america's pastime

Did you have a security blanket when you were a kid? I did. A literal security blanket called blanky, homemade and possessing of one perfect blue broadcloth square that I could find in the dark, with my eyes closed, by running my fingers along the blanket's hem until they lit on the threadbare area I liked to work between my thumb and forefinger. I always assumed this was a universal thing, the security blanket. Not necessarily a blanket, but some soft, snuggly object dear to each child. Before George was born, I bought a few different things I anticipated might become his blanky -- a Kathe Kruse sheep head with a floppy flannel body, a little "taggy", a beautiful upcycled monkey -- and I made some quilts but none of them took hold of his little heart. For awhile, I actually worried that George's lack of attachment to an object was abnormal. It turns out, however, that often securely attached children don't need a security object (go figure). So, eventually I gave up on finding him a blanky of his own.

Fast forward to the opening of Christmas stockings, 2010, when George received not one but two small, vinyl soccer balls. The ramp-up to complete ardour was gradual enough that I didn't notice it happening until Soccer Ball's (and, for that matter, Number Three's, as he dubbed the other one) accompaniment was necessary for leaving the house. This coincided with the beginning of a very unexpected body-and-soul obsession with sports.

We are not "sports people." Nathan has a passing interest in baseball; we go to one Mariners game a year, on Fathers' Day, and he watches the World Series when he can, as we don't have cable. We don't get invited to Super Bowl parties; we don't follow basketball; I am confused by soccer and despite several promises to attend, I've never made it to any of my friends' hockey games. I actively avoid buying clothes for George that have sports themes, because they're usually so tackily gendered and come emblazoned with stupid sayings like Daddy's Little Super Slugger All Star Champion. And yet. 

My son -- the one for whom I bought ballet slippers and baby dolls -- began not just running, but "running the bases." He started talking about "baseball guys," "football guys" and "basketball guys." He perfected his slide into home by practicing it over and over on the living room rug, and would gleefully demonstrate it for you regardless of the venue and how appropriate it may or may not be to lie on the floor there. When he outgrew his cool old Adidas, he picked out some new sneakers, declaring them "baseball shoes" and begged in specific terms for a red baseball shirt unlike a toddler whose whims are forgotten in a matter of seconds, but daily, randomly, like someone who was legitimately pining for a freaking red baseball shirt. 

All of this without owning books about sports, without watching television shows or movies about sports, without any friends or family who are particularly enthusiastic about sports. 

Before I had kids, I argued vehemently that, in the nature vs. nurture debate, children's interests are nearly 100% nurture. That we feed our girls pink princesses and our boys blue trucks and thereby they learn to be docile or aggressive, caretakers or just-plain-takers. I really, really believed this to be true until having my own kid who has flatly rejected so many of my attempts at piquing his interest in things he just doesn't care about. It pains me on two fronts: 1) I feel like a Feminist sell-out, because this implies that male and female humans may actually be wired differently, to play and process things differently, and 2) because I HAVE A SPORTS-OBSESSED SON. 

Real talk: When I found out George was a boy, I consoled myself (I always imagined myself with only girl children) with my steadfast knowledge that I could make him the good kind of boy. A pint-sized feminist from the get-go, who was equally happy in dress up dresses and mud puddles. A kid essentially without a gender identity, until THE MAN weaseled his way into my radical son's little brain somewhere around school age. The funny thing about that, aside from...you know...its fundamental absurdity, is that I never considered that I would fall so madly in love with my kid that his interests wouldn't matter. I didn't have a fantastic model for this, myself, so who can blame me for my misconceptions?

 

I still shake my head in amazement over George's full-bore love affair with sports. I'm consistently baffled by the details he knows, and where he could've picked them up. But, I'm pretty proud to say that we found him a red baseball shirt on one of two excursions specifically for that purpose. Pre-George me would've said hell no; no child of mine will wear a Super Slugger Baseball Game Day t-shirt. But? Mine does. I never thought you'd hear me yelling, "go, go, go, run the bases!" or telling my child that baseball players do, in fact, wear rainbow striped pajamas similar to the ones he didn't want to put on after his bath. But I yell that multiple times a day; I have used that line not only for jammies but food, socks and boring errands. The most surprising thing of all is that I think it's really cute. All of it. The clumsy slide, the devastation over being too little for the bat he keeps eyeing at Target, the rapt attention to Ken Burns' Baseball documentary, the requests to see "basketball kids" whenever we drive past the high school where Nathan took him to see a game once, and the undying love for his now well-worn, filthy soccer balls that appear in nearly every un-cropped photo of him. 

He is most assuredly not the child I envisioned myself having, but what I've learned is that I appreciate other qualities more than the superficial things I pictured, and those traits I truly value are not mutually exclusive with sports fandom. I'm raising an empathetic kid who gives hugs freely, who frets over pictures of sad cartoon animals, who loves being read to, who loves music. He's trusting and confident and communicative. And he has interests that he's cultivated all on his own, which assures me that he's not too easily influenced. I'm still hopeful that he'll be amenable to the idea of dance class, but I also can't wait to see how cute he looks in his tee ball uniform. I hope he always feels supported in his interests, no matter how misaligned they are with mine. 

zelda's birth story

My absence is easily explained in pictures, and I thought several times about simply telling Zelda's birth story here in pictures, just to raise a flag saying we're still here, and all accounted for! But that would be a disservice to her and, kind of, to me as well. It's been nearly three weeks since our littlest made her appearance, and we're still getting the hang of things. Two kids is different. Intense. Our house has been the site of much snuggly hibernation and the accompanying bouts of cabin fever, especially from big brother. 

Truly, as birth stories go, hers is short and uneventful which is maybe the way I prefer it. At 12:15am on January 31st I was still awake, willing myself to sleep as I'd done every night for the preceding, oh...four months. This may be the appropriate time to say that this pregnancy was not particularly enjoyable. As pregnancies go, mine aren't the worst by any means, but the side effects of swirling hormones and another person hanging out in my midsection are insomnia, some pretty bad pelvic pain and the kind of fatigue I could never have imagined had I been forewarned. Of course, my children are a joy well worth the pain and yada yada, you know the deal. Nonetheless, this time around took its toll and I can't say I was disappointed to feel that first contraction at 12:15 on the morning of the 31st. Since George's birth took me by surprise -- I was pushing before we left the house -- I had psyched myself up to set our plans in motion at the VERY FIRST signs of labor, or what could potentially be labor. My midwife concurred; we didn't want a repeat of the haste involved in my last birth, which was accidentally attended by a midwife we'd never met while ours was still en route to the birth center. 

Using the goofy contraction timer app on my phone, I began timing, got out of bed and had Nathan start making calls. Midwife first, then my mom to come over and sit with George, then our doula. My contractions were already 3 minutes apart and a minute long, so I hopped into a warm bath to try and slow things down while my mom made her way to our house. It worked! My contractions got farther apart and I relaxed a little, confident that we'd get to the birth center in time to settle in and labor awhile. Using what little I remember from the Hypnobabies course I took in preparation for George's birth, with every contraction I focused on something -- the bathtub drain plug, if you must know -- and isolated the parts of my body that were working to move my baby down and open my cervix. I did my best to let my body do its thing and my contractions were feeling good. Productive. Understandable. They were uncomfortable, but not yet painful, which reassured me that we would have a more "normal" labor this time.  

My mom got to our house and it was only a matter of minutes until my midwife called to say she was almost into town and we could head to the birth center; she would meet us there, as would our doula. I got out of the bath, got ready (I was grateful that I'd flat-ironed my hair earlier in the afternoon, on a hunch; call me vain) and we gave my mom instructions on what to do if George woke up and where to find breakfast makings if things went longer than we anticipated. I was able to dress myself this time(!), make sure we had everything we needed, say goodbye to my mom and get to/in the car relatively easily. Again, this convinced me that we still had some time. 

After a quick car ride, we arrived at the birth center. One contraction held me up on the ramp to the front door, but once it passed we went in and were greeted by the sweet faces of our doula and my midwife. We chatted for a minute while Nathan put our bag down and Winni, my midwife, asked to check my progress. 

After a quick check, then a double check with a somewhat puzzled look, she declared me "complete." 

Okay, I said. But how dilated am I? 

You're complete, she repeated. Like, you're there. 

I was confused and surprised, but really, really stoked. I hadn't even had what I'd call a painful contraction yet. How did I get so lucky? I asked if I could get in the tub and Winni, who had already started the water, gave the go-ahead. Once in the tub, I had a slightly pushy-feeling contraction, and told Winni as much. She told me to do whatever I felt like (how many OB-GYNs would tell you that?!), and I just enjoyed hanging out in the water for a little while, talking to Nathan and doula David between contractions, which were still coming regularly but were also alleviated by the deep, warm water. I was instructed to put my hair in a bun 

and had a few sips of gatorade before the urge to push came on. My water broke after the first good push, and Winni asked Nathan if he'd like to deliver the baby. He said he would, and she asked him to go wash his hands. As he did, another push came on and Winni called him back, as the baby was already crowning! Winni reached down to turn the baby slightly, and she came out into the water, into her papa's and Winni's hands. She was placed on my chest and covered in a blanket, and, while we stared at her for a few minutes, I forgot to check and see if she was, in actuality, a girl. 

She was. Our baby girl was born at 2:27am, just two hours and thirteen minutes after my very first contraction. Our awesome doula was taking pictures in the dim light, and though they're all blurry, I feel like they really capture the warm, mid-night haziness of my labor.

She was round-headed and fuzzy; cried right away. I delivered the placenta easily and got out of the bath, into a fluffy white robe, then into the big, beautiful bed where Winni checked me and declared me free of tears and other unpleasantness.

Like I did after George was born, I bled a lot. A lot. In fact, I made the unfortunate decision to get up and pee too soon and paid for my ambition with an embarrassing fainting episode. Luckily, doula David caught me on the way down and the rest of my recovery was without incident. After a little checking-out of the baby, who weighed in at 7 lbs, 15 oz and measured 19.5 inches long, our team left us alone to stare at the baby, nurse and take a short nap. By 5am we were ready to head home (but not before taking some photos of Winni and David).

Once again, I consider my labor and birth experience(s) to be incredibly charmed. I've been so lucky to have the midwife I do -- one whom I genuinely love, with 30 years of experience, who hugs us and kisses us and talks about the time she saw Wilco in Barcelona -- and the doula I do -- one whom I whole-heartedly recommend to every pregnant woman I know -- not to mention my partner. Do I feel a little sheepish saying that my labor was easy, and knowing it's not an overstatement? Yeah. But also? You guys, it totally ruled. 

Zelda Marigold, meeting her big brother. 1/31/12

our endless numbered days

The holding pattern is different this time. It looks more chaotic in some ways, but homier. More wintery, with readings and re-readings of the Corduroy saga, grilled cheese sandwich eating and cookie baking, different shows on the television, and more often than I'd like. Baby stuff being set up, always with the repeated explanation that this new apparatus, those tiny diapers, the clothes waiting to be folded are for the baby.

We're snowed in, like the rest of everyone here, and making soup, doing the wash, taking naps and grading papers. Trying to get outside to play, but with bursts of enjoyment rather than the unabashed, day-long cold weather love I see in people's photos, on the faces of the neighbor kids pulling each other down the street on sleds. My boy is my boy, indeed. The snow is pretty, from the warm indoors, once the requisite snowman's been made.

I wonder if he knows what's about to happen. All the talking about, the making room and unpacking probably can't prepare you to meet the person who'll be your number two, the "other one" to your "soccer ball," the one with whom you'll share a bedroom and a back seat and, eventually, some phone conversations about your dumb old mom and how she screwed up. 

big car

You know that one present? The one you were really, really hoping for? Or maybe even didn't know you wanted until the paper was tearing back and you caught the first glimpse of what would become, for however long, your most prized possession? 

I hope yours was under the tree (or beside the menorah) this year. Happy Holidays; I'll be back, you know, eventually. xoxo

happy hanukkah

The miracle, of course, was not that the oil for the sacred light--
in a little cruse--lasted as long as they say;
but that the courage of the Maccabees lasted to this day:
let that nourish my flickering spirit.

			- Charles Reznikoff