5 days

I’m not sure how this happened, but instead of my Florida vacation being 6 months away, It’s 5 DAYS away. 5 days until I fly up into the great blue yonder and leave my baby for longer than just a few hours. It’s been 15 months since his birth. It’s flown by so fast, but there have been too many days where it has seemed to drag on forever. Days (and especially nights) where all I could do was sit and rock him while he teethed and screamed and I kept repeating my mantra. “Florida. Florida. Florida.”

I am excited. In fact, excited doesn’t even begin to cover it. I have indescribable feelings about having 8 days to myself to enjoy my best friend and sunshine. I have 8 days to sleep in, to move slowly, to read and reflect and think. To recharge. I can’t think of anything more wonderful than this.

And yet, with motherhood there always has to be the dark, flip side. Today, at 5 days out, I am literally choking back tears at the thought of leaving his graham-cracker-smelling hands for 8 long, miserable, lonely days. I’m feeling panicky and anxious and having second thoughts. I have to push through this. I know that he will be okay. I will be okay. This is what I need to do. I need the time. I need this recharging period. I can do this.

A typical morning

Last night at my Childbirth Education classes, the instructor mentioned something about how nearly every other culture besides ours adopts squatting stances. American’s don’t squat, we sit. We’ve lost the ability/muscles to squat for long periods of time, which is one way in which we lose during childbirth. Squatting opens up the pelvis and allows more room for baby to come through. Anyway, she mentioned that if you observe small children, they are constantly squatting. They squat until we teach them not to, by giving them a chair to sit in. This tickled me, because my little Animal squats all day long. Here is this morning’s example:

I give up

Animal News

Last night, Animal said “hot.” We consider this a huge accomplishment, considering that, at nearly 15 months old, the only words he says consistently are:

“Mama” (This is used not just in reference to me, but in regards to anything he desperately wants. If he wants to be held, if he wants something out of reach, if he wants to nurse, or if he wants to be fed, it’s “MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!”)

“That” (This is also a completely generalized term and is used frequently when he is curious about something or is asking a question. I forgot how observant toddlers are. They notice the tiniest details. Today, as I was lifting Animal out of his carseat, he pointed at the sky and said “that?” I looked up, and in a hugely tall tree was a teeny tiny bird quietly flapping its wings.

“No” (This is pretty common for a toddler, but in Animal language, it comes out of his mouth as “nyo”. It’s a very snobby sounding word. “Nyo! Nyo! Nyo!”

“Daddy” (Again, common you say. Except that the pronunciation used is “Die”. Hmmm. That’s my boy.)

Here is Animal eating his very first Oreo cookie. A momentous occasion, I’d say.

And here is something Animal often does in his free time:

Also, I have a climber. You know those babies. They’re on top of everything. It’s amazing. The dining room chairs must always be pushed in, or he will be standing in the middle of the table shouting his victory hoorah at the top of his lungs. Every piece of furniture is Animal’s Mt.Everest. No matter how I arrange the furniture, he always finds a way. He will push things, pull them, drag them, and stack them until he finds a way to climb as high as he possibly can. Here are several shots demonstrating his favorite climbing activity:

1. Sit cutely at your table and look innocent.

2. When no one’s looking, quickly get on top of the table

3. Pull yourself up on the back of the couch

4. Fling yourself over the side

5. Plop onto the cushions

6. Repeat

Animaggie

If you’ve never met our youngest son, and would like to get an idea of his personality, it can be described using the following equation:

+

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Breaking the mold

Here is what you will see if you are following behind my green crapovan:

It took me a long time to decide on a bumper sticker. I knew that I only wanted ONE, and I wanted it to be GOOD. So many things I believe in, so many stances to take, so many witty little thoughts to convey. For a long while, I debated this one, but was afraid that I might get gunned down or something by a bitter and hostile mama.

To be fair, I would rather the sticker said “homebirthing'” instead of “babywearing'” since I now only wear Animal when the terrain is too rough for stroller pushing. It also could say “non vaccinating”, but then people would probably avoid my van like it was the plague or something. Actually, that might be a great anti-theft device.

Last week I took Animal to a pediatrician. He had his last checkup when he was 6 months old. Because we’re not vaccinating, I wasn’t seeing much of a reason for his checkups. He’s always been the picture of health. However, since we’ve relocated, I thought that it was best to get him hooked up with a doctor here. I found out the hard way that when you actually NEED to see a doctor, it’s damn near impossible unless you’re already an established patient. I checked around with some of the La Leche league moms to get a recommendation for a doctor who wouldn’t harass me about my decision to refuse vaccinations. I had several mamas refer me to the same pediatrician. I figured that was a pretty good sign. However, when we went to see him, he asked me why I had chosen not to vaccinate. He said that since it was our first visit, he wanted to know my reasons so that he could make sure I was making an informed decision, and then he wouldn’t bring it up again. He went on to ask me about 15 questions. Things like, “Do you know how many children experiece a side effect from the DtaP vaccine?” Now, not only am I a non-confrontational sort, I don’t retain information well and I certainly don’t memorize statistics to use in debates with my doctor. Perhaps I should. I had no clue what any of the answers were, and still am really suspicious about the accuracy of his responses. He went on to tell me that I can’t listen to anecdotes, stories from parents whose children have died from vaccines. He talked about how the media blows up ONE bad case to instill fear and paranoia. He told me that I couldn’t trust anything that I read on the internet, and that if I wanted “to go looking for info against vaccines, I’d find it.” (Insinuating that I was only looking at one sided sources.) He filled up the entire tissue paper used to cover the exam table with graphs and statistics. He told me that the chance of death from a pertussis vaccine was 1 in 1 trillion, but that he had personally treated a 7 year old boy for whooping cough and the child had ended up mentally retarded. He said that for the money that had been spent to treat this one child, they could have paid to vaccinate every child in the state of California. It just went on and on and on. It was terrible. Truly terrible. I knew that arguing or even asking questions would make the visit even longer, and the last thing I wanted to do was continue to trap myself in this stuffy exam room with Dr. Save The Country From My Unvaccinated Child.

I’ve been replaying the entire situation in my mind for days. I spent close to a year researching this issue. I pored over some of the most mind numbing medical literature out there. It was nothing but sheer torture. There was a time when I was confident. But now, I’m just tired of fighting. I know that rationally, I cannot dwell on the horror stories. And yet I cannot stop thinking about the healthy 7 year old whose life was completely ruined by a disease that could have possibly been prevented by a vaccine. I’ve talked with B about it. He’s never been very supportive of my choice, but has been draggged along with it. We’re considering shelling out the money to see the naturopath, and possibly creating a delayed vaccination schedule.

Today, I went on my favorite discussion boards to get some support and encouragement from the natural moms. I explained the above situation, the pediatrician, my fears, etc. The replies came pouring in, and every single one felt judgmental. “I can’t believe you would give in to vaccination just to get a pediatrician off your back. What are you AFRAID of?”

I also posted another topic about leaving Animal for a week while I go to Florida. I wanted to see if anyone had any experience with leaving a nursing toddler for an extended period of time. Again, the responses were negative. “I would never leave my nursing child–our breastfeeding relationship means more to me than that.”

The comments just made me so flippin’ angry. I feel that I am labeled no matter what. I had a homebirth. I breastfeed. I am breastfeeding a toddler. I cloth diaper. I wear my baby. I practice gentle discipline and attachment parenting. At times, I co-sleep. I am training to become a doula. I don’t vaccinate. I strive to eat organic. It feels like I’m being pushed into a mold, and if I decide against something that doesn’t perfectly fit the mold, I get cast out from the group and discarded. I no longer fit into the elitist, yuppie, neo-hippie revolution. It makes me want to go all teenage-rebellious, rip that sticker off my car, buy a pack of Huggies and enjoy a little Walmart spending spree.

Animal Language

Check it out

Translation, anyone???

The Haircut

When Animal was born, he had a full head of hair. Since he was a week early, his entire body was completely covered in vernix, including his head. My midwife didn’t want me to bathe him for at least a week, because of the chill. I tried, I really did. I kept his little newborn cap on him, but kept sneaking peeks at his hair, which dried and hardened and looked like a clumpy mass of grossness. I think it was less than 24 hours before he got his first shampoo. When his hair dried, it was an afro puff of fuzzy blondeness. He looked like a mad professor. I couldn’t get over how much hair he had. And by the way, I didn’t have an episode of heartburn to speak of (which I fully attribute to my excellent prenatals and papaya enzymes) so the heartburn=lots of hair wive’s tale has been thrown out the window.

Anyway, since Animal has always been…well, an ANIMAL, he almost immediately started in with this strange habit of rubbing his head furiously from side to side when he was lying on his back. After a few months, he had rubbed all of the hair around his head. All that remained was a long tuft on top, much like a thick mohawk, but resembling more of a combover. Poor Animal, everyone made fun of his hair. It just kept growing longer and longer on top, and bald everywhere else. Something had to be done. It took me awhile, but I talked B into shaving his entire head. That way, he’d have a fresh start. All of the hair on his noggin’ would be the same length. If you’ve been a regular follower of my blog, you’ll have already seen the pictures, but I shall post them again for the newcomers.

Before:

After:

It was an odd looking haircut for an infant, but it worked. His hair grew out nicely and was straight and white blonde and lovely. Now B’s family has a tradition in which the male offspring are not to have their first haircut until they reach the age of 2. For this reason, B had sweet little blonde curls to match his long, girly eyelashes until he was a toddler. I had planned to do the same with Rylan. However, as time went by, he started looking more and more, shall we say…white trash. Once again, I had to talk B into the cutting of the bebe’s hair. It took B forever to decide, and even as we drove to the salon, B was saying “Oh my God, I think I’m having second thoughts. I’m getting cold feet. God! This is worse than getting MARRIED!

Still, we made it there and everything went wonderfully. Animal sat still in the chair, looking like a tiny pinhead with a huge cape while he waited patiently for his mini-makeover.

Here’s the before:

And the after:

It’s taken awhile to get used to the new ‘do. I think he looks older and fatter. I’m not quite sure I like it. But I feel some relief in knowing that it won’t be long before his hair is back at it’s original white trashy length.

Saltshaker confusion?

My mother has a cupboard in her dining room that is filled to the brim with fragile items such as vases, plates, and wine glasses. Among the rubble you will find two very small, antique salt shakers.

Animal has been fascinated with this cabinet for months. At first, I thought the fascination was stemming from the fact that it’s one of the only cupboards in the house that isn’t secured with a childproof lock. However, we’ve finally figured it out.

Every time he sneaks into the dining room, he very calmly opens the cupboard door, and carefully selects the salt shakers. Now, this in itself is a miracle, since Animal amongst breakables is much like a bull in a china shop. However, no matter where these objects are located on the shelves, the choice always remains the same.

The next matter of business is to remove the pacifier that occupies his mouth for 22 hours per day. And then, the salt shakers get double fisted and one of them is prompty placed into the mouth and suckled.

Wonder why?

On related matters, Animal has also learned to recognize the word we use for breastfeeding. This word is “milky.” I’m not quite sure how this term came into existence. If I were to wager a guess, I’d say that it originated as a combination of “nursie” and “milk.” Regardless, he is now able to hear anyone speak the word “milky” from a one mile radius and he will frantically come running for it.

Strangely enough, he has also formed a new obsession for a book about Jack & The Beanstalk. It seems rather odd, considering that this book is probably more age appropriate for a 5 or 6 year old. Nevertheless, he brings the book to me at least 15 times a day and smacks me with it until I take it from his hand and begin to read. In the book, Jack’s cow is named “Milky White.” It took me quite some time to realize that whenever I read about “Milky White”, Animal would ferociously grab my breasts and begin to squeeze and grunt impatiently. And come to think of it, I wonder if he actually brings me this book in an attempt to communicate that he wants to nurse? Either way, we’re well into the weaning process, and because of this, the entire household has been warned against uttering the word “milky” and Jack’s cow has been renamed “Mr. M.”

P.S. I just read this blog aloud before posting and guess who’s super spidey senses heard me muttering under my breath and came running once he heard the “m” word? Bah.

A boy and his puppy book

This is how I found Animal at naptime today: