the buttons into toggles. The clincher was a couple of yards of plummy quilted cotton I'd been saving for just the right occasion. I cut it out and decided against the collar, in favor of a generous hood, good for pulling over your knit cap for extra protection against the elements. I had some navy and white striped twill left over from making George the Oliver + S sailboat pants and lined the jacket with that, making it a little more masculine (though, I really consider plum to be a sort of neutral). 

Well, here's the thing. It turned out adorably and fits like a dream, but despite those facts, it's not exactly what I would call a hit. 

Alas. Maybe he'll warm up to it? I used some scraps from Nathan's beat-up old laptop bag to make the toggle patches and bought some navy bias tape and cording for the edges and button loops. It's a good crisp weather-weight, and I'm hoping it will fit him in the spring, as well, though that seems unlikely. 

I had plenty leftover, and another pattern on my mind, so I whipped up a little something for the new baby to wear come February. We were at a total loss, wardrobe-wise, with newborn George when it came time for those refreshing walks around the block immediately following the sequestered period post-birth. We bundled him up as best we could and wore him close, but I'd have liked to put him in something extra snuggly. 

God, do I hate that synthetic fleece, though. It was admittedly more effort to line the entire thing with cotton chenille, but worth it to know my poor kid won't be feeling the icky slick softness of what was formerly soda bottles. 

These pictures suck, by the way: no need to point it out. We've entered the part of the year when our house requires lamplight during the day and outside it starts looking like dusk while I'm fixing lunch.

There it is: cozy-soft and so freaking tiny. It boggles the mind that someone's stretched-out arms will fit inside those sleeves. 

Since I have such an enormous stash, all I had to buy was the bias tape and the cording to complete both the bunting and the jacket. I can't wait to see them both on my littles. And with any luck, at least one of said bundled-up littles won't be miserable. 

conversations with a 21 month old

While reading Mysterious Thelonious: 

Me (reading): "This is a story about the lovely music of Mister Monk"

George: JAZZ!

*     *     *

While watching a National Geographic documentary on bears, which showed brown bears eating salmon:

George (pretending to be on the phone): Mama...no, Papa bear! Eating sharks! Yeah? Yeah! Bye bye.

*     *     *

Me: Uh oh, you dropped your water!

George: (gingerly picking up his water bottle) Uh oh! ...kay? Yeah. Good. Thank you! (copious kisses for the injured water bottle)

*     *     *

George: (shoving a graham cracker into the cat's face) "Happy birthday!...Hi, happy birthday!" (shoves the cracker a little more forcefully into the cat's face, now yelling) "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!"

*     *     *

While reading a book wherein Eeyore loses his tail:

Me: "Uh oh, did the donkey lose his tail?"

George: (trying futilely to pick the [picture of the] tail up) "Help!" (pointing at the tail) "SEE?!"

Me: "Um...he'll find it eventually!"

George: (crying) "Hee haw sad! Help! Help!"

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!). 

homemade diapers

When George was still cooking, I decided to try my hand at diaper making. It wasn't hard, but having never cloth diapered, I didn't know what I wanted, and those early homemade all-in-ones (henceforth referred to as AIOs) have since been handed down to someone else who, I hope, likes them better than I did. They were cute and all, but one-time-users just aren't my cup of tea.

We've been trying to think ahead and solve the two kids/one diaper stash dilemma. George has taken it upon himslf to potty learn, and has been using the potty for four months, though not reliably. There's a lot of time between now and February, but also, there's not, and who knows what kind of bathroom-related hijinxs will ensue between now and then. It's like a buddy movie nobody wants to see! 

I'd be bummed if I bought a whole second supply of diapers only to have George in Elmo underpants by the time I need them, so I'm curbing my drive for preparation ("nesting"?) by sewing up some little newborn diaper covers, good for seven to 15 pounds of stalling while we decide whether or not to pull the trigger on some more fancy one-size-fits-most diapers/covers/whatever. This is riveting, no? My diaper purchasing decision making process. Wow. Anyway,

The other day, I was shopping my section of bookmarks devoted to free patterns and tutorials and there were those old AIO instructions. Being older, wiser, having changed about fifty gajillion diapers since I last looked at the pattern, I felt like I could make it work for me with a few changes and some stuff I already had: some larger scraps of PUL (the shiny-backed fabric that keeps the -- ahem -- crap inside), some fold-over-elastic left over from when I had a lingerie shop (yes, the things a blog can teach you about its owner!)... oh, and I bought some velcro. 

They're cute! Functional? Probably. I made one for George to try out and goodness knows that kid can pee; the fact he remained dry leaves me optimistic. The elastic is light pink, but anything bought more than five years ago counts as free, right? So it was free; no complaints. These aren't as cute as the patterned ones you can buy, but the colors are okay and I think they'll do, especially for that anything-goes period between birth and resurfacing for air/real food/social interaction. 

I changed the original directions by simply cutting out the pattern in PUL, then going around the edges with the FOE, stretching the elastic taut at the legs and around the back. Her instructions are for a full AIO diaper, with an inner soaker and everything, but the shape is the same as that of a regular cover. She has a fancy snap press, it looks like, and I have none (Santa, do you hear me?), so I used velcro, first, on the aqua one, with two tabs on the front. I didn't like the apparent lack of a size range with that method, so on the other two I did a long strip across the whole front, similar to the other diapers and covers I have. Overall, I'm pretty happy with them, and in less than six months, I'll have a little bum to stick 'em on. We'll see how they work!