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This week my life flashed before my eyes: Peeper started crawling!

Ten Thousand Hour MamaWe went to a play date at a friend’s house on Monday. Her 9-month-old twins were motoring around the house, dodging plush toys and cross-legged adults sitting on the floor as if the living room were an obstacle course. At one point, her son used my left arm to balance and her daughter my right as Peeper rocked on her knees in front of me. It was happy chaos.

At one point a visitor from out of town who didn’t have a baby of her own looked up and said, “Wait, where’s the fast one?” For a second everyone stopped. Where was he?

Thankfully, he wasn’t off rummaging through the knife drawer: His mom had put him down for a nap. But with his crawling skills, he could have been anywhere.

I identified with that heart-stopping panic now more than ever.

Peeper started crawling the day after that play date. (She must have been inspired by the very mobile twins!) She suddenly figured out how to coordinate her arms with her legs. Now she has forward mobility, however precarious and wobbly it looks.

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Kiddy consumerism

Faced with an overflowing toy box and fistfuls of receipts for baby gym classes, British mother Hattie Garlick committed to not buying anything for her toddler for a year. Rejecting kiddy consumerism is the subject of her blog, and she’s documenting the clothing swaps, no-cost activities and lack of store-bought baby purees over at freeourkids.co.uk.

This article about her experience made me think about how money and consumption could affect how I raise Peeper.

We don’t spend a ton of money on our daughter, in part because we just don’t have disposable income. Almost everything she owns and wears is either a hand-me-down or a gift. We buy throwaway diapers (reusables intimidate the hell out of me for some reason!), but they’re just about the only Edie-related expense we have, aside from the occasional necessity.

When we traveled to the East Coast in the fall, Peeper wore a sleeper given to us by a friend when I was still pregnant. “Handsome boy,” read a little label on it. The flight attendants got a kick out of it when we pointed out that our baby was actually a girl, and I still think the moment was funny.

Second-hand clothes may lose some of their humor when Peeper gets older, though.

My family didn’t have a ton of money when I was young. We shopped at resale stores, so I wasn’t always up on the latest trends.

I remember trying to hide my off-brand Keds under the school bus seat and the cheek-burning embarrassment when my used Hypercolor t-shirt didn’t actually change colors. Sometimes it was hard to not fit in.

Raising a child who isn’t materialistic or spoiled is important. But I’d hate to subject my loved one to unnecessary ridicule. Surely there’s a balance to be struck here.

I have plenty of time before kids at play dates look askance at my daughter’s wardrobe. But projects like Garlick’s make me think about how we’ll one day handle the protestations of “But everyone else has one!”

How do you teach your kids to do without? Do you find yourself spending a lot on your kids? Do you feel guilty when you don’t?

A selfie with a purpose

Mid-mornings are precious to me. After the first few hours of the day, when I change, feed, nurse, change again and play with Edie until her first nap, I have a few minutes to myself.

This morning, like usual, I take the chance to drink a cup of decaffeinated tea and tool around on the Internet. I catch up on email, check Facebook and read blogs. Today I came across the newest post from Deb at The Monster in Your Closet. She writes, “I don’t want to be or waste my time striving to be someone else’s image of perfection. I do want my kids to understand the beauty of human bodies–and faces–is not in how they look but what they do.”

Deb posted several selfies of her gorgeous pregnant self and linked to the inspiration for the post over at Square One Notes. Sandra from Square One invited other writers to post a photo of themselves. “I need to know it’s okay to live in a world where we like ourselves,” she says. “I want my daughter to grow up with a sense of self worth and confidence so that others will hold her in the same regard. Help me show her it’s okay to be in our own corner.”

Now this is something I can get behind.

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Happy Valentine’s Day!

I hope that today and every day you feel loved. Whether or not you have a romantic partner, a spouse or children, you do have friends who delight in you. They may marvel at your compassion. They may turn to you when they need a good cry. They may even laugh at your terrible puns.

Even if you think Valentine’s Day is a (sneer) Hallmark holiday, undermine its materialistic underpinnings by telling someone what he or she means to you. Pay for a stranger’s coffee. Give an extra-long hug.

Because actual love and kindness are never corny.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

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Our favorite children’s books

Several times a day, Edie and I sit together in the rocking chair and snuggle up with a book. Sometimes she squirms and cries before we get even a few pages in; other times we go through a stack before she’s satisfied.

This time together is important, according to the Association for Library Service to Children: Not only does reading to very young babies teach them to love books, it makes them more prepared to start school than children who didn’t grow up reading.

Research aside, reading aloud to Peeper—both now and even before she was born—is fun. These are a few of our favorite books.

Baby FacesBaby Faces, by Margaret Miller. Peeper laughs out loud when we break out this board book. She giggles at the other babies; her favorite is a little boy sticking out his tongue. We talk about the kids’ expressions, imagine what might have prompted them (“Yum-yum, I love peas!”) and name the different parts of their faces. We usually read it three times in a row!

fox in soxFox in Sox, by Dr. Seuss. I’m with Mr. Knox, sir, on this one—the tongue twisters are tough! Peeper cranes her neck to look up at me and puzzle out the linguistic acrobatics. She gets an extra-big kick out of me trying to read the parts about the beetle battles, which are my favorite, too.

when i was bornWhen I Was Born, by Isabel Minhos Martins. This story imagines discovering the world from a child’s perspective: beginning to hear, smell, taste, see and touch the world outside the womb. “When I was born I did not know there was a sky or that the sky could change or that clouds were so beautiful. When I was born everything was new. Everything was about to start.” Vibrant illustrations by Madalena Matoso match the beauty and poetry of the words.

Hola JalapenoHola Jalapeño!, by Amy Wilson Sanger.  A book dedicated to Mexican cuisine? Yes, por favor! I know Edie is still chowing on pureed peas and squash, but it’s never too early to learn about tacos, burritos, guacamole and horchata. Am I right? Plus, the rhymes are so catchy I recite them to myself days after we read it.

What are your favorite children’s books?

Seven months

Our little girl turns seven months old today. I’d celebrate with her, but she refuses to stay put for more than two seconds.

Hold on—she’s scooted across the room and is trying to chew on the door frame. I’ll be right back.

Earlier this week I was doing something in the kitchen. When I looked up a moment later, she had scooted backwards behind the armchair. I picked her up and picked pieces of lint and dirt off her jammies. I’m learning a lot as she becomes more mobile, like how to position her in the center of a room and that I need to vacuum more often.

Edie also scooted backwards until she was under the dog bed.
Edie also scooted backwards until she was under the dog bed.

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Good enough shepherd’s pie

A friend recently posted on Facebook that she had finally eaten her first meal of the day. It was around 8pm.

I’ve had days—no, weeks and months—when I could barely feed myself, too. Even now, when my daughter is seven months old and taking naps, I wander the kitchen, peering into the fridge and poking around in the cabinets. I eat probably eight times a day—EIGHT—so finding something appetizing and easy that I haven’t already nibbled on several times already is nearly impossible.

My mom was pretty much the only reason I was able to eat during the hard months. I couldn’t muster the energy to shower let alone cook a meal, but my mom kept our fridge stocked and cooked for us several times a week. She made us soup, pasta, Yumm bowls, enchiladas. If it’s been a few hours since I ate, she’ll set a bowl of fruit salad and a bagel with Toby’s tofu pate in front of me. And—get this—she washes the dishes afterwards.

My mother is the Saint of Keeping Catherine Fed.

So when my friend noted going hungry, I decided to make her a meal. Since I was at it, I would triple the recipe, keeping one for myself and sending another to a different friend who recently suffered a loss.

I piled the ingredients into my cart. (A bald guy stopped me in the canned tomato aisle. “I have to ask—what are all the peppers for?”) Three days later, I finally summoned the motivation to cook the meal.

Looking back, I laugh at the recipe. “1 hour active time,” it says. Try an entire day.

I started washing vegetables, boiling potatoes and sautéing onions around 10am. I finally assembled the shepherd’s pies at 5pm.

I peeled carrots and mashed Yukon Golds in spare moments between feeding Peeper, putting her down for naps, feeding Finn, conducting interviews for work and occasionally eating something.

When my husband got home, I could barely contain my frustration. I was stirring veggies in the biggest skillet we own. My back hurt, and I felt I’d been in the kitchen all day with hardly anything to show for it—except mountains of dirty dishes.

“It’s so hard to get anything done,” I vented.

“You do so much,” he said. “You’re a great mama.”

I didn’t listen at the time. I was too busy stirring, at least until my phone rang and I turned off the range again, this time to conduct another interview.

I often feel as if I don’t get anything done. Any project I undertake, even one as seemingly simple as cooking or putting away groceries, is put on hold multiple times as I tend to other things. From throwing dirty laundry into the wash to putting away folded clothes, it can take a week to finish a load. Yes. A week.

But, as an article I recently reread at Big City Moms reminds me, I’m doing much more important work than domestic drudgery.

“Our culture doesn’t have a good way to measure what you are accomplishing. Your baby will grow and meet milestones: check. But to the untrained eye most of this work, at the end of the day, will look like nothing. But we know better. There is no greater task than the nothing you did yesterday, the nothing you are doing today, and the nothing you will do tomorrow.”

I finally finished those shepherd’s pies. I dropped one off at a friend’s and put ours in the oven. (I’ll deliver the third, oh, sometime.)

I sat down after Peeper went to bed with a slice of the pie. The vegetables were a bit watery, and the piece slopped onto my plate. I realized I’d forgotten to salt and pepper the potatoes. I sighed.

But the first bite was decent. It was good enough, I realized.

Good enough and done is much better than waiting for perfect.

I’m embracing good enough.

Good Enough Shepherd’s Pie
(from The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, I think, slightly adapted)

Ingredients:

2 large potatoes
1 Tbs butter
salt and pepper to taste
½ cup yogurt
½ cup freshly minced chives
½ cup freshly minced parsley

1 ½ Tbs olive oil
1 ½ cups chopped onion
1 large garlic clove, crushed
1 tsp salt
black pepper
1 stalk finely minced celery
12 oz. chopped mushrooms
½ package crumbled firm tofu
1 1-lb eggplant, in small cubes
1 green bell pepper, minced
¼ tsp thyme
½ tsp each: basil, oregano
1 chopped parsnip
1 chopped carrot
3 Tbs nutritional yeast
1 Tbs cider vinegar
½ cup packed shredded cheddar or pepper jack cheese

(Ingredients I omitted or substituted for my friend who is dairy-, gluten- and soy-free in italics)

  1. Cook the potatoes in their skins in boiling water until soft. Drain and mash with all ingredients from first section (butter through parsley).
  2. In a large, heavy skillet, sauté the onions and garlic in 1 ½ Tbs olive oil with salt and pepper until the onions are soft (5-8 minutes).
  3. Add the celery, mushrooms, eggplant, parsnips and carrots. Cook over low heat, stirring occasionally. When the eggplant is cooked through (and this wil happen more quickly if you cover the skillet between stirrings), add green pepper and herbs. Continue cooking about 5 minutes longer.
  4. Remove from heat; toss with cheese, nutritional yeast and vinegar. Spread this mixture into your deep-dish casserole. (I used a 9×9 pan.) Spread the mashed potatoes on top as a crust. Spread cheese, extra nutritional yeast and a little paprika on top.
  5. Bake uncovered for 35 minutes at 350 degrees.

Roundup of breastfeeding links

A friend once joked that I should rename my blog The Bouncing Boob. It was especially appropriate at the time because Edie refused to eat except when I was standing and bouncing her, but with my constant talk about breasts, it still fits.

But if this blog is honest, how can I avoid it? During the early months, babies eat constantly. Many women pump on top of that. As a new mother who is breastfeeding, it feels as if 23 hours a day are consumed by feeding the baby. (The remaining hour is taken by changing diapers. Zero hours are taken by sleeping.) And for mothers who aren’t breastfeeding, all that time making bottles, feeding baby and then—the worst part—cleaning all those tiny parts certainly adds up, too.

I once remarked to Eric that I felt like a big boob that occasionally changed diapers.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he replied. “You’re two boobs.”

At any rate, I wanted to share a few links about, yes, boobs and breastfeeding.

A friend from grad school wrote this tender post about how she and her wife struggled to breastfeed their newborn. “…when no one was looking, I put you back up to my chest. I was worried you wouldn’t know what to do. I was worried you’d start crying and not want me. But you suckled. You knew exactly what to do.” I cried all over my breakfast, so beware.

The Internet is full of articles defending a mother’s right to breastfeed. (And isn’t it ridiculous that we need so many champions of something as fundamental as feeding a child?) There are fewer posts, though, from a father’s perspective. That’s why I especially loved this article. “So how public is too public? If you ask me, there is no such thing. Riding a bus, sitting in a restaurant, in uniformin Parliamentin front of the Pope—you name it. A nursing baby is so much more pleasant than a cranky, hungry baby. Don’t want to see it? That’s simple: Don’t look.”

I got a kick out of this music video back when nursing was a painful, fraught, emotional topic. A dash of humor makes just about any situation easier to bear.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZ3QO-7h4YA]

PS – I love how the still in the video above, the baby looks RAVENOUS. She’s all, “Get in my belly!”

On the flip side of things, a new law in the United Arab Emirates criminalizes not breastfeeding. The council that created the law decided that children have a right to breastfeed until age 2; mothers who choose not to (or can’t) can be sued by their husband. Now, nursing is fantastic for nourishment and bonding, among other things. But sometimes breastfeeding doesn’t work. There are plenty of perfectly valid reasons why a woman would not breastfeed. But beyond that, should this choice ever be delegated to strangers and lawmakers? I know women who feed their babies formula, both exclusively and along with breast milk. They are wonderful mothers who love their children.

Giving a hungry baby formula is not wrong. What would be criminal is not feeding that babies at all. What would be terrible is forcing a mother to breastfeed and risking her or her child’s health because of that. What would be regrettable is creating resentment and alienation between mother and child by taking away a woman’s autonomy.

I am an enormous proponent of breastfeeding. Even more, though, I’m an advocate for mothers making the best choice for themselves and their families. Sometimes that includes formula. Sometimes it doesn’t. Frankly, it’s none of my damn business.

Do you have a favorite post about breastfeeding? Share the link in the comments section!

Keep getting help until it’s fixed

If you’ve read my blog before, it’ll come as no surprise that we had a hard time breastfeeding. Hell, I talk about my boobs often enough here to give Bill O’Reilly a stroke.

I was nervous about breastfeeding from the getgo, so I asked to see a lactation specialist both days I was in the hospital after giving birth. And when things were still hard at home, I saw another lactation nurse that same week.

At that visit, the nurse showed me a few minor tweaks with how my baby was positioned. I left heartened.

Each latch continued to be painful, though. I kept wondering when nursing would get easier. “Aren’t my nipples supposed to toughen up?” I thought to myself.

Around three weeks I went back to the lactation clinic. Again, I was shown different ways of holding my baby. I was reminded to make her open wide before latching. I was supposed to take her off whenever nursing hurt and try again. But it hurt all the time, and Baby was hungry.

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How motherhood has changed me

“I’m so much more patient,” I heard time and again as other women graduated from mom’s group. I laughed inwardly: That is so not me.

In some ways, becoming a mother has actually made me more impatient. I noticed myself getting worked up when I drove around the Target parking lot, unable to find the exit. I mentally berated myself when I took a wrong turn while driving. I tried not to lose it when the plane we boarded sat on the tarmac, waiting for a repair.

I think I’m less tolerant of inconveniences like these because my time is more precious to me these days. If a few spare moments are wasted on, say, trying to turn left against traffic, I think of all the things I could have done with that extra ninety seconds. Like eat a banana or go pee uninterrupted.

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