What a beautiful response to this nonsense. And an appropriate share for Mother’s Day.
I hope I raise a child who relishes life’s tiny pleasures—whether it’s a piece of music, or the color of a gorgeous flower, or Chinese takeout on a rainy Sunday night.
Smiley, happy babies make for one smiley, happy Mama.
My belly filled with beignets and cafe au lait certainly doesn’t hurt either.
After we bought the house in Vermont, a colleague and friend offered up a name suggestion for the property.
“Cartwheel Farm,” she said.
“How perfect,” I thought. I could easily see my daughters cartwheeling through the grass of the new homestead, capturing the name just beautifully.
I returned home and floated the suggestion by James.
“You’re kidding! T (James’ grandfather) grew up on Cart Wheel Farm in New Jersey. I’ve told you that, right?”
Yet another sign.
A nod to the Cart history with a slight variation to the name to suit our family.
Then Sunny’s Fairy Godparents sent us this sign as a housewarming gift. And my heart exploded with joy. Something about that “est. 2012″ made it very real.
While the rest of the house is a mix of messy piles and unpacked boxes, this sign now hangs prominently in the entryway to the house, greeting visitors as they arrive at Cartwheel Farm.
We’re so fortunate, it hurts. No literally, I can’t stop pinching myself.
The most recent cover of Time has the Internet in a tizzy. From annonymous trolls to “mommy” bloggers, it seems everyone has an opinion on this image.
I agree that Time missed the mark with this photograph. I don’t need to repeat a lot of what has already been said. It presents both mother and child in a defiant stance and looses the aspects of Attachment Parenting that stress the nurturing and love and connection that comes from extended breastfeeding.
On the flip side, of course the editors at Time and the photographer knew all this when selecting the cover. They knew that this image would get the entire country talking and sell a heck of a lot of magazines. And it sure has. Yeah, it was selected for shock value. Do I agree with the choice? No. But it has put breastfeeding at the fore of today’s national dialogue. Which is both a good and bad thing.
What I always find most disturbing about conversations in the U.S. surrounding breastfeeding is the sexualization of something that is anything but. Speaking from two rounds of first hand experience, there is nothing sexual about feeding your child. Yet media outlets are blurring out the breast in this image and commenters are calling the mom pictured a child molester.
It’s pitiful. And disappointing. And shows how wildly skewed our country’s perception of the female body and maternal experience truly are.
If I were to select an image for this story, it would be something like this that so perfectly captures the relationship, bonding, and connection that comes from breastfeeding your child. But we all know that this wouldn’t sell nearly as many magazines, now would it?
Image: Courtesy of WWMD
aki Baby,
Whenever I write or say your name, I can’t resist the urge to bust out into a chorus of, “Kak kak kak kak! Kak kak kak kicky Kaks! Kak kak kak Kaki Kaki kicky Kaki girl! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!” I sing this repeatedly to you, with the gusto and fanfare of midwestern high school marching band. The most joyous development this month has been that you now respond to this ridiculous ditty with comparable enthusiasm. You smile and wiggle and clap your hands. Showing much pleasure and rhythmic savvy, if I do say so myself. I cannot get enough of the hand clapping. Your ability to mimic this simple physical gesture is positively magnificent and has made your engagement in Music Class and with your mommy’s absurd array of musical ditties all the more enjoyable.
But your physical skill merely begins with the hand clapping. You maneuver around the house with the speed and agility of Dash (from The Incredibles, duh!) except your sense of boundaries and safety is more on par with Jack Jack. I feel as though you’re on the brink of going up in flames at any moment.
Baby on fire, not good. Not good!
Daddy and I are poor Jack Jack’s helpless babysitter, watching chaos unfold before our eyes as you overturn the dog’s water bowl for the 8,000th time, and hurl every item from the recycling bin across the kitchen floor before pulling up, to standing, GASP!, and yanking the table cloth out from under our dinner with the skill of an inebriated magician. We are powerless to stop it.
Okay, that’s not entirely true, but if we DO stop it, we must face the wrath of your “Death Scream.” A very specific tenor of your shrieks that you unleash when you are most displeased and wish to shatter glass across the state of Vermont and into Berkshire County.
Just this month you’ve learned to couple your Death Scream with the “Body Hurl,” which is just as it sounds, you hurling yourself backwards out of the arms in which you are being held, to convey ultimate fury and unhappiness.
It’s quite effective. Terrifying. But effective.
Ah, my dear, with you, there is never a dull moment. Have I mentioned your sneeze? I cannot possibly forget to mention your sneeze. You see, most people approach the sneeze with the timing of say a 16th note, perhaps an 8th if it is of the heartier, more dramatic variety. Yours? It’s a whole note. Nay, one of those long, drawn out notes where the conductor holds her arms out like Christ at the cross, dragging every last sound from the orchestra before her. That, my dear, is your sneeze, plus an extra 10 seconds. And it’s not the peak or climax of the sneeze that you highlight, but the denouement. The “ooooo” part of the Ahchoo. Don’t you worry, I’ve called Guinness and informed them that we have a new skill for their record books. You’re an endurance sneezer. God bless you.
You are constantly on the move. Busy and joyous and literally humming and bubbling over with curiosity and a cavalier sense of adventure. Our relationship has changed, as you no longer require my arms for mobility or entertainment. And you eat solid food by the bowl full – I’m talking serving bowl sized. We have no idea where you stash it away, but you are a ravenous eater. A true gourmand. Enthusiastic to sample whatever we have to offer. You are a chow hound and no longer need to nurse with much frequency as you prefer to consume your calories in the form of mushed fruits and veggies and cereal.
You have gained a sense of autonomy this month that has marked a papable shift. You are a little less dependent. A little less mine. And it makes my heart hurt, trying to make sense of the complexity of this transition.
I’m currently reading a book called Making Babies: Stumbling Into Motherhood by Anne Enright and she says it best when she describes her child learning to crawl, “It is the beginning of the end of a romance between a woman who has forgotten who she is and a child who does not yet know.”
As you become more independent, as you consume more solid food, as you play autonomously, as you teach your limbs to bend and grasp and move and perform, I gain a bit more of myself back. Not to say that it was lost, but it was put on hold during a time when I was your only source of nourishment and felt an all-consuming protectiveness and responsibility to your every breath.
While I relish the release of this pressure, I am sad to say goodbye to a period that marks a very unique and special relationship and intimacy between mother and child.
Fortunately, I still have glimpses of those moments when you nurse. In fact, my favorite times of the day are when we are curled up together nursing. This happens once in the middle of the night, (Editor’s Note: Now there’s an area where I could stand for you to take that developmental leap and just go ahead and sleep right through until dawn. Just a gentle suggestion), then again first thing in the morning, before I drag myself from bed to start the day, and then again right when I come home from work and then finally, right before I lay you down for bed. Those four periods I cherish. They are my excuse to retreat to my bedroom, away from the noise, and the boxes waiting to be unpacked, and the responsibility, and the dirty dishes, and the emails, and curl up, just you and me. You are most certainly busier than ever while nursing, performing impressive yoga moves while remaining latched to my person or clawing at every mole or bump on my skin, but sometimes, you pause just long enough to lock eyes with me, and I witness the side of your mouth curving into a milk stained smile, and oh, my love. If only I could bottle that kind of serenity.
I love you, my darling 9 month old.
143 Mama
The tweets that have resulted from Obama’s announcement are almost as awesome.
Almost.
If you don’t follow Jon Lovett (a fellow Eph slash pal), you are missing out. Not only does he have me giggling during late night nurse sessions when I turn to The Twitter for entertainment, but he just sold a show he’s developed called ’1600 Penn’ to NBC. As a former Whitehouse speech writer, I’d say he’s got some great material from which to pull. And he is nothing short of hilarious. Sounds like Modern Family meets West Wing.
It’s like Christmas come early.
Now back to feeling all hopey and changey. On the heels of the NC bullshit, we all needed this breath of sanity and progress!
I became positively enamored of the original of this song by Architecture in Helsinki in the spring of 2008, during our first year living on the beaches of Southern California. Kimmy and I can do quite the impressive “fertility dance” to the bass of the original, complete with dramatic hip thrusting and pelvic gyrations. It was my ring tone for at least two years running.
It takes me back to a far simpler time. Lounging on the beach. Under the stars. Listening to the crashing of waves. Dancing with the sand between our toes. Dreaming about the years ahead while spending our days tangled up in surfboard leashes and white water, and our evenings skinny dippping by the light of the moon. Filled with carne asada and the optimism of youth.
I feel a wash of nostalgic pleasure just hearing this beat. What an appropriate remix and video to take me back to those simple days in the sun.
Today, my heart is on the west coast.
My mother, well, she’s a gal that likes her stuff. And she likes to save her stuff. I think the word I’m looking for is “pack rat.” Yes, I’ll steer clear of the H word and go with that. Because the stuff that she stashes isn’t at all of the rubbish variety but rather of the vintage variety. Granted there are stacks and stacks and piles and piles of said stuff that rival the snow heaps during January in the Berkshires, but it is all (well, mostly all) quite interesting and beautiful stuff.
Moving provides ample opportunity to comb through and appreciate said stuff.
During this move, I’ve been trying to strike a balance between my desire to get rid of all my worldly possessions because OMG I DON’T HAVE IT IN ME TO RIFLE THROUGH ONE MORE BOX OF CRAP and the burning nostalgic in me that wants to keep it all, damn it! Love among the ruins 4 lyfe, bro!
The unfortunate reality is that our new home has zero storage. I mean literally, the girls’ bedrooms don’t have closets. There is absolutely no where to put all of the stuff that was so conveniently tucked away in the array of built-ins provided by our most recent rental. In our new home, we cannot afford to be disorganized and shove balled up clothing into the back corner of a shelf (not that I would ever do that, Mom). Everything must be sorted and stored and wisely vacuum sealed and hung on garment racks in the basement to impose order on what has for the past two years been anything but.
In the name of order, Kimmy and I indulged in an evening of dress up and hysterics when we sorted through two closets worth of old clothes handed down from the Queen Pack Rat herself. Things dating back to my great-grandmother.
I mean, I just… yes.
It’s a tapestry AND a dress.
Kimmy’s running commentary throughout the fashion show was arguably even more impressive than the clothes.
While killing it in a white wool blazer, complete with shoulder pads, she noted:
Man, women in the 80s must have felt so powerful.
And there was an entire series of pant suit/jumpers that were truly magical to behold.
Just check that crotch pleat.
Mom’s all, “I wore this to the Gourmet Christmas Party in ’89″
The great news is that we did indeed organize these gems for future laughter and dress-up antics. You’re welcome, Sunny and Kaki.
And we even unearthed some items that can be worn, ya know, out in public, not just to next year’s Halloween bash.
This dress of my mother’s from the early 90s that I wore out to a cocktail/dinner soiree on Saturday garnered more compliments than any dress I could have pulled out of my contemporary closet.
Yes, those are four inch heels. And yes, that means that I topped off the evening at a whopping 6’4″ and that may have something to do with all the head turning. But you can’t deny that that dress certainly played a role in the whip lash.
I suppose it’s worth it to find appropriate storage for garments such as this.
And on that note, I’m about to dive back into the chaos. James’ drill is whirring in the basement (that’s what she said) as he constructs yet one more garment rack to continue the Weeks Women Hoarding Pack Rat Legacy.
Making Momar proud, one pile at a time.
When someone asks me if I went to William and Mary
This tumblr is killing me dead. For my fellow Purple Cows, you’re welcome.
