The Encounter of Toddlers

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I am Super-Laid-Back Guy!

As translated by me

Baby B (age 13 months), to Rockstar (age 12 months): “Oh, hi! *hugs*”
Rockstar to himself: “Awww! The small person who is my size is HUGGING ME! *delighted!* ”
Baby B: “The small person with the crazy hair LIKES the hugging! *hugs more!*”
Rockstar: “Oh, I like the hugging! See my delight?”
Baby B: “The small person with the crazy hair likes the hugging! I will try KISSING next!”
Rockstar: “The small mouth is moving toward my face. Will it bite?” *winces* ”
*sloppy kiss*
Rockstar: “Oh, it was a KISS! I like the kiss. *kisses back* ”
*smiles, all around*
Baby B: “Clearly, the small person with crazy hair LIKES THE KISSING! I will kiss MORE!”
*kisses more*
Rockstar: “Umm, well, OK. Yes, another kiss!”
Baby B: “I will kiss MORE!”
Rockstar: “I’m .. umm… feeling done with the kissing”
Baby B: I will kiss multiple times! On the MOUTH!”
Rockstar: “Uh oh. There is intensity. I am feeling pressured. Mommy?”
Baby B: *getting intense* “I WILL KISS YOU MORE, AND YOU WILL LIKE IT!”
*MORE KISSING!*
Rockstar: “M O M M Y !!! The small person with the intensity is  S C A R I N G  M E !”
Baby B: ” *yells, intensely*  “What is WRONG with you? Why don’t you like the kissing?”
Rockstar: “I cry now”
Baby B: *looking confused* “But… the kissing?”
Rockstar: *Melting down. There are tears*

Adult onlooker “I wonder if, when they are kissing as teenagers, we can remind them of this incident?” ?

Rockstar’s Mom, to herself: “This is why I keep a blog!”

Breastfeeding: We CAN Change our Culture

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I’ve been trying to teach my now one-year-old son the sign for nursing since he was old enough to open his eyes for longer than a minute. I squeeze my hand together in a “milking” motion, and I ask if he’d like milk. I’ve had other mothers giggle at my sign choice, as it’s actually the sign for cow’s milk, which is something Andrew’s tummy is not designed to be able to process, as he is not a calf. But I chose the “milk” sign over the “nursing” sign because I didn’t want to assume that my baby would always be able to breastfeed. I didn’t want to take for granted the health of my body, my ability to stay off medicines that would transfer to my infant via my milk.

I’ve had a wonderful first year of breastfeeding exclusively, and I’ve been able to give my third child all the milk he could want or need–just as I was able to do for his sisters–for his first year of life. I hope to continue for as long as it works for both of us.

I realize the privilege inherent in those last few sentences. I know that not every new mother can breastfeed. I know that a lot of parents find other ways to give their babies human milk. And I know there are parents who don’t, for whatever reason, have the resources–who turn to formula because of a health challenge, or financial resources, or geographic difficulties. There are just not enough human milk banks. Nor is there enough awareness about the benefits of mother’s milk. And, sadly, there are far too many hospitals that don’t support breastfeeding. Just reading about my friend Sarah’s amazing fight to breastfeed her baby in the NICU was enough to make me wonder if things will ever change in the hospital environment in favor of the nursing infant and her mother.

My hospital experiences with childbirth were far easier, and for that I am thankful. But even so, I had to adamantly refuse formula with the births of my babies. I fought well-meaning nurses who wanted me to get some sleep, and that meant taking my babies into the nursery and giving them formula. My babies slept in the room with me, and we only separated long enough for me to shower.

Today, with my crawling chaos of a son, separating long enough to get in a shower is STILL a challenge, but breastfeeding isn’t. It’s the easiest thing in the world. And all my attempts to teach him how to communicate his need for sustenance were unnecessary. He tells me what he needs, and he always has. I just had to learn his evolving means of telling me. At first, it was a particular cry. And then, it was rooting. Biting was next. Eventually, he started pointing at my breast and saying “That!” And THAT is what we do.

So, do what you can to support nursing mothers. When you see a mother nursing her baby in public, give her a smile and a wink. Offer her a glass of water. Allow your children to see how human mothers nourish their young. It’s not something to be kept behind closed doors. Teach women through your words, through your actions, that this is something worthy. It’s worth the effort, the time, the discomfort, the inconvenience. We are a generation of change. Let’s stop this culture that discriminates against the biological rightness that is breastfeeding. In our hospitals, in our shopping malls, in public places all over this country.

The “M” Word

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Andrew likes oatmeal. All over himself. And the floor. Fun!

Daddy. Da da. THAT. This. Gentle. Tickle. Done. Hello! Hi! Book. Clap. Bonk! Block. Andrew. ilk (short for milk). Laurel.

These are the words my almost one-year-old baby has been saying for months now. Do you notice something missing? A word. A word that starts with a very basic baby sound. One of the first sounds, linguistically speaking, that babies make?

Mama.

For the last 6 months, I’ve been following up almost every one of his da da‘s with a ma ma. And still, it didn’t happen.

Yesterday, I had a chance to slip away to have dinner, to have Terry Time with a friend. To try to transform this soup between my ears back into functioning brain matter and arrange some words into sentences befitting a grown-up human, speaking to another grown-up human. Before Allen got home from work, I put Andrew in the dreaded pack-n-play and jumped into the shower. As I was in there, Andrew was screaming for me. Kelsey saved him from his sad, lonely sojourn of 5 minutes’ confinement, and sat in the bathroom so he could be near me while I showered. And he sat there, on his sister’s lap, saying “Ma ma. Ma ma. Ma ma. MA MA MA MA MA MA MA MA MA” the entire time.

When I dried off, I grabbed him and held him close, thanking Kelsey for saving him. Thanking Andrew for finally saying my name. I nursed him to sleep and then got dressed, greeted my friend, kissed my wonderful husband goodbye, and made a dash for the door. When I returned a few hours later, Allen was holding his sleepy little son, who saw me and delightedly said “Mama.” Apparently, he had been saying “Ma ma ma ma” for almost the entire time I was gone.

Hello, October. It’s Apple-Picking Time!

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Mmmmmm. Cruncy, sweet, crisp, delicious apples!

Fall in New England is my very favorite time of year. After more than 25 years of living in parts of the country that don’t do autumn very well, climate-wise (sorry–don’t mean to disparage your season, Florida, but… c’mon!), I’ve found myself being totally ecstatic when the end of September rolls around. The leaves, the fall produce, the crisp fall temperatures–these are things I’ve missed for most of my life.

And, of course, the farms. I love love LOVE visiting real, working farms and supporting local agriculture. So, last weekend, we decided it was time to head to the more rural parts of our area for some apple-picking time!

Allen and I loaded up the kids, and I grabbed my camera. We drove out to Stow and did a quick drive around Honey Pot Hill Orchards to check on the picking conditions and to meet up with some friends. Our first surprise was the huge professional-looking banner over the entrance, welcoming the apple pickers. And then there were attendants in orange vests, gesticulating purposefully and hurriedly, directing us to the HUGE parking area. We… kept driving toward the exit. As we passed by the entrance to the picking area on the way out, we spotted the hundreds of other apple pickers; but it wasn’t until we saw the guy in the bear suit giving out balloons that we knew for sure that it just wasn’t our kind of place. If it’s yours, you now know where you should go. They do a good business, and little kids, especially, love going to Honey Pot Hill.

We wanted a quieter, less crowded picking experience, so we went down the road to our first choice for apple picking–Carver Hill Orchards, a smaller, family-owned farm. You go to Carver Hill to pick apples and enjoy the leisure. You can also get cider donuts and pie and ice cream, but you don’t have to endure the theme park silliness if that’s not your style.

We took our time picking our apples, sampling from each tree to ensure we got the kind we like best. Laurel got stung on the lip by a kamikaze bee flinging itself out of a tree, but she endured it like the trooper she is. I pulled out the intact stinger from her lower lip with tweezers from my first-aid kit. We watched the swelling, put some ice on it, and she was good to go. The girls climbed trees to pick the best of the fruit. Andrew picked his first apple. We didn’t have to share our trees with anyone else. There were plenty of other pickers around, but we were never crowded. It was a wonderfully peaceful way to spend a few hours on a lovely New England afternoon.

So I have a peck of apples now sitting in my fridge, and I’m thinking of making some applesauce and at least ONE apple crisp. Do you have a recipe for either you’d like to share?

Here are some pics!

Laurel holds the cool fruit to her ouchy lip

Kelsey nomming a Cortland

Allen getting a little sun!

The girls show off their hard work

Andrew picks his first apple

Beyond Pink and Blue: On Gender and Clothing Your Baby

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Andrew, in blue!

Dressing very small, new humans is fraught with challenges these days. Did you know that there are people who actually judge you, based on your baby’s clothing? Your open-mindedness is being measured. For instance, dressing your baby girl in all pink in this day and age apparently signifies to some people that either you are ignorant, or you are an insensitive clod who buys into the social construct that says we dress our babies according to their genital presentation.

But what if there are other things to consider? What if, for instance, you really, really like pink? Do you not dress your girls in pink just because you’re worried about what everyone else thinks?

Of course, this issue goes beyond pink and blue. This problem exists on many levels. I’ve ranted before about Disney princesses and gendered play. But I’ve never had so many people talk to me directly about the issue of clothing until I started carrying around a long-haired baby boy with long black eyelashes whom I sometimes dress in purple. When I correct their gender assumptions about my child, most of these people apologize profusely. But I’ve had other responses that really trouble me. One woman told me I should cut his hair and dress him in primary colors only. Another was just shocked and speechless. I’ve actually decided to stop correcting people’s assumptions about his gender because I’m rather chagrined at the responses.

What the hell, people? Why is this so damned important?

I have two older girls. And when they were babies, I was gifted YEARS’ worth of nice, quality baby clothing in which to dress them. And I would have to say that about 90% of those clothes were pink or purple. But I didn’t dress them in pink or purple to make sure everyone knew I had girls. That’s just…what I had. I quit my job to care for my children. We didn’t have a whole lot of money. And we didn’t need to buy or acquire other clothing. I don’t really care for pink, personally, but my girls looked adorable. And when I had to add to their clothing, I chose colors I prefer, like green and blue. I didn’t really care that others would then identify my baby as a boy. And they did. All the time. Was it a simpler time, just 6 years ago?

Now I have a little boy. And, again, I dress him in whatever I’ve been given. My friend passed down all her boys’ clothing to me, so I have lots of stuff with which to dress my son. I would say that 90% of the clothing I have is blue. I’m happy to dress him in this clothing because he looks beautiful, and because blue is my very favorite color.

I prefer my pigs to be pink.

I have had more than one person give me the hairy eyeball for dressing my boy in blue  clothing. Because I guess I’m not being subversive enough. I’m not forwarding the cause. I’m acting in a stereotypical fashion. And I suppose that to them, I am part of the problem.

But I have a little something to say about this, and it’s been hard to write. I don’t want to offend anyone. I have friends who are gender queer; I have friends who fight every day to live in the gender identity that they choose, rather than the one that was assigned to them via biology. And I support them 100%. But I have to say this anyway.

I don’t care how you dress your baby. It just doesn’t matter to me.

I agree with the idea of using more neutral, unisex colors and styles for dressing babies, if for no other reason than to send the message that gender identification doesn’t matter, especially when it comes to babies. But in practice…it’s just not that important to me how you dress your baby.

There are other elements to consider, or at least there are for me. I’m very invested in being more environmentally conscientious, and more financially practical in my consumption of goods. I’ve made a commitment to live more simply, to make a smaller footprint, to use what I have and what I can find. I’m trying to only buy “new” if I’ve exhausted every other alternative. I want to reuse. So I try to find my family’s clothing from hand-me-downs, clothing swaps, thrift stores, yard sales, and … well, you get the idea. And cool, boutique gender-neutral clothes haven’t really made it to the second-hand market yet. Or at least not where I’m looking.

But, anyway, it’s not on my agenda.

It comes down to this: we are a nation obsessed with the superficial. So although I agree with the idea of dressing babies in gender-neutral styles or using unisex themes because, really, we shouldn’t need to impose ideas as to what is “gender appropriate” in baby clothing, I also don’t want to get caught up on that level of judging people according to the way they present themselves. It’s a double-edged sword. I can’t win, either way.

Babies. Unless you give people some hints, chances are no one will be able to tell if you have a small human of the girl variety or of the boy variety. This, of course, doesn’t stop every stranger who sees you from inquiring as to the gender of your baby.

Why? I think, basically, because people are curious. And, for some reason, learning a baby’s gender is something people want to know. Sometimes, it’s a conversation prompt. “Oh, he’s a boy? I had a little boy, and he liked to climb my bookcases. Does your little boy like to climb?”

And sometimes, I think they ask because they can’t tell, and that makes some people uncomfortable.

In the bigger picture, how you dress your baby doesn’t matter. Babies are babies. And the way you dress your baby will not immediately affect your baby. So let’s stop worrying so much about how everyone else is dressing their babies. Dress your baby the way that is most practical to you. You only have a small window anyway, because one day maybe your 3-year-old daughter will declare an end to pants FOREVER. Or decide that she wants to wear only black. These are the times when clothing becomes important. When you allow your children to express themselves through their clothing choices.

I'm way too cool for the sidelines...

Our middle child, Laurel (6), may be the girliest girl I’ve ever met. She wants to look her best, and her idea of what is “best” differs from mine by about 179 degrees. I try to make sure she wears seasonally appropriate clothing, but that’s about all the say I get in what she wears. Monday, she was sitting across from me at the table, having a discussion with her older sister about friendship. Kelsey (8) was pining for her friend Ilana, and she told Laurel that she and Ilana were “sisters” because they love each other so much. And my 6-year-old, dressed head-to-toe in Disney princess pink fluffiness, says in her most matter-of-fact voice, “Well, when you grow up, if you want to, you two can marry, because that’s totally legal!” And my heart did a little leap of joy.


I love my Dad even when he dresses me funny.

Because ultimately, it’s not the way you dress your baby that will make a difference, that will make a brighter future for him or her, or for us all as a society. It’s what you teach her about equality, about women’s rights. It’s how you stand behind him when he wants to wear skirts to elementary school because he loves skirts. It’s about having amazing conversations that show them the world as it is, and the world they can transform it into, through their actions and their understanding, and the way they choose to live their lives.

So, hey, dress your baby the way you want, according to what’s important to you. But don’t judge me for doing likewise. I’d rather tackle more important ways I can address gender and equality issues than worry if my baby looks too butch for our toddler playdate.