my favorite thing

My new favorite thing about being a mother is the sincere, enthusiastic smile and the shriek of happiness that comes from River when I come into his room to get him from his crib. Nobody else is this happy to see me with such regularity. Feeling wanted and loved and appreciated really fills the heart.

I know it won’t last. I imagine him slamming the door shut behind me and diving under his pillows during his teenage years. In the meantime, I can enjoy the smiles when I enter and the happy hugs when I pick him up – mommy to the rescue.

Just in case you are wondering why there are piles of stuff in River room – we live in a very old and small house that doesn’t have closets. So River’s room doubles as the nursery and the family closet.

The next book to help me be a better parent

I’m still in that searching for good parenting advice period and have now finished my second book. Before I tell you about the book, I want to mention that I’m recently getting to know a few babies in a more intimate way than just waving at them in the stroller while I chat with their moms. Of course there is Mirena, who now comes over two afternoons a week. And last week, we watched my friend Laura’s baby on Saturday and she watched River on Sunday.

Both of these experiences make me recall my Spanish friend’s saying, “Every baby is a world unto themselves.” And they are. Each of the three is entirely distinct. Which makes me wonder how people can really presume to give advice. What works for River may well not work for Mirena. And what works for Isabela doesn’t match River’s needs. I suppose people advise toward the mean. But for our purposes, I can’t put my faith into any single idea or author, because none of them know River’s needs precisely. The best I can do is to read widely and then pick and choose among the ideas presented those I think will have a positive benefit.

So, the book I read is Parenting, Inc. by Pamela Paul. I first saw it reviewed in Brain, Child magazine (my new favorite magazine). I didn’t pay much attention though since the subtitle “How we are sold on $800 strollers, fetal education, baby sign language, sleeping coaches, toddler couture and diaper wipe warmers – and what it means for our children” didn’t apply to me. The only thing we have used from that list is a teeny bit of sign language. But even with that, we are only teaching him 10-15 signs and we’re not spending any money to do it.

But then, I passed by a table of books outside a bookstore and began to flip through this one. I landed on a page about hiring consultants to help toddlers learn to get potty trained. She mentioned one in particular called Booty Camp. For $250 ($300 now) parents can get their toddler potty trained in a day.

On the parent listserv I belong to, there had been a lot of discussion lately about parents unsure of what to do with their toddlers. One recent discussion had centered upon a 4-year old, who pooped in his pants at daycare and got it all over the rugs. After requesting advice, the parents decided to send him to preschool in diapers and to include going to the potty with changing clothes, but otherwise allow him to choose when to train. Of course, I can’t know the child or the situation. But the prevalence with which I heard of these types of cases in the U.S. (look at all the sold out classes at Booty Camp to see how many people need help with this) doesn’t seem right to me.

So I was intrigued by the Booty Camp founder’s method. She loads the kids up with sugar and salt, as much as they want to eat and drink. They wear only underpants. She tells them that when they need to go to the bathroom, they must use the potty. She says it’s “unacceptable” for them to go in their pants. If they do so, she says it’s gross, dirty and stinky and the child must clean it up. The parent is instructed to not react to any attention-seeking behavior. The child is also not provided with any rewards. If anything, toys are removed so that he can focus on paying attention to his body. She believes that there is a point at which a poop is no longer an “accident” but a decision, and should no longer be excused. It worked for the parent profiled in the book and from that day on, her son used the potty.

I picked up the book due to this potty perusal. It’s not so much a parental advice book as it is a manifesto against the heavy hand of consumerism on parents these days. The book is easy to read and the beginning and end are strongest. The book contains some interesting facts and statistics, some of which I’ll probably refer to in future posts.

I can say that it made me feel better about our decisions to not be participating in baby classes (besides swimming), to go with mostly used clothing and toys and to focus on what we believe matters – quality time, access to experiences and saving for education when it’s really needed.

Read any helpful books lately?

Halloween and Babies

Following up on yesterday’s post, I’m thinking about what to do on the real Halloween, October 31st. Up until the family Halloween party, I didn’t think we’d do anything. Maybe hand out some candy at home.

Seeing how much fun River had with the festivities and the ghoulish items made me think he’d enjoy more than sitting at home. I thought I’d take him treat-or-treating. The idea hadn’t occurred to me before, but hey, we have a costume, we have the time, we have plenty of houses in our neighborhood and I haven’t been trick or treating in about 20 years. I’d enjoy it too.

I was all excited about my plan, until I saw some people grousing online that they don’t like it when adults with a baby come to their door because they think they just want free candy. Granted, my income is low at the moment. But my husband’s is decent and if I really wanted candy, I could buy it at bargain prices shortly after Halloween.

Basically, I want to have a fun time with River. I want to have pictures of his first time trick or treating. I’m not sure whether we’ll still be living here next year, but this is an amazing place for a first trick-or-treating experience – safe streets, lots of kids, some fantastic houses to visit. One house within walking distance looks like the Munsters and I know of at least one Nobel Prize winner who will be handing out candy.

So, what would you do if you had a sociable, friendly almost 11-month-old who cannot say trick-or-treat, nor eat the candy, but would probably have a blast being out with other kids, meeting people, and having things dropped in his pumpkin?

Family Portrait

Family Halloween Fun

Ever since my nieces came along, 9 and 11 years ago, my mom has held a Halloween party in her home for them. Each year, she tries to add another scary tchotchke to her collection. Every year, the decorating gets better and better. But the traditions remain the same – a family dinner together, pumpkin carving, a search for the big hairy spider, photos with all kinds of corny accessories, and dessert.

I participated once, years ago, when my nieces were still small. I wore a blond wig, someone else wore a cat’s face. My nieces had a small table just to themselves, where I helped them frost Halloween cookies. I still love the goofy pictures from that celebration. And I was so excited to bring River for his first ever Halloween party.

Here are the decorations:

And the fun:

These days, they get gift bags.

We might start replacing Christmas with Halloween as the high priority annual visit.

Do you have any special Halloween traditions?

Two Buckets of Dirt

Because I want this blog to be a venue for exploring the true experience of parenthood, I’m going to reveal one of my less illustrious features of motherhood. I’m very liberal when it comes to what I allow River to put into his mouth (especially since I read that taste is a prime means of exploration at this age) and it doesn’t bother me at all when he eats something off the floor.

This isn’t something I announce widely. I suspect a lot of mothers would criticize me for this. I know I’m not the only one though. At least one of my friends has told me she thinks it’s great when her daughter comes across leftover food on the floor in their house.

“Hey, it’s a snack,” she says.

I thought about this issue today due to an incident at a pizza joint. After going to the gym late this morning, I carried River, my bag and his bag of stuff out to the car. It was drizzling and we’d had to park far away. River is now in the 25 pound range and it’s truly hard to balance him and the stuff. I put the bags in the car, picked him up again and stopped in a pizza place to get myself a slice for lunch. Upon reaching the counter, my tired arms placed him on the floor. I received a couple of surprised or critical looks, but they didn’t bother me.

After a few minutes, a woman approached me. “His food is on the floor,” she said, in a very concerned tone, referring to the half-bagel he’d been working on. I didn’t think it was worth discussing my parenting values with this woman. So I faked concern and picked up the bagel. When we walked out of the shop and were out of that woman’s eyesight, I handed the bagel back to River.

“Here you go,” I said. He took it gladly. I would have liked to have seen her face if I’d told her River may well have eaten his own poop.

Doing something I felt I needed to hide from that woman made me wonder if I was treating him badly. I thought that I would eat the bagel myself so I guess it’s not hypocritical to offer it to River.

My husband has a significantly lower grossed-out threshold than I do (though it’s rising since River’s birth). But when I told him this story, even he thought it was perfectly rational to give River the bagel.

“People can get so funny about those things,” he said.

I thought back to where my comfort with a little dirt comes from and one of my grandmothers came to mind. I was lucky enough to have three grandmothers growing up. All were Midwestern, hardworking and strong. One in particular always encouraged me to eat food after I’d dropped it. “Everyone will eat two buckets of dirt in their lifetime,” she would say.

I have no idea where she got the two buckets from, but I took it as gospel and have repeated it to myself every time I drop something. Unless I drop it in a puddle of mud, I’ll probably salvage it. What is a few specks in comparison to the buckets that will be consumed? Nothing. Just now, curious to see if I could find a figure, I did a google search and found this article. Unsurprisingly, it comes from the Midwest. Then, of course, there are people who gobble down vast quantities of soil, even make cookies with it.

So yes, it’s not ideal. I don’t feed him dirt on purpose. But if a few specks happen to get in every so often, in the long run, I don’t think it will do him any harm.

the joy of being home alone

At this time last year, I was 8 months pregnant, still new to daily life in America. Mark was working long hours then and I was spending long, lonely days and nights at home. I could never imagine that one year later I would long for those quiet hours that flowed slowly from one into another.

Today Mirena’s mom had an important event to attend for work and needed more than our standard afternoon hours of childcare. So our babysitter went over to Mirena’s place and River went over there too. For seven hours.

I had seven glorious hours to myself at home. Only when I had the time did I realize how infrequently it happens. I had thoughts of great productivity. Not only was I going to get a lot of work done, I was going to cook dinner, make pesto, go out for lunch and send some long-overdue thank you notes. Maybe I’d even pick up a bit.

I didn’t manage all of the above. But I did get some work done, I did pop a ready-to-cook stuffed chicken into the oven, I actually did make and freeze arugula pesto. But I didn’t go out for lunch. No way was I going to leave during my quiet, peaceful time.

I’ve always liked it that River is at home with the babysitter and I can see him throughout the day. I like to be able to pop into his activities, to give him a quick hug, to breastfeed him when needed. But when he was gone for such a long time, I surprisingly found it a relief. A vast calmness settled over me. I had no one and nothing to step over, but could move freely through our small space.

When he came home, I showed him with hugs and kisses. I breastfed him. I talked to him. I took him on a long walk with a friend. But I really enjoyed that quiet time with only my own tasks to focus on and plenty of space to work on them. If Mirena’s family wants the childcare to take place in their home sometimes, I will not object.