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. 

"Those for girls." 

What?! "Silly mama, those for girls!" he repeated. 

Okay. I can say with absolute certainty that neither I nor Nathan have ever told him that something was "for girls" or anyone of any gender, for that matter. He owns and regularly chooses to wear hot pink (and purple, and sparkly unicorn-emblazoned) clothes. He doesn't even have a great grasp of who in his life IS a girl (according to him, everyone but his sister is a "guy"). And yet, there he was, poo-pooing the pink sandals. 

There have been a few moments in recent times where I've felt like a contestant on some sort of mean-spirited game show: one where your kid does something, asks a question, makes a comment that requires you to be the perfect parent in response. In this game show, you make the right call and life goes on sort of tenuously as you wait for the next terrifying opportunity to turn your child into a sexist, racist homophobe who eats only simple carbs. An incorrect response, however, is met with a flash forward to your derelict 40 year old son catcalling women on the bus or something. This was one of those moments. I had to stop and suppress the urge to be like what in the hell? I took a deep breath and said, 

"There are no boy or girl shoes, just different shoes that different people like for different reasons." Yes, that ought to do it, I thought. I may have even peered around to see if anyone heard me pull off that expert move. George looked satisfied, even appeared to rethink his dismissal of the hot pink shoes (until he spied a pair of black and red crocs). Feeling like I'd dodged a bullet, or even like I stood my ground and dirty-looked the bullet until it turned around in disgrace, I steered us down the toy aisle in search of a baby doll. Before we made it to the sad pile of naked dolls with one eye permanently stuck open and sharpie stained heads, George got distracted by cars. Something Batmobile-esque caught his eye, but an oversized purple VW Bug with working seatbelts seemed more his speed. I held it up. Then. 

"Mama, this car for GIRLS! I want to hold that one! The scary one!" Good lord. What the crap? I thought we had just settled this! 

"George." I said, "This car is for boys or girls! It's purple; you like purple. Papa has a purple shirt, right?" He looked at me warily. "The black car is for bigger kids." "For bigger GUYS," he insisted. "No," I told him, "bigger kids. Any kids. Any bigger kids." Things were taking a...less articulate turn. I scanned the microfiche in my mind for some relevant article or text on feminism or gender studies and how not to reinforce stereotypical expectations of gender presentation and allow for free expression while supporting your child's own gender identity and and and...

"I want to hold THAT." Huh? "That baby! Oh, so cute! I want to hold that baby! I love it." He was shoving the purple car back at me and pointing excitedly at a half-lidded, cloth bodied doll with limbs akimbo. I took it off the shelf and he snatched it up, cooing at and rocking it like he sees me do with Zelda. He planted a big kiss on its plastic hair. "Is that the toy you choose?" I asked him, and he nodded emphatically. At the cash register, he tried to garner compliments for his new baby by repeating to the cashier, "so cute! Aww, so cute!"

He didn't notice that the woman behind us was buying a black and metallic blue remote control car, and I didn't point it out. It seemed that, despite all my reading, despite my anxiety over the right way to correct him -- gently, factually, without overloading or shaming him -- he figured it out. You know, I'm sure some real a-holes wear pink shoes, but it takes a pretty nice "guy" to fawn over a lazy-eyed, misshapen baby. 

I've gotta say, after a totally shit week, I really had this one coming. Perfect weather, perfect company, perfect day. 

"Childhood is a tricky business," Sendak said. "Usually, something goes wrong."  

"I have been with them in their bedroom, for a good part of their childhood," he said. "They have written to me. They trust me in a way, I daresay, possibly more than they trust their parents. I'm not going to bullshit them. I'm just not. And if they don't like what they hear, that's tough bananas."

“Dear Mr. Sendak, How much does it cost to get to where the wild things are? If it is not expensive, my sister and I would like to spend the summer there.”

We love you so.

Megan and Miriam are giving away a free Kindle copy of their book, The Other Baby Book, on Mother's Day! Read it over your kid-made breakfast in bed.

Michelle at the Parent Vortex reminded me that my kid isn't the only one being a persnickety, independent twerp sometimes (a sweet, adorable twerp, that is).

Once upon a time, I had a real job, and in that other lifetime this kind of thing was relevant to me. 

Far and away the craziest birth story I've ever read.

And, finally, Zelda turned three months old. Cute cute cute. Happy Sunday!

I worked at a laundromat then. I'd taken the job because I thought it would be voyeuristic; I thought I'd learn something about the human condition. Instead, I did what one might expect a laundromat attendant to do: I told people they better not dare even open that box of Rit Dye; I removed perverted ads from the community bulletin board; I refunded the quarters eaten by washing machines that had been clearly marked OUT OF SERVICE.

All of my paycheck went to rent, bills, peanut butter, bread and tipping the aforementioned waitresses. The one perk of working at a laundromat was giving away free washing or drying services to people, and the place where I worked had a sort of switchboard behind the counter. The only joy I found in my job came from watching people's faces as they poised to drop quarters into machines that started magically. I performed this trick for bartenders and pizza delivery girls and was treated in kind often enough to make it feel like we were running some kind of syndicate. Those interactions fed me -- literally and metaphorically -- enough to keep me from looking for a new place to work, until the owners fired me over the phone for being too "weird looking," for supposedly stealing children's clothes from the drop-off service despite the fact that I was nobody's mother, then, and my coworker had two daughters.

I cashed my last paycheck and walked to Fred Meyer. Looking around the store, I did what I never allowed myself to: I wished for the stuff they sold. I knew it was poorly made and overpriced for what it was and lame anyway, but it hurt that I couldn't have any of it. The matching bath sets, the scented candles, Vogue Magazine. Thinking back, I can still feel that sadness. How pathetic it was to stand there looking at the rack that held Us Weekly and whatever Nicholas Sparks paperback was popular then, with a loaf of bread in one hand, a jar of peanut butter in the other, wishing to afford something as shitty as a grocery store novel. To hell with it, I decided. I was gonna treat myself to something, but it had to be more permanent than a magazine, less useful than a bath towel. A plant would liven up my apartment, I figured, and they were cheap. Home with me came a 6" starter and the smallest terra cotta pot Fred Meyer had to offer. I named her Book. Because I was 20, and clever.

Book has moved with me from Bellingham to San Diego and back again. She's gotten leggy and fuller, leggy and fuller, preparing me for the way my babies would come thin, get fat, then skinny and repeat. A few times, she's been on death's doorstep and I've begun mourning but she's always pulled through. When I look at her I'm reminded that things get grim, but, then, better.

This weekend, we bought her a big new home. What was once a six inch tall sprout takes up an 18 inch pot. On the evening that I replanted her, our landlord called to say our house is being sold. We have no savings, and Nathan has no job for the fall. There have been times in the past 24 hours when I could almost feel in one palm the cool glass of the peanut butter jar, the springy bread under plastic in the other. But I look at Book, who had been withering in her years-old copper pot, now robust in the air on our front stoop, waiting to be carried back indoors, and I'm heartened. I have so much more, now, than free wash and dries, an on-the-house night of drinking, or dreaming up the potential past lives of a 50-something server with a perm. Is it crazy to measure your life's success by the vivacity of a house plant? Sure, yes. Obviously. And so many other, real things serve as my yard stick. Still. This afternoon, with a teething baby in my arms and an oblivious toddler playing trains on the floor, I opened the screen door, looked at Book and said to her, psychically: we got this. And honestly? I never really got tired of peanut butter.

Placenta encapsulation wasn't something that I'd heard too much about when I was pregnant with George. I knew people who'd kept them, buried them and planted trees which was nice, but not really for renters. It pains me a little to think that I wasted that first placenta because I didn't know better, remarking that it was cool as my midwife held it up, then okaying her to pitch it. Shortly after I became pregnant with Zelda, though, keeping in mind the blood loss I experienced at George's birth, and knowing placentas are iron-rich, I decided to have her placenta encapsulated and I contacted Doula David, Bellingham's placenta guru. 

David showing me the different parts of Zelda's placenta and cord

This overview of the medicinal benefits of one's own placenta covers most of the reasons I chose to consume mine: preventing anemia, increasing milk production, increasing energy, and curbing depression, but it was really just bet-hedging. I figured I'd do it because it couldn't hurt, but I didn't expect much, results-wise. I've been surprised, however, at the noticeable difference in my mood, milk supply and energy level on the days when I forget to take the pills. I'm never raring to run laps around the block or anything, but even the smallest boost counts when you're teetering on the brink of I could fall asleep while standing here brushing my teeth and it's only 9am. There have been days when I've felt downright great after sleeping for five (non-consecutive, as if that needs to be mentioned to anyone with a newborn) hours and taking a few placenta pills. My recovery this time was fantastic, though a more significant blood loss meant lightheadedness for awhile when overdoing it (hello, mallwalking at 1 week pp; bad idea for myriad reasons) and between the placenta and fenugreek I'm taking I think I could feed triplets, though the 3 month old and 2 year old are pretty happy with the bounty. 

Unlike some women I've heard talking about their partners' disgust at the idea of placenta consumption and citing that as a deterrent, I'm happy to say that my partner (neener neener) was never anything but supportive. He looked at the placenta with me after it was delivered, and just the other day we marveled together at the dried cord. I'm guessing that, because he's... you know, not a jerk, he values the fact that my body made this crazy amazing organ that nourished a baby -- our baby -- for many months, and continues to nourish me. In fact, he nightly delivers to me my vitamins and placenta pills on a little dish, often accompanied by a bowl of ice cream. Okay, now I'm just gloating.

Hedging my bets paid off; I'm so glad I didn't listen to the "alternative medicine" naysayers or the grossed out how-could-you?!ers. My only regret is that I didn't do it the first time. I wish George had a sweet placenta print like Zelda's, made out to him with love from our doula. 

I'd long been looking for a rainbow granny square afghan that's joined in white. I could make one myself, but big crochet projects don't usually work out for me; my attention span isn't long enough. I finally found one, and it's a nice little lap/toddler size, and in good shape. Hooray! Dream afghan: $4.99

George has plenty of interests that I don't share. Soccer (and every other sport), Blue's Clues, eating peas. But one interest that I'm extremely happy to share with him is space. He can name some heavenly bodies and identify them in the night sky (Moon, Venus and Jupiter), and knows which planet we inhabit. I, of course, believe this to be evidence that he's a genius. Spacey shirt: $1.99

I am what you might call a Kennedy enthusiast. I stop short of commemorative spoons, but I'm a sucker for pretty much all things Camelot, and as though the nice people at Goodwill knew I was coming, they priced this ridiculously high. Nevermind; we're rollin' in dough (rent and bills having not yet been paid), so we pretended like we were those richies who shop at thrift stores for the kitch value and splurged on this painting because it would've haunted me for the rest of my life if we'd left it on the shelf. JFK/RFK painting: $9.99

Yard sale season is almost upon us (and IS upon some of us, who don't live in the dank, dark woods). Have you scored any gems lately?

My doula and friend, David Goldman, was featured on Peaceful Parenting! He's a great resource for information on the benefits of placenta consumption, and I'm so proud to see him getting some recognition, especially on such a well-respected site. 

Melissa of Vibrant Wanderings wrote a pretty great post on sharing from the Montessori perspective. We like and encorporate into our lives lots of the Montessori approach to child-rearing, but are by no means scholars on the subject. Since Zelda's birth, George has caught a(n age appropriate) case of The Mines, and at playdates it was becoming unclear whether I should force him to share or just let the struggles over toys shake out between the kids. This was just the read I needed, and sparked some great discussion amongst my friends when I shared it on Facebook. Thanks (again), Melissa!

Speaking of Montessori, we finally made the transition from George's crib to a floor bed. He loved his crib after moving into it from our bed, when he was about 15 months old, and it became apparent by his all-night starfishing and tossing/turning that he needed his own space. I was inspired by this (very old) post at Bloesem Kids and this (also old) post at Sew Liberated and, after a little whining about the change, George is nothing short of thrilled about his new bed. Some of his more recent frustrations seemed to be centered around being "unable" to do things on his own when I'm occupied with Zelda, so I'm hoping that this will foster his independence a little and show him that it can feel just as good (or better) to do things on his own. It seems to be working, so, awesome. 

Lastly, we've been doing things like this:

G & Z, same outfit, same age (give or take a few weeks). 

First post-baby date to the ballet, a toddler room re-do and some other gratuitous cuteness.