carl in casimirland.

Since I mentioned her. Here is the sad ending to the missing person flyer I saw. I don't have anything wise to say. This just breaks my heart.

Despite that annoying-as-all-get-out Dr. Sears video which demonstrates sling holds with kids nearly 14 years old, I will probably not be trotting around town with my future toddler in a sling. It was great for awhile, when he wasn't enormous. I'd just go about my business and forget sometimes that there was a baby in there, until I would occasionally look down and be like "oh! a baby!" But now he's too heavy and iit's like carrying a giant watermelon in a pillow case- not effective. And he's actually becoming attached to it when he's not in it, reaching for it and cuddling with it, so I've decided I'm cutting it up into four identical lovies. I'm generally not such a clever and thrify recycler, but it was my mom's idea. It's another end of an era thing--the end of my slinging Sacagawea days, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to it. What was once such a simple necessity has morphed into the evil embodiment of my enslavement to the rock-to-sleep program. It reminds me of pacing and pacing and rocking and rocking til I'm about to tip, and he's finally starting to fall asleep on his own. Screw the sling, it's a goner. If I were spiritural I'd perhaps try and create some kind of ritualistic ceremony, in which we meaningfully cut it up by candlelight and transform it into it's New Life as multiple lovies.

Talking phones should not be allowed.
"He's just going to play with tupperware and wooden spoons" I used to think. I never bought toys or teethers because they were cute, or anything. Ever. We got a few fun things as gifts, and that was enough. I was against throwing endless, plastic toys at your children until they sit in their room amidst mountains of toys that have become invisible to them because they aren't new anymore. Now, I am such a sucker. I discovered that there toys out there without their own television series, Disney movie, and tied in McDonalds promotion, and god help me. And then my sister-in-law kindly brought over about 12 hefty bags of hand-me-down toys (I exaggerate a little. but not much). We are drowning in toys, and this is problematic for me, because our house is really small. If you leave one lone, smiling plastic cowboy astray on the floor, you're pretty likely to wipe out on it on your way to anywhere. The minimalist in my brain is really not cool with this, and I think some of the dumptrucks that she brought over are going to mysteriously disappear. Barney bus? What Barney bus? I didn't see a Barney bus. The phone that doesn't stop talking (Why do they make toys like this? There is no off button. You have to find a screwdriver and unscrew the battery section to make it die) is already in the hefty bag half way out the door, destined for the thrift shop. Something in the hefty bag keeps weighing on the Barney Banjo and something else keeps randomly shouting out "Foot!". I hate noisy toys like that, and until Casimir can articulate better, they're just not going to be around.

I think we're pushing the "So Big" performance a little too much. He won't do it for anyone but us, but I do not believe that he's confused as to what we are requesting when he has an audience. Rather, I choose to believe he is subtley trying to relay to us that he's not our trained seal, and if we want to make him perform like a circus performer, well we've got another thing coming.

Tomorrow is Casimir Pulaski Day. The day I used to make fun of in high school. For the nonChicagoans, banks and schools actually close on this day. We'll have to celebrate somehow, but I'm not sure how yet. Maybe we can wave the Polish flag outside. Except, we don't have one. So we can't do that. Many of my neighbors have these light-up shamrocks up in their windows already. They are so good at that--the shamrocks went up on February 15th, the day the light-up hearts went down. I had never seen these pink light-up hearts. The hearts were all up since about January 2nd. I imagine that we will be seeing a lot of bunnies on March 16th. And then the fourth of July stuff will probably go up the day after Easter, whenever that actually is. I don't know what they'll do then, because there are already so many flags flying. But what are they going to do for Casimir Pulaski Day?? Probably Nothing. The Polish flags should have been up the day the hearts went down, and should remain up until the day after Casimir day, when the Shamrocks would then have their turn.
I make fun of them, but I know kids love that stuff, so I'll probably have to get with the program a little bit and act more enthusiastic about the holiday rituals when he knows better. I could start by celebrating Casimir Pulaski Day. I'd have one up on the neighbors then, but I'm not really sure how one would go about that. If only I could find a light-up Polish flag to hang in the window, I'd be set.

Although, I guess this doesn't count as talking. I should really call my old friends more. I wanted to add that I went to the library "to work" this afternoon, accidentally kind of taking a stroll, hitting jamba juice, and shopping a little on the way. It was so fun to be by myself. But then I saw the Bike Helmut Guy that I mentioned in the last post. He just said "summer's here" with a smile. I'm no longer roaming the streets there with a baby on my chest, but he's still around, sans the bike helmut lecture. I smiled (even though it's barely spring, much less summer, but not important), and I felt mean. I didn't think I was making fun of him, but I must have, because I felt awful when I saw him for referring to him as kind of a loony local here. I think that running into him was karma throwing that comment back in my face. I always read that when you were in love with someone you want to be nicer, to be a better person, worthwhile of their love or something. Never felt that with a grown-up man, sorry. But I feel that way now. Casimir will probably still learn to swear from me, but I don't want him to make fun of bike helmut lecturers. So I wanted to take that back. And probably add ten more paragraphs.

And then there was the missing person flyer. Of course it had a woman's picture on it, and I stopped to read it. It was sad, but the line that really got me was the line: "subject gave birth one week ago and may suffer from post-partum depression." I thought I was going to cry on the library steps. I remembred P absently relaying the words "body found" this morning and I turned to glance at the tv news where they had "body found" and an arrow pointing to the lake shoreline somewhere in the city. God, I so hope that was not her. It was only since yesterday that she is missing, and whoever she is, I so so hope she is OK and is soon found. This just breaks my heart so much. I remember one day when I was pregnant, I picked up the newspaper from a kiosk and headed to my favorite coffee shop, but before I got there I had to detour into an alley because a cover story featuring severe post partum depression and two local women who had committed suicide because of it had me bawling. I think it was also because I had such a fear that I would succumb to depression again and that I would somehow not love the baby who I had come to love so much already. I'm so grateful that this never happened. I felt really blessed on the library steps, and I don't usually do that--feel blessed. I hope she's OK. I hope no one took her. I hope she wandered off and decided to regroup and return, or there was a misunderstanding, somehow. I hope she has support or help if she needs it, and I hope that she is holding her one week-old baby at home right now.

With friends like this, who needs enemies?
So my happy day was turned kind of sad. And then I got menstrual cramps for the first time in a year and a half, and was barely able to get home. And then I checked out the new issue of Bust, which I bought on my excursion and which I got to read in bed because I was dying of crampitis. And I got really, really upset. You know what? I typed in the description of this blog with a hint of defiance, because I know that if anyone reads this there is a big fat chance that they will scoff that I call myself a feminist and then write about staying at home. I've weathered the Mommy Wars in the feminist online community. I know the whole routine and each polarized side of the argument. This is probably why I unintentionally bring up that I WORK, so many times, not to buy into that attitude but to shut some people up. I work part-time, at home. I intend to do so for I don't know how long-- one year?? two? four?-- before returning to full-time. I know it will be difficult to return to a full-time job, which is why I cling to this one for dear life. Well, it's for the money, too, and it's interesting, but it's also because I know I will otherwise likely never find a job. I know I will feel so out of the loop that I would probably avoid it and feel unqualified, if I don't keep working in some capacity. I want to make some money and share more of the traditional mom duties with my spouse.

Well there was this letter written in Bust from some upsnot female laywer proclaiming that stay-at-home-mothers should not have been mentioned in the issue themed independence, because because because. Because they are dependent on men? Yes. She had me with that point. They/we are. That's why we need longer maternity leaves, more flexible jobs, more family friendly corporations, more fathers who are willing to sacrifice careers for children, more acceptability of working mothers and greater ease in mixing the two. And on and on, so mothers (and so it's not just the mothers) don't feel as if they have to choose between the two. HHmmm. Juggle insane schedule and have difficulty advancing at work? or More time with kids and economic dependence on a man? Neither sounds ducky. I can see how women arrive at either choice, depending on about a hundred million factors unique to her and her life and husband and job and kids and dog. I'll be the first to say I think women should go back to work at some point, if only because we'll never get anywhere otherwise. I'm happy that many moms work, that some are dying to return to work. But then she had to go and ruin it and blather on:

"these women [do] not want to work...are all too happy to become dependent on the first man who happens to walk by. To call them independent--to put them on the same level as me and the many other women who support themselves, who contribute to this society, and who take care of themselves--is either insulting or incredibly naive."

Aren't those just fresh ideas? And here I thought that when some women wanted to go back to work, they had no job skills, no confidence, and weren't hired, or perhaps really enjoyed being an at-home-mom. I didn't know that it was because they didn't want to work. (I won't even get into semantics, but I guess this lawyer thought staying at home is more akin to partying or lounging and not working) I thought they were also encouraged to stay at home by our entire culture. I didn't know they were just lazy. I thought that they stayed home not to become dependent on a man but to take.care.of.their.children. I thought they were sacrificing their ambition to do what they thought was best. I guess they aren't contributing anything to society by doing this, because of course children have nothing to do with society and what the hell happens to it. I guess stay-at-home-moms are just not on.the.same.level as this woman. I guess we should just shit on them.

It's all so startlingly..original. and feminist, fer sure.
The thing is, I don't think her attitudes are all that rare, which is why I went ballistic over one stupid letter. I also get the impression that this woman doesn't have children, or the low salary (=crappy daycare) problem that some women have. I get the impression that she has no idea why some women end up staying home, even when they don't want to. Maybe as a divorce lawyer, she sees the worst in people, in men and women. But I don't see how even a few true freeloaders she might have encountered mean that we should just beat up on the mommies instead of looking at their situation. Blinders, anyone?
Staying home is problematic, which is why I personally hope to make it temporary (Standard maternity leave in countries like Sweden is a full year, but stay home beyond six weeks here and you're branded) I know feminism is about choices but not all choices are feminist yadda yadda. Ther personal is political indeed. I know the current set up is problematic, and that ultimately, the patriarchal posse doesn't really care what reasons I come up with or how free my choice is to stay home. They only care that I stay home, period. I'm aware of that. But you know what? I'm not willing to put my politics before what I think works best for me and my family, right now. I'm not going to do something, just because. I think daycare as a concept rocks the house, but I know it's expensive and some of them suck and I know that I personally want to wait until he's a year or two. So here I am--Aware of the rights and wrongs of the issue, the complexity of it, the problems with it and the rightness of it. Aware of the way it sets us back, aware of the dynamics that led me to hold on to a job that wasn't offering advancement because it was baby friendly, and aware of the way that I'm also doing something important and how it works for the two of us. And here I am reading that I'm not on the same level as this woman.
I don't even go here normally because you can see how many different directions it quickly speeds off to and how many run-on sentences it creates for me. I don't want to sit here and justify how I "contribute to society," but yeah, in case anyone wonders, I am a little defensive after hearing these attitudes from so many feminists (whipped dog syndrome) and I stand by my official blog description. It's not changing, except for the month part; It will have to be "eleven month-old tyrant" pretty soon. I'm a work-at-home-mom, and I'm a stay-at-home-mom, and I aim to infuse my life and my relationship and my parenting with feminism. That makes me- tada! A Feminist Mother.

Well, that was cathartic.

Casimir started doing "Soooo Biiggg," raising his arms in the air when you ask how big he is. It's really cute and so amazing to me how quickly he learns to do things. I guess sometimes I forget that he's not like the cat, that he will be speaking and running and doing things I can (and can't) in no time.

Speaking of So Big, the other day I actually heard myself say, while lifting him up, "When are you going to stop getting so big?" It was one of those nothing statements, but the extra special irony/idiocy of it kind of struck me. As far as I know, they keep on getting bigger, at least for awhile. I think it's giving me some good arm muscles though, which is great since I didn't even renew my Y membership. He's 23 pounds, and our baby bjorn days are over. I really miss them sometimes. We'd go bjorning (papoosing? I just use product names, here) around town when we were in the apartment in downtown Evanston, hitting coffee shops, walking to the lake, the rose garden, running errands, all with him stuck to me like a big burr. I often wondered if people were like, "There goes that babylady again, with her kid stuck to her." I'd be the one they'd avoid, like the local guy always cruising the streets, warning you about bike helmut safety. But I do tend toward the paranoid side, and as the weather warmed up, I did spot a couple other people walking around with babies stuck to them. He much preferred it to the buggy. Up at chest level, he could adequately stare at people and smile, fishing for compliments and on a slow day he'd hear how cute and smiley he was two or three times. Now he's more like a lead weight in that thing, he's nearing the max and barely fits in it if he's got a sweater on, so I packed it away in one of his 4 filled giant storage tubs. Sad. It's just as well though, because in our new neighboorhood, we exchanged happeningness for quietness and there's not many places to go around here but to the park and for a free donut hole at Dunkies.

Pink rebellions and Naive pregnant women.
I can't find the pink and white pacifier Caz had, and I think my mother may have disposed of it. Due to its pinkness, I'm guessing. The last time I saw that one, it was when we were visiting her. Suspicious. He had this dark pink outfit once that we bought for him before he was born. P picked out and even liked it on Casimir, even though he referred to it as "more of a dark pink-red" and not just pink. You could just hear the eagerness in my mom's voice when she announced that that outfit was definitely getting too small for him. "Definitely can't wear that one anymore!" she'd say, barely disguising her glee.

But I'm just being bratty with the mom's-driving-me-crazy schtick. In truth, she's been the best mom since I became a mom, and is the only person who has helped us at all. Casimir always looks excited to see her. Sometimes I think about Martha, this really cool woman from my birthing class who I ran into at the midwife, shortly before both of our due dates. We chatted about all our fears and exitement, and we talked about if we would work after, how much time we'd take off, and inquired about how much help we'd have right after the birth, which we knew from class was important. We each went through a long listing of local family members or friends, and I mentioned that my mom was stocking the freezer with casseroles and would probably come by every day for awhile, and that P didn't have any parental leave but but was able to take several days off and use all his sick days. I think it's kind of sad and funny now, looking back, as we listed sisters and brothers and sisters in laws and parents and friends---did we really think we were going to have this steady flow of people, lining up at our door to help? Many of them have their own kids, or don't know anything about kids. Outside of my mom, no one helped us. Our culture is not really one which jumps to the aid of post partum women and their babies, which is believed by many to be one contributing factor to the United States' particularly high level of post partum depression. I'm as guilty as anyone else in not volunteering help when I could have. I had no idea how badly it was probably needed or how much it would have been appreciated in the early weeks after the birth, and I don't think my clueless apathy is anything uncommon. Our cutural mythology dictates that you get six weeks off from work, or you quit, stay home, and will be just fine. Just have husband "help" with the housework and rest for awhile, the books say, as if if everything will be so easy. I mean just look at maternity leave in the U.S., which is a little skimpy compared to say, oh, every other industrialized nation.

I don't know if Martha and I were naive or just comforting (kidding) ourselves, trying to brace for the unexpected, thinking we'd have lots of help if we were to need it. In Casimir's early days I thought about this and remembered how each person Martha named was followed by "but is an attorney with crazy hours," including her husband, who had seemed really supportive and cool in the birth class. I don't remember exactly what she said about her mother, but it was something about being kind of wacky and not reliable or some other words that didn't conjur up visions of casseroles materializing in her freezer. When things were sometimes tough in the beginning and P had to go to work and I was exhausted, I thought of Martha and wondered about how she was doing and if all those people she listed were able to help at all. Maybe my worry is misplaced, and she just hired some help with the funds that an attorney with crazy hours tends to have access to, or she just did fine anyway. I hope so. I got by, but I certainly was thankful to have a mom who came by, gave me a break, a nap, and stocked my fridge with a ready made dinner and some grocery basics. My husband headed home at 4pm and was eager to greet baby. But I was lucky. If Casimir ever has any children, you can bet your bottom that I'm going to be making lots of casseroles.
,

Is it bad etiquette to link to blogs I don't know if I'm (only sort of) making fun of their food fun? I might try and use this to keep Casimir from eating that child food we call hot dogs in future. It might backfire though. It does kind of look fun, I admit. Sort of.

This isn't really a political blog, but I have to say that sometimes I'm happy I've been a little insular. Each time some news item forces its way into my dimension, it infuriates me. First it's Bush's smug visage on my computer screen, with the neighboring caption announcing that (of course) he will do his darnedest to ban gay marriage. (Because where do you draw the line then!? What's next?! Before you know it, people will be able to marry a gerbil or something!) And now it's Alan Greenpants suggesting that perhaps, eliminating social security is an idea. Well, Now.
I wonder, did the country seem like it was going to hell in a diaper pail to my mother when I was approaching my first birthday? Maybe not, but probably just because my older siblings were born in a Franco-run Spain. Maybe it always seemed frightening to raise a child in this world, which almost seems comforting, because then there's hope since we haven't imploded yet. But despite all our wealth, freedom, and privilege, it's hard not to fear what this country will turn into for the future generation, as trite as that sounds. It would be so nice if, in even a few years time, I can look back and shake my head at such sillyness and be grateful that we continue to come a long way, baby. Maybe if Casimir has to do a school report on what happened the year he was born, like I did, he will actually be able to report on something positive. I can only hope. It's a shakey hope, but I'm holding on to it.

There are a lot of blogs out there. I was checking out Chicago bloggers and there was a link to "Lynne's Fabulous Life" just staring at me from the screen. This struck me because that is my boring, rhymes-with-pin, often-mistaken-for-Len name, right down to that extra, useless "e" that made finding a bike license plate with my name correctly spelled on it so frustrating for so many years. That extra "e" is more unusual and dazzlingly original than you might think (or I like to think), so there's always that fun little thrill when I see it. Except when it's got "fabulous life" dancing after it, taunting me. Is my life fabulous? Well. I am pretty happy lately, despite the standard, boring malcontention stewing around in my head at times. But yeah, I do have June Cleaver fever with the babe and feel happy and stuff, most of the time. But fabulous? Fabulous just has this connotation of a life, well, a life filled with fabulous things, like cocktail parties and cocktail dresses and other mysterious things just unfolding unexpectedly with each new day. It conjures up images of fabulous friends stopping by my fabulous city dwelling on a regular basis. I'd offer them up a fancy cocktail (I just like that word), and my silk blouse would slip to my elbow and my bangle bracelets would clink against one another as I waved my hand in the air, detailing some fabulous story of an interlude I had that day at the office, or over lunch. I don't really have those elements present in my life. i don't think I'm really dripping in fab at this point in time. I checked out that blog briefly. I was probably trumping up the meaning of "fabulous" a little too much, or perhaps really missing the irony, but it seems like a cool blog. She's still 25, unlike me, and she gets to see lots of movies, really unlike me, but like me at 25. And like me, she really enjoys making lists and organizing and cleaning (most people don't admit to that), attended DePaul, and is into Ikea, colored pens, and art history, and other totally-me stuff. She even links to a feminist blog. If it weren't for that MBA thing she mentions (I didn't last two years as a business major) and the listing of caffeine and garlic under the dislike list, I'd be pretty sure that it was me running around in some parallel, 6-years-ago universe. Back in the day when I was fab. That's probably not the case, though. So I'm not so original or fab, but it was kind of neat, on account of the extra "e." It almost makes up for the fact that my mom inexplicably changed my name from the intriguing "Nadia" to a name that rhymes with win or pin or thin, on the third day of my life. (Which probably explains why I named my son Casimir and not Bob.)

Anyway, Casimir started "cruising" which I think is really a misnomer, because according to the books this word describes the way a baby walks while holding on to things. I'm not really sure how cruising came to describe a baby taking careful, teetering steps while clutching the coffee table for dear life, but they just throw it around at the doctor's office as if it's part of mainstream vernacular. I had thought it just meant cruising around, motoring away on all fours. I didn't have the lingo down. He also likes to wave, which is fun, because some random waves don't appear to be aimed at anyone in particular; They just kind of surface as we shuffle through the parking lot or stroll down the street and they punctuate the mundane with a happy little stacatto burst. I imagine him accompanying it with a casual "hey" or cool "wassup?" in his head.

This morning I decided I'm going to put an end to the 7 a.m. ritural of taking Casimir to the door to kiss his dad goodbye and to wave together from the door as he drives off to work. It's just too embarassing. I can't believe I even got into the habit. Especially when P plays it up and says "Take care of your Mommy, little man!" just to rub the June Cleaverish moment in and annoy the crap out of me. From now on I'm just staying on the couch with my tea and playing the cool, urban mom while Casimir plays on the floor, even if it takes effort and he does really like to wave.

Speaking of me, which of course is mostly all I do here, I'm really procrasinating and putting off some work and am disappointed that motherhood did not transform me into a person who would never procrastinate because she is too responsible. I was so sure that would happen. Or I really hoped. All the motherly imagery of moms everywhere really was so convincing.

My mega bad sleeper boy woke up wide awake at 4am this morning. Rock on. This time I just rolled over and made his dada take care of it, hoping he wouldn't consequently fall asleep driving to work. So I got a tiny bit of extra rest, but still woke up on the wrong side of the broom. Sometimes I wish I had a barn I could go out to, where I could just yell at the top of my lungs and throw some stuff at the hay bales. My sister mentioned once a long time ago that a friend of hers, a mom of three kids, would take time out each day to go out to the barn and scream and let off some steam. This way her kids couldn't hear, and she'd just get the frustration out of her system in a healthful manner. Presumably she then just dusted herself off and then headed back to the house. This was Vermont, so I guess barns were an option. I don't have a barn, and as far as I know, I won't find one in Chicago, but this hasn't stopped me from still unconsciously conjuring up images of a big red barn sometimes when I'm really frustrated and need to let off some steam. I mean if you don't have a babysitter, why not a barn? It's not that I'm like this all the time, and of course I only have one child. Actually, I've been rather pleasantly surprised by how much patience I have for him. It's just that the extra patience required on the days when I have to pull him away from the terrified cat 45 times doesn't just come out of nowhere, I've discovered. It is directly siphoned from the Resevoir of Patience for Other People, and that still makes life difficult; It just means that the person I go maniacal on will not be my precious baby. The funny thing is that when my sister mentioned that friend's barn ritual, I was completely dumbfounded. "Why would she want to scream in a barn?" I thought. That sounded slightly off balance to me. Now I think, why wouldn't you? I mean, what greater therapy could there be?
It's hard to talk about getting frustrated sometimes. I think I'm not supposed to, as part of some unspoken code. And it's easy for me to feel badly for getting frustrated with someone ten months old, especially when he pulls that see-how-adorable-and-vulnerable-and-dependent-I-am look. Usually, you frustrate me and I hate you for months. That doesn't work here, obviously. But you know, it's not really even him, it's just the whole situation that gets tough, sometimes. And this is where one of my one or two or zero readers says "duh, you're not the first parent around. You're just figuring this stuff out now?" Well, yeah. I had it all wrong before. I should have been amazed at the Vermont hollerer's ingenuity, instead of thinking that was a little zany. I didn't think she was a bad mama, but I was definitely thinking "huh?" and "zany." But the neighbors would definitely hear, if I tried using the garage for a frustration releasing holler. Shit, they can probably hear my dramatic Al Gore sighs of frustration through the baby monitor, as I've heard them, singing their baby to sleep with Bruce Springsteen. I wonder if they never get frustrated, as they sing to their baby that she's born to run.


Casimir and I went to the pacifier emporium that is Babies 'R Us yesterday to pick up some long sleeve onesies in the next size, but I don't know why I even bother. Basically, you have two choices: pink, with flowers, or dark blue, with a baseball or bat or bus on it. I find it really annoying. We insist on this gender color coding before they are even born, and then everyone pretends that this is just the normal, natural, healthy thing to do and of course, boys just cannot wear pink or they'll turn out homosexual, or worse, girly. Nothing worse than being like a girl! Boys definitely won't pick up on that little message. I did pick up one light blue and white striped shirt, that- may I say it?- was very mam, but usually I just give up. I'd dress him in pink just to see how outraged some become at my parenting, but I don't want to make him my political statement. I just want some more gender neutral clothing that has a little more spunk and flash to it, a little more pizazz. I think he'd get more excited about fun, colorful clothes, too. It wasn't bad with the really young clothes, if you like yellow and lime green, but once a baby hits the six month range, which he did pretty early on, it's down the dark blue tubes. I buy a lot of red and yellow, to blend with the inevitable blue. When he's not all red, he's kind of like a crawling primary color wheel, which is about the best I can do. And this brings me to...
Top Inquiries We've Had About Casimir's Outfits:
Is that a ski parka on him?? Yes! Just got back from Vail! I guess fleece means "ski"?
He always matches!! It's not hard. They don't exactly make purple plaid or orange polka dots in affordable clothing for this set.
Did you match your outfit with his?? Yes, I am that uptight and silly. It's not just blue jeans and a red sweater and brown jacket on me and red and blue and yellow on him. It's a matching ensemble that I struggled to create.

hhmmph.


I should probably add something positive, so I don't have to feel the grumpy guilt. Let's see, spring is a comin', we're still employed, healthy, and happy, and Casimir tucks his knees under himself to sleep, so that his little bottom sticks right up into the air. It's the greatest sleep position I've ever seen.

Casimir and his dad went off to a family event that I got out of, so I sent them off with an overstuffed diaper bag and some overprotective blahblahing. Now I'm going to celebrate the empty house by doing some work and unfun chores, and oh yeah, blogging, which I guess does count as an enjoyable break, so I should stop whining. It gets P all in a bother when I say "Don't let the young kids hold him. Don't forget that their house isn't babyproof, and likely contains countless chokables and dangerously rickety furniture on which he may try to pull himself up to standing. So really scan the floor for windpipe-sized items and definitely don't let him try any of the food that he can't have and probably best not to let anyone else feed him since they might try to slip him a pierogi. Also I packed the mylicon and do you need the poison control number, do you think, just in case?" It's not that his dad can't take care of him or that he is one of those bumbling "Where is your mother?" exasperated, dumbass JC Penny commercial dads. It's just that I worry. Jesus Christ the Lord, Our Savior could take him and I'd be worried about the thorns pricking baby and telling Jesus to be careful. But you know, what the hell. I'm left alone with him aaallll day. I am his Primary Care Provider. He's still a baby, and no one knows him better than me, not even his dad, who knows him pretty darn well. I know what ways he's most bent on destruction, and what dangerous objects he'll most likely try to ingest. You can't very well ask me to take on these duties and then whip out the overprotective mommy stereotype and make fun of me because I worry, because I can't just hand him over and switch the "Worry Now" button off. So, yeah. Take that. But then P called briefly from the car to let me know that Caz hadn't made a peep yet and all was peaceful. So that was nice. I thanked him for that note of reassurance and warned him to hang up right away and drive really safely.

You probably won't be surprised to know that I don't get out a whole bunch.
Last night I forced myself to overcome my indecisiveness, get over my agoraphobic tendencies, use the damn breast pump, and get in the car and drive and search and search and search for parking, and I went to see some grand Chicago bloggers read their stuff, including Mimismartypants, my favoritest blogger. The little room was packed when I got there, and I felt a little foolish asking the woman at the door, all breathless and excited, "Did Mimismartypants read yet?" as if that's a real name, but I guess when it's a blog reading and other people are known as Sour Bob and such, that people know what you're talking about. Even though my Saturday night experience involved standing in about one square foot of stifling space while the sweat ran down my sweater-clad back, it was entertaining and fun to hear them all read, and I really hope that this wasn't a fluke and that I will indeed get out a little more, even though I didn't really talk to anyone and mostly had to stand still for two hours. Because as much as I will defend my homebody tendencies and really don't care if I'm not a regular at poetry slams, club openings, or whatever unchic chic bar and haven't been ever except for a few months when I was 23 and on Paxil, I could make at least a tiny effort to do more fun stuff for myself that goes beyond asking P for a long baby break so I can bead in my room. I never really went out much before, but it's because I get out even less now, that I need to go out once in awhile. Was that logical? It is too. Plus the idea of connecting with more people who share blogging interests was exciting, and I started having all these maybe-I-can-find-a-Chicago-feminist-blogging-mommy group fantasies. Do you think? I'd probably have to widen my scope.

Baby Game Show- Guess That Baby Age
Casimir and I cruised to the park this morning for his first experience on a baby swing, and when we went for coffee after I let him finally have the free doughnut hole that the nice Dunkin' Donuts lady has been giving him since he was about four months old and had no teeth. It's such a novel experience for me to actually chuckle about stuff like that, because before I had him-- while I was pregnant even-- I had no idea myself about anything baby. I wouldn't have thought a baby could gum doughnut holes, I don't think, but I had no idea how long they had to have pureed food or how many months they'd be wiggling little bugs on their backs, unable to sit up. I always had to respond with a blank "oh" when people told me how much their baby weighed to prove how big he or she was, because I had no idea if 25 pounds was big or not. Who knew? But at least I didn't pretend to know. People are always sizing up Caz and just guessing how old he must be, as if I'm walking with a sign that reads: "Guess the baby's age correctly and win a new car!" It's actually sometimes fun, in a game show kind of way. They usually guess too old, because he is rather a big bubba for his age, and then I have the double pleasure of correcting them and beaming at his robustness as they go on about how big he is. For some reason his jumbo size is a point of puffed up pride for us, as if being a really big baby means he's thriving that much more, which of course is silly. I'd like to think that if he were a girl we'd be bragging just as much, but maybe we're buying into that strappying-young-boy thing? I don't know, I hope not. We can't be the only parents being annoying in that manner though, because I noticed that my cousin was bragging about her newborn boy wearing a 3-6 month sized onesie the second day of his life. Casimir has never been that abnormally large though; I think that mostly gets emphasized so that the contestants don't have to admit that maybe they're just not the pediatricians they thought they were. So far, only one random, really young Starbucks guy got it right. He just looked up from his espresso work and noted that Caz was big for his age, but just didn't look older than 6 months yet, which was what he was. It was really odd, but kind of cool.
My favorite exchanges about how old he must be are when they are just really, really off, and really sure of themselves.
"Let me guess, I'm so good at this. Five months?" one older woman guessed in the grocery store about a month ago.
"No, he's nine months."
"Oh, he's small for his age." she commanded.
"No, actually, he's huge."
Then she started telling us that "hellfire and damnation was very real, my friend," so I felt justified in finding her initially annoying and wheeled my heathen child away from her. I don't think I could guess the age of another baby. It's like, once he's out of a phase, I don't remember what he could or couldn't do in the previous month or how big he was. I'd have to consult that other boring hammoc journal to find out. Now that he's getting older, though, he's slipping down to the seventy-fifth percentile, so we'll just have to stop with the boasting and get used to our average sized baby. I'm pretty sure as he gets older we'll not want him to be in the ninety-fifth percentile anymore anyway, what with the country's obesity problem. I'll still probably beam, though, if I meet you tomorrow and you guess that he's fourteen months. I'll first laugh at you probably, and then beam.

Today we were both pretty fussy and grumpy and sleepy and the good times never really got off the ground, like yesterday, just in case I'm unconsciously glamming up this existence. And I just would like to warn the likely dozens of you out there in the market for baby toothbrushes to walk right by the little plastic thimble-like baby toothbrush that fits neatly over your index finger-- Because I'm pretty sure that the person who thought that up never had their finger bitten by a baby.

Today as I watched Casimir drop the pacifier in his left hand to lunge for another on the floor, all the while maintaining firm hold of the paci in his right hand and the one in his mouth, I had the vague worry that he'll become some kind of chain smoker who always has to have a cigarette in his mouth and it will be all my fault. We started out as anti-paci in the hospital, but the nurse brought him back from a brief check up in the nursery on his second day and a little paci just fell right out of his swaddling, like a condom wrapper out of your spouse's wallet that is not supposed to be there. And to our horror-stricken faces the nurse just offered up an "Oops, did you not want us to give him one?" with a pretty unconvincing innocent act going on. That disgust was short-lived though, because we discovered soon enough that they worked, have never gone back, and will consequently probably be mailing them to his college dorm room in care packages with homemade cookies. Ah well.

His real journal, the one with the baby-in-a-hammoc picture on the front and all the sweetness-and-light stories in it, is going downhill in a big way. It's interesting to me to realize that my regular journal also went downhill when I first got my laptop way back in about 1997. And to think I blamed it on my boyfriend/husband, and all the time I spent on him. It was really because I became too lazy to use a pen, and yet can't quite bring myself to journal via computer and fully give up the idea that journals should be kept in tangible, page-filled books, like the ones that keep piling up on my shelf with each new gift-giving occasion.

Casimir and I went out on the town yesterday and boy did we have a time. We did the kind of fun stuff that morons who think stay-at-home-mothers don't do anything think we do every day. The temperature soared to a roasting 45 degrees and out we went, free wheeling in the stroller, even without hats for a period. We had to go shopping for an affordable "media center" armoir thing that will keep him from going after the TV and VCR 465 times a day, so we drove to our old neighborhood in Evanston where there are real, actual places of business and bustling people and even got decaf caramel lattes and hit the toy store and the bead store. I spent $30 in the toystore and $4 in the bead store, to show how thoroughly in line my priorities have become. I mean, how do you not get the Humpty Dumpty roller, for god's sake? It's not like you can get the kickest ass stuff cuz it's $50, so you might as well placate your materialism with something fun. And of course I just excitedly give him all his new toys at once instead of neatly storing one away for later in a controlled manner, like I think you are supposed to do, like my mother keeps telling me my sister-in-law does. We made it home with a wooden race car, which I had to get because it was faster than the lady bug, and little plastic cowboy with movable limbs, which I had to get instead of the girl because the girl didn't have a big gallon hat. So here he is with his race car and cowboy, and I'm probably going to be one of those stupid parents who in five years says something like, "He just likes boy stuff! It's not me, nor television, nor his peers or birthday gifts, he just naturally goes toward it! Must be biology!" Next time I'm getting him a dolly. To my credit though, he is playing with his plastic kitchen set right now. Actually, he's throwing it around a lot, so maybe I can attribute that to his boyness.

I'm supposed to stop swearing, for Casimir's sake. Both my mom and my spouse keep saying this, and are probably having meetings about it for all I know. I used to think that was silly and annoying to have to "watch your mouth," but now I agree. So I'm trying, but I keep forgetting. I realized that I don't want my baby to be the one teaching everyone else's kids to say "fuck" in first grade. Or rather, I don't want to field the phone calls and deal with the parent teacher conferences. Now, I can appreciate it when my sister-in-law (the one who is capable of putting a new toy away "for later") mildly reprimands her daughter for calling someone "stinky." Words can be powerful, and it's important that kids learn that. I want him to have respect for people and learn to speak respectfully and not say fuck all the time, like me. I know it's bad to try and heap on all your visions of a better you onto your child, but I don't think this goal is too much. Besides, i don't think it's really hip or punk rock to teach a child to cuss. It's really actually pretty easy. I don't think it's uptight to try and not swear around him, and I feel like I was unfair when I made fun of such efforts in the past or dismissed the attitude with one of those silencing insults, as if one is some kind of perfectionsit, goody goody, conformist parent if they're trying to filter out the bad stuff at least until the kid is 3. It doesn't mean I think swearing in front of him will ruin him or that it's the worst thing I can do. Far from it. I'm pretty sure letting him gum extension cords or saying mean, non-cussing things to or about people in front of him would be worse. But I think it still serves a purpose, and wish I wouldn't keep forgetting. Because he can't understandabsolutely everything (probably really big mistake to assume this) or at least can't respond, I find myself airing all my thoughts uncensored, kind of like I did when I was living abroad and, if you spoke fast enough, you could really get away with saying sardonic, meany-ass things in front of anyone, because no one understood English as well as they thought. That was fun. But I have to keep trying with this, because I know if his first sentence has "fuck" in it, it won't be so much fun.

I couldn't watch Law & Order the other day, not because I went to bed early or read or worked or pursued any other noble activity that I should have, but because it was another one of those blame-the-mother and make-her-all-calculating-and-psychotic episodes. They rank right up there with the murdered baby episodes. God, sometimes I remember why I hate television. Can't a woman ever just be a regular ole killer, like the men, instead of always some cold, uptight and calculating psycho? Or can't she actually have done the killing she is blamed for? jeez.

I can't make the comments work and it really irritates me with all the accumulated computer frustration balled up since seventh grade. Can't it ever just be easy?

Last night I dreamt that I was sitting in some new class and several people I google stalked were there and wouldn't talk to me.
Anyway, I've got to stop watching the gross Law & Order spin-off, SVU, which I used to hate and call EDW (Eroticized Dead Women). It's just that I'm bored of the original series and really need to veg sometimes and the reruns aren't always so icky. Except sometimes, they are. It's making me get all creeped out in the dark, like when I used to watch too many horror movies in seventh grade. Sometimes when I rock Casimir back to sleep at 5am, pacing the house in the dark, I'll pass the computer as it quietly offers up rotating pictures we've taken of him as our screensaver. He likes to watch it when he's awake, and I would love to know what he's thinking or if he knows that it's him yet, or if he would be disappointed to realize that it's just on our screen and not nationally syndicated. But then when it's dark and I start watching the pictures change themselves, I had this one irrational fear that as I looked away I'd look back and for a second before I blinked see some really gruesome picture of me dead or something, maybe hanging from the old laundry pole in our yard that we've yet to take down, instead of happily holding him. I think it would be good creepy scene in a horror movie, the kind I hate, like Scream. But I hate horror movies so I'm not really sure why I have to scare the shit out of myself weaving these creepy little "what if" imaginary exercises when I'm clearly a little uncomfortable in the dark.
Then I start to worry that the previous owner will start to haunt the house. She died, sadly, shortly after her family moved her out to California to live with her son, right after she heard that the house she had lived in for fifty years sold. To us. Well, first she slipped into a coma, putting a halt to the closing, and then she died, enabling us to buy the house with a tinge of guilt. Well actually, I didnt' really feel guilty until my brother-in-law said, "Hey now that she's dead you get the house." And I didn't want her to be angry that we basically undid all the yellow around here and went all wood floor and dark red and brown and blue walls on her. She probably hates it. I'm still afraid to criticize anything or call the house small, lest she hear. I don't really blelieve in ghosts, but see, I must, because if I say I don't, I'm afraid they'll try to show me different. And what if, sometime around when Casimir is three or so, he'll start having some imaginary friend he calls "Evelyn" and say things like, "Set a place for Evelyn at the table, Mommy! She's right behind you. Don't you see her? She says she hates how you painted her cupboards."
So anyway, I'm thinking that maybe having such a cute baby put us in her good graces, even though I sometimes wonder if she thinks I'm a bad mother. Maybe I'm not the first new mom to even go so far as to wonder if the deceased, previous owner of their new house even approves of her mothering skills. Her daughter-in-law said when we met her, "Oh and you have a little one!" with a smile, so I'm hoping that sweet idea of the little nuclear family moving in to her cherished house will get us a free pass. I think it worked with the neighborhood.

"Everyone was so happy when they heard a young family bought the house!" the first neighbor we met said. I hadn't really thought of us that way, yet: the young family. I thought of saying something like, "Oh he's just a friend and sperm donor, my wife will be moving in later." Now that I've talked to them more, though, I don't think they'd care or really meant any kind of Bush-approval thing with the young family comment--they just want their neighborhood to stay young and dynamic so the house and neighboring property value won't deteriorate and their kids can play with someone. It's just a sad reality that towns need many of the "old" people to move to Florida or Arizona so new blood can move in and keep the town vibrant or something, so they can build big ass additions, bring in new businesses, and make sure the schools don't become cesspools of environmental contaminants. This is a trend my parents are defying adamently. I'd feel the same way. So to shock them I probably would have had to say something like, "Oh, this is just half of the family. The second wife is still down in Texas in our Community. As soon as she graduates from high school she's comin' on up with P junior number two." I can't quite put my finger on why being referred to as a nice young family made me want to be naughty and sarcastic. Maybe I'm just not used to my new status yet.

This is clearly rather meandering.
Anyway, Casimir's hair has stopped standing straight up on its own, which is so unfortunate. I really liked it that way, even though the bad hair day jokes got old. He's getting a little impertinent now about certain things he can't do. It's so hard to say no. He wanted some of P's processed, crappy fast food, and despite his little mouth opening and closing, lip-smacking, and arm flapping and bouncing which pretty clearly indicates that he wants some of your food (or to take off, maybe? not sure), I would not let him. He also kept trying to go through the cat door, once even getting his head and shoulders through right in front of me, with his little lower half sticking out, and got really upset when I stopped that fun. This discipline thing is going to be hard.

Wow, he's still sleeping. I should really be napping with him, now. the baby journal is also being neglected. This blog will be the end of me. Also, I think I clearly need to reread the paragraph break sections in my Chicago Manual of Style.

I paused for two seconds and the ideas I wanted to expunge from my brain already escaped. I really hate what's happened to my short-term memory with this little accumulated lack of sleep problem that I have, even more than I hate constantly airing the trite complaint about how tired and dippy I've become. One thing I was going to write about was how last night we watched some old video I took of Casimir when he was tiny and could just wiggle on his back and coo out directions for us. "We'll take it to the committee!" we told him. "OOH oohh!" he continued, with his baby stern expression, like a little bald dictator. It was so cute. The Mr. P said "aaww, I miss that little guy" like he's all grown up already and in college.

Oh I remember now--it wasn't very exciting. Last night instead of working I started google-stalking. It's not really stalking, but it's when you're bored and curious and you type in names of old aquaintances from college, grammar school, camp, whatever. I'm always surprised how many people resurface on the screen, even with common names it often works if you use a couple cue words. It's usually boring and you just find out their latest race time in the Turkey Trot. But sometimes you get a resume or work profile, or picture of them at their school reunion with their spouse or posing in front of bookcases for their Uni department, grinning with embarassment behind their glasses, and you kind of wish you were still in touch with this smattering of people. It's fun. Like, "ooh I never would have pegged him as a future professor of Germanic mythology with a specialty in Runes! I have Runes! Can he read them for me!?" I'm also always really surprised when people have a spouse or kids "already." I think I half expect them to be exactly like they were when I last saw them, uh, ten years ago. Guess not. If you are kind of in a career or noncareer rut and are floating in and out of one of those insecure phases, it's probably best not to do this with those really ambitious friends you had. Once while working at 2am I think I felt actual, mild relief when a name didn't show up on amazon.com or something. Geez, I was kidding about the Schadenfreude at other people's sleepless babies! I'm not really like that. How frightening. I'm usually pleased for my old classmates or roommates when they turn up on corporate websites with an impressive title and not on a newspaper's Police beat. (Though I'm not afraid to admit I can fall prey to the accompanying feelings of insecurity; I know I can't be the only one, or I would hear from certain people more often instead of just when they have a Big Business Trip or some kind of study grant to inform me about.) Anyway, mostly I just get jealous at the race times, because I don't run much anymore. It is fun to read the online journal of someone I never thought I'd see again. The Mr. thought maybe this particular friend had died when she didn't respond to our wedding invitation, but she is alive indeed, typing prolifically from Pennsylvania. I even looked up and found Casimir's "namesake," if you can really call him that. He was just an acquaintance while I was studying abroad, but let's just say, as a dashing Swede residing in Helsinki with five languages under his belt, a sweet disposition and sense of humor, that he cast a different light on the name "Casimir" than Casimir Pulaski did. Casimir Pulaski is some famous-for-something-but-I-don't-know-what Polish Chicagoan for whom we got a day off of high school each year, even though we had no idea who he was and made fun of him despite the little holiday he gave us, ingrates that we were. Funny how I didn't like the name before I met the cute Swedish/Finnish Casimir, and then, suddenly, I did.
Needless to say, nothing comes up when you type my name in. I'll have to run the Turkey Trot next fall or something.

I'm also starting to think that Mam pacifiers do have some kind of designer, because each time our set of 8 goes missing, I get a couple more and each time there is some new design or color. Yesterday I found these funky futuristic ones in canary yellow and fire engine red. I'm thinking it might be part of the spring collection or something. If I could start trends, I'd start the word Mam. If you saw something that was very cute, you'd say "How mam!"

When Casimir was ripping down everything from his bookshelf- I love that because I can watch and read a little while he does it-- I saw this book I completely forgot about: The Read Aloud Handbook. Someone gave it to us along with a copy of that wicked Weissbluth "Sleep Habits" book. It's 350+ pages. Now I mentioned that I have read a book on feeding babies, vaccinating babies, keeping them safe, several on helping them sleep, and massaging them. I've got a guide on baby gear, even. I find the slim chapters in the mega guides don't cut it for me, because they say ridiculous things like, "Just pat him on the back after a story and he'll go to sleep" as if it's so easy and then the sleep section is over. But I'm sorry, I draw the line at reading at entire book about reading aloud. Who has the time for this? I know reading is important, but couldn't a few tips be summed up in a Child Magazine article? You read slowly. Check. Show enthusiasm! Got it. Start early, they're brains are smart! You betcha. I mean, really. What's next, an entire book on how to brush their teeth? Four hundred pages on playing pat-a-cake? I think there's a book on arranging play dates, but I think it's supposed to be for humor.

The cheetoh's awake. Time to move on!

Nothing wrenches my innards more than looking up from my thinking brain's nemesis- US magazine- while Casimir has been happily playing by himself and seeing spit up dabbed all around his mouth, with a little dribble down his chin. Sometimes it just comes right up without even bothering him apparently, without so much as a noise, as he merrily digs toys out of his toy basket. And then I look up, and he smiles with it smeared all over and I feel like I've abandoned him to filth and how could I not have noticed that in the last three seconds? And surely, if DCFS came over for coffee, they'd snap him right up for such an oversight and redistribute him to some older couple, maybe a wealthy judge and his wife who always wanted chldren. How could I have been looking at pictures of clothes while he needed his face wiped? It's so endearing and guilt-producing, that come-wipe-my-face-because-I-can't look.

He's started saying "Mama" too. At first it was just in between a string of "ba-bas" and then it was as he was merrily climbing all over me, so I wasn't sure if he was actually referring to me. But yesterday I started to leave the room and he just lunged after my pant leg, pulling my pajama pants right down, with a sobbing, heart-wrenching vulnerability. "MMaamaawaamama" It was just too much. Even the Mr. almost cried.
And speaking of US magazine (I mentioned that I used to read books?) I noticed some pictures of a certain famous woman who shall remain nameless but whose intials are Gwyneth Paltrow, who is wearing high heels while pregnant. And by all means, where what you want while pregnant, while not pregnant-I've been known to suffer mildly for fashion and have these really uncomfortable Camper flip-flops that I still wear disclaimer disclaimer disclaimer. But it still makes me cringe. I've seen lots of pictures of preggers celebs wearing these things, and there's always some nod to how neat that is, that she's still "trying." Like, despite that unsightly condition known as pregnancy, she still manages to rightfully be uncomfortable to look properly fashionable. Right on! I've never seen a woman in real life wear heels while pregnant. I bought the flattest boots I could find and really wore my black sneakers into the ground.
Which begs the question: Does anyone even wear these things in real life while not pregnant? I've been wondering this for some time now, because honestly, I never see women in "pumps." I'm not talking clogs, or chunky heels, or little heels, but the toothpick, really high heels. I don't care if I've become out of it and Oprah-makeover-candidate material or if I'm not a Manhattanite who sprinkles their clothes talk with "vintage" a lot. I'm still a city dweller under 32 who gets out a teeny tiny bit, and I just don't see them. Maybe I'm missing it? In my universe women are saavy and usually wearing pretty cool shoes that enable walking. I don't know. I know magazines were never a champion of reality, but it's just taking on some sort of inverted reality dimension when I pick up Lucky magazine and it's just a tirade of these gigantic stilletos that you could stab an attacker with, but never flee from an attacker in. It's just puzzling, is all I'm saying. Won't get into any kind of Oppressive Heel Conspiracy. Just puzzling. I can't even wear my clogs with him, I'm afraid if I stumble I'll go down and take him with me.

From now on, I'm referring to Law & Order as "Mommy do you love me?" Because each time I get sufficiently engrossed in an episode, Casimir wakes and will not be placated by dada because he wants to eat at Mamas. Last night I didn't even get to find out who crashed the engagement party and accidentally killed everybody. Usually my priorities are straight though, and I don't mind. So much.

I'm interrupting this regularly scheduled programming to say something positive, because I feel like I've been all gripey. Casimir clapped for the first time, and it was quite exciting. Anyone who can clap and bounce to a gay, tinny song emanating from a book has got the right attitude toward life--even if the song is "Make New Friends" which your verbally abusive girl scout leaders used to force you all to sing over and over and over again, like robots, in three overlapping groups, in between screaming at everyone. I've done it again, gotten all pissy sounding.
Anyway, I'm glad he's giving me new memories with which to associate that horrible song. AND, I am learning new nursery rhymes. I was quite surprised that I've actually memorized a few swell tunes and rhymes without even realizing it, so I don't have to keep reverting to old campfire camp songs. He never did really respond well to "Flicker of the Campfire."
I think I want to get one of those Clap-on Clap-off lights you see advertised on TV, now that he can clap. I bet he would like that. Heh.

Okay, I wasn't really one of those terribly exciting people like you see on Sex and the City-- always out on the town with their matching fashionable shoes, bags, drinks and friends. But I did get out, to museums and bars and movies and such. I took classes. I read books that didn't have babies on the cover, sometimes even in foreign languages. I read lots of non-fiction, too, just so you know, in case anyone is reading my treatises on crying and baby food. In real life I can talk about multiple things.

I used to hate the "This is my life now" schticks offered by mothers with a laugh and shrug of their shoulders, as if it's inevitable to become obsessed with their kid, necessary to give up any grown up stuff to be a good mom, and acceptable to watch Teletubbies instead of CNN (which, by the way, is reporting on Britney Spears each time I force myself to check on the news). As if the people making commercials need credence to their ideas that mothers aren't real people with ideas, interests outside of their children, and working brains.
But now I hate the feeling that I have to defend myself to myself (tricky!) for being all baby wacko. You know what? I think babies and the accompanying preoccupations of caring for one aren't all as boring and unsophisticated as everyone assumes they are. Okay, if you're yakking away about which diaper to buy to ininterested parties, then yeah. But in general, it's not all boring ass stuff. Baby physical and mental development is interesting to some people, so there. I enjoy learning new things, and I sure had a lot to learn, as I'm sure Caz would attest if he could speak. And you know what else? I think this obsess-with-your-kid thing that I apparently really fear is temporary. I'm staying home with him now, and while I don't intend to give him back anytime soon, I do plan on going back to work and am easing back into the outer world. I feel like people think (or maybe I think? hmm..) that once you've had a baby or once you stay at home, well you are sufficiently labeled, it will just always be that way and any accomplishments on your resume or in life have just been erased with one swift swipe of the Mommy eraser, and you will never be interesting ever again. Naomi Wolff wrote once that if she mentioned she was currently staying home with her son when asked what she did at a cocktail party, the inquirer would pretty much disappear before she could get out that she published books on the side.
So what if I haven't read a book that's not about baby sleeping, baby feeding, baby vaccinations, and babyproofing in a year. I had my philosphy/Emily Dickinson/Mysticism reading phases. Enter the Baby Phase. Is that such a bad thing? So what if, for a brief period of my life, I barely know who's trying to become president and which candidate is screwing interns this time. So what if I haven't seen a single movie nominated for an Oscar. As if all the people who spend all their free time watching Friends reruns and surfing porn would be more intriguing to chat with at a cocktail party. Don't think so. Anyway. I'll try to be done arguing with my own complexes now.


In other self-doubting news, I've come to the realization that I need more breaks. Apparently I can't watch Casimir all day, go jogging, put the laundry away, and then work for two hours and not go fucking crazy, like I thought I could. Or at least I can, but I sort of lose my pleasant demeanor after awhile, and we can't have that. I thought I hadn't bought into this superwoman crap, this "You can do it all" garbage which is really code for "We love to make women slave," but I guess I have. I feel guilty if I take breaks. I don't know why, and it really bothers me. It's not that my husband doesn't come home and slave and make dinner and watch baby too, but he's not afraid to say that he's going to get out for an hour or two on occasion. I realized that I too, am human and need some regularly scheduled break to look forward to. Like say, a monthly week spent in Florida, all alone. Or maybe Mexico, to, Cabo San Lucas, like all the famous people frolicking in US magazine. Or maybe just a trip to the local movie theater. This is one of those breaks, so I should probably get the hell off the internet. That would be good.

In other, nonself-doubting news, I think I'm loosening up and losing the fear that I'm going to kill my baby if I do or feed the wrong thing. Yesterday I had had it with eating pureed food- yeah that was fast- when someone bought us over a big bag of bagels. I had to dig into the bagels which mean he HAD to have it (I'm going to be so bad at saying no) so I broke down and just gave him some Asiago bagel. And some cream cheese. Whoops. And what do you know? He not only didn't die of a sudden, unexpected allergic reaction, he's still thriving! Christalmighty. I didn't even have a list of ingredients! I am so a wild mommy.

Viva Le 80s
I think I know why I keep throwing in some mention to 1986 here whenever I can, albeit unintentionally. While the Mr. was away for 3 days coaching at an exciting High School chess tournament (And Casimir and I did just fine by ourselves with no help, thank you very much.) I had to admit to myself that I got kind of lonely. I found myself vegging out in front of the Law & Order marathon while Casimir slept in the sling in my lap. (Those damn "duh dum" noises they make with every scene change kept waking him up) During commercials I'd flip to the VH1 classics channel and watch old 80s videos. Nothing like never going anywhere to make you overcome your vehement anti-cable stance pretty quickly. Anyway, I enjoyed watching the videos so much I'd sometimes forget to flip back and miss crucial Law and Order plot twists to see who killed the hooker and blew away the judges cajones with a shotgun. Besides the fact that the videos were slightly more pleasant and fun, there was just something bizarrely comforting about visions of 80s cheese dancing around on the screen. I went from 8 to 18 in the 80s, and while I'm sitting in my darkened living room in my new house in this strage neighborhood, with a growing baby who I still sometimes can't believe I have, there was this feeling of comfort and familiarity. I felt like I was in Junior High again, with that strong sense of instant recollection that I thought you could only conjure up with certain scents or music. I guess having the high-waisted, fluorescent outfits and hairstyles to go with the music helps, too. I didn't exactly peak at 14; Junior high was a trauma of new bras, cliques and maxi pads for me, but apparently it wasn't all bad. Because I kind of missed it, and it made me feel both sad and happy when I was feeling pretty alone to have reminders of my more familiar life playing before me, like a photo album, only with Annie Lennox and Duran Duran in all their hairsprayed glory. I wonder if it's a bad thing if it takes retro music videos to move and comfort me. Probably. I'm going to go out and get some of those plastic jelly bangles and big plastic earrings that are back in. Yeah.

My sweet (and childless) friend Anne* said to me over the phone (when she couldn't see my unwashed hair and the heroin-chic dark circles under my eyes), "Do you just luuuurv being a Mommy?" I thought this was cute in it's bright-eyed optimism, but I admit I just wasn't feeling the love at that given moment and found that question from anyone under 50 puzzling. But I knew she meant well, and I also knew that I much preferred trying to find an honest, yet positive and guilt-free response to that question than fielding the comment on my life made by another friend. My mean friend Joy* had recently come by for a visit. After she finished informing me that our living room paint is too stark and we should repaint all our ceilings a pleasant bone color, she cocked her head to the side and said "No offense, but your life is just totally unappealing to me. Do you get totally bored?"

This was her way of telling me that she didn't want kids, I guess. She went on in that direction, after sufficently twisting the knife a little more. Let me just say first that I don't care if people don't want children, if they'd rather die a thousand deaths than stay home to take care of one, and if they say so to me. Honestly. It's responsible to know what you want before having said kids. And it's not selfish. But since she gets enough sleep, couldn't she just have thought a little harder, given it a moment of contemplation, and then come up with something like, "Yeah I think childrearing just isn't for me" or "I think this lifestyle just isn't what I want out of my life" or "Hey you've lost the baby weight and aren't you glamorous, what with those yoga pants and that assortment of freshly washed rattles, drying on your kitchen window ledge!" No. She had to revert to the "No offense, but..." that I thought we stopped using in our conversations some time around 1986. She might as well have just said, "No offense, but that Esprit top? Doesn't really go with the parachute pants. sorry." Because I felt like we were back in Junior high.

But I'm trying to figure out why these two statements bugged me so much that I'd end up discussing them with myself while rocking Casimir to sleep. I do like being a mom, and I really can understand why women aren't lining up to drop their social lives, careers, free time, and independence, and (you get the idea) virtually everything to breed.
Anne was just being nice and Joy was just being abrupt, or just being Joy, but I think it's just the popular sentiments behind each comment that really trigger the maniacal overreacter in me. On the one hand, as much as I love the big baby currently playing with my Merriam Webster's Dictionaries, it can be really frustrating "being a mommy" and switching to the complete self-sacrifice gear, and I hate that that's not really acknolwedged or understood fully until someone actually goes through it without any help. And I really resent our culture's endless expectation of mommy martyrdom all the while rewarding us with nothing but an empty, Hallmark-style pat on the back at mother's day in an attempt to keep us going. (Flexible jobs? ha. Affordable daycare? Riiiight. Serious respect from society at large? hohoho.) I hate that few people really talk about how difficult being a "mommy" can be. I hate that I turn on the television and my "kind" is depicted as sexless, Windex-crazy ladies and ever peppy Walmart "bargain-looker-outers." It's not all just fun, sweetness and light with our little baby jesus in our arms, and you don't just turn into a big cotton candy puff ball of fluffy luv because you have the mom hat on. My glasses just are not that bright pink, and while I try and be a ray of sunshine for baby, I'm not keen on allowing that kind of whitewashing go on in my presence now that I actually have a clue.

On the other hand, I also hate the idea that my life is this wretched stereotype that any independent woman who loves life would just run like hell from. In saying what Joy did the way she did, I feel like she just picked me right up and dropped me in the "boring suburban housewife" box simply because we bought a house in neighborhood without individually owned, hip coffee shops and because I have one child who I stay home to take care of while I try and eek out a part-time living when he (doesn't) sleep at night. Instead of criticizing how a mother is seen, or contemplating the drawbacks with any ounce of understanding, compassion, or cultural analysis, I feel like she kind of misses the ferry boat to feminism and just ends up dismissing the women themselves who are in that dreaded, motherly position that she wants to avoid. Like, who would be stupid enough to do that with their life? Because we all know that it is boooooring, way more boring than sitting in a cubicle for eight hours a day! There's something about "don't you get totally bored?" that doesn't feel like a warm fuzzy hug, but rather ups my defensive quotient.

On the other/third hand, or tentacle, I'm not sure how I would want motherhood or stay-at-home-momdom depicted. I think the bottom line is that I don't like any two-dimensional summation that mothering is so luvyduvy or boring as all get out. And I don't think I can even get into it anymore without unearthing an iceberg the size of Africa covering mothering and female stereotypes, and the dictionaries have lost their appeal and and I smell poop. What I can say though, is that I honestly don't always luuurv being a mommy when I'm sleepless, frustrated, and can't remember what day it is, even though I still love him. And no, while it is isolating, and I miss having some freedom and independence, I really don't get more bored than I did when I had to hang out in my cube all day, glazing over the computer screen, even if I did get to converse with grown ups and take coffee breaks. I find playing with him at times more fun than fact-checking encyclopedia articles and other riveting jobs I've had. Sorry, Joy.
*Names kept the same to indulge my vindictive nature.


The Most Helpful Hints I've Learned from the Pediatrician So Far!
*Do not let your child eat cat vomit.
*Give him or her infant Tylenol, not regular Tylenol.
*Let him cry! whee!
*Do not stick Q-tips into his ears.

Instant karma got me. While enjoying my mashed kiwi this afternoon, I pondered the fact that Casimir often seems rather insistent on me being exhausted, starving, unshowered, and if at all possible, standing and with back pain. If I could let blood out of my veins, it would probably be a plus.
Okay okay, so I'm exaggerating. Sometimes it's cushy and we just play on the floor. But Vicki Iovine isn't kidding when she says in one of her zillion Girlfriend's Guide books that your children would rather have you miserable in the next room than happy in Hawaii. I'm reminded of all my insistent demands made on my mother in the past.
"Don't you even care that I'm tired?" she once asked me in the midst of my persistent requests.
Not until now, apparently. The guilt for how I ran her ragged and instead of bringing her lemonade and massaging her feet is weighing heavy on me. About 23 pounds heavy.

Last night while rereading one of my How-to-make-your-baby-sleep books, I realized that what I thought was some comfort in co-sufferers was really a sick, smug "haha" when I read case stories of people with 16 and 18 month-old babies who wake hourly. Hourly. I would die. It made Casimir's wakings every three hours for a little nursing at the Mama Snack Shop seem like no big deal. Maybe I was making a big deal about nothing, after all. It was enough smug pleasure to even cloud over the fear that he could turn into one of those fussy, hourly wakers in eight months.

In other non-news, I'm a little worried that I'm beginning to resemble my baby the way people say they start to resemble their pets or partners. I got waaay too thrilled with his new cowboy dolly and yellow wooden dog. Toystores with lots of funky handcrafted toys almost (I said 'almost') beat out grown up stores for me. I get excited when I find a Mam brand pacifier in a new color. They're kind of like accessories, after all. And I've discovered that I really love, I mean really relish, pureed food. I wouldn't eat the jarred stuff. I just feed that to him. But the homemade stuff, well, it's like soup. Who wouldn't devour some pureed zuchinni mixed with yogurt for lunch? Well you would, if you tried it. Mashed sweet potatos are good, and so is drippy squash. I've made friends with vegetables again, and it doesn't even require fiddling with spices. And I'm not entirely kidding or trying to be cute when I talk about how we should all just be wearing onesies and big, one-piece, button-up outfits out in the world. Wouldn't the world just seem like a friendlier, more benign place if we all, men and women, rich and poor alike, just threw the boot-cut and clingy shit out the window and stomped about, onto the commuter trains and into the grocery, in fuzzy, one-piece outfits? I think so. The footsie part probably wouldn't work, because we'd still need shoes. But I'd be all into the one-piece aspect.

In my defense, the pureed food thing started because I can't eat anything in front of Casimir without Casimir seriously wanting said food and lunging for the egg roll or whatever else is still forbidden to him. And it seems like I am always in front of Casimir. I haven't the guts to say "No, no eggroll" while I pop the rest in my mouth and watch his face crumple into a wail. So in my selfish desire for nourishment, I just eat his leftovers. I'd love to feed him some California Maki or part of a giant sticky doughnut, but I know it's not in his best interest to veer from the single-ingredient, pureed path yet. As for my growing delight in non-chokable toys and snap up coveralls, well this last fixation concerns me a little more. I probably won't mention it again.

The other night Casimir slept from 8pm until 4:40 am without waking, accomplishing the milestone of eight straight hours of sleep on the night when I was up until midnight typing up that stupid blog entry and working. When I got to bed at 7:30 pm last night, he was up at his regularly sheduled times. What a cutie, always thinking of his mama.

This is where I blather on endlessly on the boring topic of how ridiculous the phrase "sleep like a baby is." It's not until several months of accumulated sleep deprivation that you're driven to mothering message boards and discover this hideous, underground blight that no one talks about. Everyone asks if my darling child sleeps through the night, and the lucky few are always bragging that theirs did on the first night home, but you don't hear anyone say, "No, pretty much never. We're lucky if he sleeps four hours at a time, and it's making me a little postal." There's thread after thread at these message boards pleading for answers as to why their child still won't sleep more than two hours in a row, away from their mother, without her nipple in their mouth, preferably while she's standing up. Those comprehensive books on parenting that prescribe nothing more than a little bedtime routine, a backrub and consistency in order to get a sleeping baby are a complete farce. Sorry, but a warm bath, a little Goodnight Moon, and a backrub put me to sleep. Not the baby. Although I'm pretty sure the idea makes Casimir laugh raucously on the inside.

I always hesitate to say how tired I am still, because sometimes you can just feel the judgment dancing behind the sympathetic nods. They say "Oh how awful!" and you just know they're thinking "My little Evan slept through the night at two months. Must be me. Hhrm." Everyone knows that the Good Babies sleep through the night by three months. Well, my almost-ten-month-old doesn't, and I've read everything, done everything, and tried eliminating everything but air and water from my diet while nursing. It's just the way it is. In order to get a beautiful, healthy baby I love so much, I had to get one who hates to go to sleep, stay asleep, or sleep alone, because it was formerly one of my favorite hobbies. It's the way the world works. I get it. It's OK. I've made peace. I realize now that my pre-baby belief that one just sets the baby down in the crib and he or she drifts to sleep peacefully is the most wacked out notion that movies and television ever put forth, and I had to be punished for believing something so assinine. I've been properly educated and put in my place, and am consequently infused with shame that I never offered to go over and help my sleep-deprived sister in-laws and brothers when they had their new babies. I mean, I knew they were tired. I guess I just didn't get that they were TIRED. It was just something you said: "Gettin' much sleep?" with a hint of jocularity.

Well, there's one thing I haven't really tried in an attempt to get Casimir to sleep soundly from 8pm to 7am, like the Good Babies do. I don't really let him cry, as my parents are fond of saying. Like it's a bad thing. One thing I learned after entering this bizarre parallel universie of parenthood is that there is this underground, raging, polarized debate alienating pediatricians and parents into two war trenches about whether or not to let your little infant holler himself to sleep at night.
"You're just going to have to let him cry" my mom says with a head shake about every other day and every time in between that I admit the terrible fault of being exhausted. I think she's got money bet on it. The pediatrician with no children does, too, and somehow in medical school they are taught that they can fix the basic drawbacks of parenthood.
"Get that child on a sleep schedule! Don't be afraid to let him cry!" my mom's friend said when she met him. He was three weeks old. I looked at him trying to imagine how our regimen would play out and he just blinked and tooted.
According to some Attachment Parenting extremists, you're inflicting emotional damage on your child if you let them cry for five minutes. According to seemingly everyone else waving their Weissbluth "Healthy Sleep Habits" book, it's really best to just let them wail and wallow in their vomit while you turn up the volume on Sex and the City. I don't get it.

Sometimes, once I've rocked him to sleep and set him down and he wakes up as if he's been set on a bed of flaming, pointy nails, I might let him cry for a few minutes. I think on like, maybe three occasions this actually worked. And he slept for ten mintues. Then he wakes, horrified at our duplicity. I go get him, and I find him sitting in the middle of his crib looking confused and as disheveled as you can look in a terry cloth sleeper, like I've abandoned him on the side of the highway. Then I feel really, really bad and promise to flog myself later and we both go to bed to my bed at 7pm.
We have consequently become official co-sleepers, and I sit here typing with a 23-pound baby rumpled up like a big cheetoh in the sling in my lap. So far it works for us, and my husband and I pretend not to have the foresight to imagine what will happen when he's ten years old and still sleeping with us and a bit heavy at 40 pounds to rock to sleep in the sling. My mother delibately ignores the big baby rail/pillow contraption we've got strapped to our bedside for safety and asks how he sleeps in his cozy crib. When my in-laws stop just short of force in offering up their guest room crib--"We've got a crib! You don't have to hold him while he naps! Really! A crib! Come set him down in it! We've got one! Put him in it" I just ignore their entreaties to use it as if a sleeping baby is gonna blow if not safely ensconced in a crib in 3-2-1 seconds. I don't explain to them that he'd really rather die and that crib can just go right to hell as far as Casimir is concerned. I've heard people say it sounds very primitive, or medieval. Pick yer favorite historical period, I guess. I really don't think it is, nor do I think you risk the danger of smothering your child unless you've had too much mead at the medieval fair. I just don't bring it up around the "Healthy Sleep Habits" people. "Hey does that long tootsie roll pillow keep you from rolling out of bed?" by brother in-law asked. Yeah, it does. I think he was kidding.

I get why exhausted parents resort to it, and I really don't want to judge them, which I know is everyone's favorite thing to do when there's nothing on TV. I'm not going to call Casimir's crib his "baby jail" and get all Attachment Parenting on people. But I don't get why people encourage me to do this like their life depends on it. Are they THAT threatened by something a little different? I'm not dangling him over a balcony. I mean, if if I'm doing a bad thing by picking up a crying baby, then I really am just so lost as to how to be a good parent. Because it's just parenthood. It's tiring. I think it's supposed to be. I don't want a solution, or a judgment. Maybe a suggestion. But mostly, I really want a violin playing as someone pats me on the back and says "Yeah it's hard. You feel like death for a really long time" All I want sometimes is a little acknowledgment that I am a good parent and it's normal to be tired, and that I'm not doing anything wrong, despite all the conflicting advice out there from degreed, childless people. I guess I kind of want the type of understanding that I didn't know better enough to offer before. And, of course, I really want some sleep. You knew that last line was coming.

Ever since I fell down this bizarre rabbit hole and emerged with a baby and, by default I guess, as a mother, I've felt the need to write about what I'm going through, to sort out my confused, post-partum self. So I've got this little baby journal book, with the matching baby album, and I try to record the little events as they happen in Casimir's life. But it's really just the most boring damned thing, because I'm afraid to write anything bad in it. I write down most dutifully his weight and height at regular intervals and record when he first smiles, tries solid foods, and when he first crawls, pulls himself to standing, or pees in the tub. But it just sounds so, I don't know, thin. I'm afraid if I write about the "Bad Stuff"-- like how I'll randomly say the completely wrong word, substuting "cupboard" for "wooden spoon" because I can't be bothered to wake up enough to think, or how I walk in circles around the coffee table over and over again trying to rock him to sleep-- that he will reread the thing when he's 10 and think I hated him. But I know that's stupid. Because of course he'll never bother to read it.
But I keep up with it and all the smiles and fun and "he threw his polka-dotted ball today" entries, even though I know that it's not just the good stuff that makes it all good. He'll do something new and I'll say "better go write that down in the journal!" as if it's this really great, wonderfully written journal that will just be handed down for generations with the outfit he wore home from the hospital. Right. Kind of like I saved the crepe paper from that dance in 1987 because I thought it would mean something, someday. It's just not very real, when I reread it. But I would feel so, I don't know, unmotherly by all the parenting magazine standards if I let any of my sarcasm and rants seep through into a book that has the sweet little baby-in-a-hammoc picture on it. So the intent is that perhaps I'll try to get that stuff out here.

I'm a bit behind the times, technologically. It's pretty much been that way since seventh grade computer class, when we had to write these programs to get words to flash on the screen over and over again. I'm not sure what use that was, but anyway I pretty much could never really get it to work, which was a pattern I kept up right through my programming class in college. So I've got a pretty heavy computer chip on my shoulder, making me remarkably, unfashionably late to any tech trend. But here I am, jumping on the blogtrain and starting up a blog that hopefully no one will read. And I do truly feel a little badly that I always viewed blogs with disdain-laced bemusement. I mean, who would want the entire world of strangers reading their unedited thoughts and ideas? I've had small articles published (Ok it was one of those free cultural weekly rags with all the porn ads in the back, and I was an intern) and I pretty much didn't recognize it after the editor got to it. Why would you want strangers emailing you to tell you how much your blog sucks? And if you're paranoid, like me, and fond of ranting, you can't even spew the daily upset because lord knows that friend or acquaintance or colleague or boss will most definitely just stumble upon it, randomly, and you're done. "Boy some people just want to be noticed, now don't they" I thought. Well me too, I guess. Cuz I've got some stuff to say and I do type pretty quickly (an Ace in the typing class! yipee. not.), despite my luddite tendencies, so here I am, posting from Casimirland.
I'm calling it that because frankly I can't think up anything else. I've become the cultural stereotype, the anti-mother anathema, the thing we don't want to be. My world revolves around my kid. That's where I live, sleep, eat, reside. What can I say- it's temporary. I'll start reading newspapers again soon, as soon as I get to sleep more than 4 hours at a time.
Until then, it's my own insane Disneyland. Ever since I had to explore the plastic vagina-in-a-box in birthing class to determine dilation it's just not been the same anyway- my life. So I might as well just go with it for awhile.
I thought the red template would be fitting, since, in my attempt to shield Caz from any pastels or boyish blue outfits with the prerequisite football or baseball on it, I've pretty much got him decked out in red all day, every day, with perhaps a little yellow. He's a little red jujubee, crawling and clanking along the floors, with his favorite spoon clenched up in his hand as he motors across the floor, baring his six little teeth and shouting out the consonant of the week. That's Caz. And this is my blog. And I don't quite know who I am anymore, I'm too tired, but I will try to figure that out a little bit as I go.

test