Back and forth

and back and forth and back and forth again. That’s what I am doing, trying to make up my mind about having another child.

For the short time I recently re-tried The Pill (hormone-based bc totally screws with my mood and libido and stomach wellness no matter what kind it is, except for that wonderful patch thingamawhatsit that my family begged me to stop using, damn strokes!) I was leaning toward yes. Must have been the synthetic hormones messing with me. Still, I did love being pregnant the first time. It was like a hellonearth combo of sleeping and sea sicknesses for about four months, but that eventually went away and I felt STRONG. I know I can breastfeed again; I screwed it up so royally at first and muddled through for so many months that I may now qualify as an honorary lactation consultant. I can even deal with the likely c-section and hellacious catheter and ickickick prolonged hospital stay; at least I’d see it all coming this time. I know what gear is essential and what is extraneous. Many of the environmental problems related to my condo building and neighborhood have been resolved, so no worries there. And of course, I would love to have a girl, a girl! A brother for Bean would also be nothing short of fantastic. I dunno, I dunno, I dunno. This decision is so much harder than the one regarding a first child. That was fairly easy after age 30. I went from nope to yep in a matter of months: I had the total cliche biological clock ticking. I knew for certain then that I wanted to experience motherhood. Of course, I had no fucking idea what Motherhood really meant, which cracks me up now. At the time, it was easy to say yes, let’s do this. We never had before. It was an adventure, and adventures are good. But now, NOW, we know what it means, what it really means to create a human, to nurture one, to support one and to support each other while doing so. I don’t need to tell you how hard it is, peeps. You get completely get it.

So where’s Huz in all of this waffling? That booger’s straddling the fence. It seems up to me to give him a boost in either direction. The mention of me getting sterilized (how strange to write that word) sends him into a flurry of protest, but he admits our life is very calm and nice and complete as-is. Still, he’s learned so much about how to be a parent, and what I need as his co-parent, that he feels we could happily add to our family and handle it all much better this time. So basically, it’s up to me. These days I’m leaning toward……….toward…….toooooooowaaaaaard…

nope.

I’m sure I’ll change my mind tomorrow or perhaps in ten minutes. For my bloggy and other pals who have made this decision already, whether yay or nay, you are a bunch of brave broads.

On that note, could you imagine life without the possibility of this kind of planning? Thank you, foremothers, for fighting to make my current confusion possible. I don’t take it for granted.

Intergenerational

Sometimes problems are solved in unexpected ways.

I’ve been reluctant to start full-time work until Bean is three or four. We have this thing about him being able to tell us what he thinks of his caregivers. Suspend your judgment, it’s what we’ve decided for our ourselves. We have our reasons and yes, it is a luxury to be able to make that decision. Mind you, we had to do things like start making our own soap and bread and become a car-free family to make it happen. You pick your causes and then you pick your actions. So anyway, Bean’s not even two and I’m itching to get back to work part-time. A local art student came highly recommended and lately I’ve been feeling willing to forgo the whole wait-’til-he’s-talking-thing, because hey, it would just be for a few hours a day so how bad could it be, right? Right. However, our challenge in hiring a part-time carer for him is that we never know what Huz’s work schedule is going to be until the last minute. It’s hard, if not impossible, to find somebody who is willing to be devoted to and reliant upon your family’s unpredictable schedule for $15 an hour or less. We can hardly schedule our own lives around his job, let alone a caregiver’s. Kind silly to have her (and yes, she would be a she no matter what, I like women better than men, you know that) be here on days that Huz is home, just as it would be unethical to call her the night before she is due to say fahgeddabahddit, we don’t need you tomorrow. That particular employment arrangement would last about 30 seconds before we would be told to suck it.

Enter Mamala. She’s nuts but she’ll be fine. Of course, that means she’ll be living with us, but I’ll just have to cross my fingers, throw some salt over my shoulder and set some guidelines about her tendencies toward gender stereotypification. I’ll also have to re-read Mother Daughter Revolution to keep my head on straight. Sure, there will be challenges, but the good stuff far outweighs all that. Besides, it will help her to be here just as much as it will help us. Grandma Rose died a while ago, you see. They had been living together in FL since I was 14 or so, splitting the bills and housework. Mamala’s been struggling to keep up with it all, not to mention living alone for the first time in her life, and I told her to simply forget the whole thing. We want her here. Sure, we’re only in a two-bedroom, but we like it better when Bean sleeps with us anyway. He’ll likely get a kick that “sleepovers at Grandma’s” are a mere trip up the hall. In time, we’ll either move to a bigger place all together or buy a small studio space just for her in our building.

Now listen, I am not naive, just optimistic. No matter what struggles arise from this arrangement, I am certain Bean will benefit in spite of them. And who knows, a return to inter-generational living may be just what someone like me needs to thrive: I’ll know my child’s in the hands of someone who would rather drop dead than harm him. That will make going somewhere to work a hell of a lot easier. Also, this will give Mamala the freedom not only to enjoy her grandchild, but to enjoy her life. She’s been in a cycle of survival and obligation ever since I’ve known her. It will be interesting to find out who she is underneath all that; who she is when she is actually allowed to be herself. I have a feeling it is going to involve marching in Federal Plaza with an Obama placard. I promise I’ll share pictures of all things interesting.

Unfortunately, the real estate market in Mamala’s area is backlogged 3-4 years due to a record level of foreclosures.  She can expect to get nowhere near what her house is worth, or even what is owed on it, because people can buy one of the many foreclosed others up the street for half the price. This is in a lovely little safe and sunny Florida neighborhood, too, peeps. It’s wacky. We’ll likely have to do a short-sale to unload the house asap, which freaks her out but it’s better than her current alternatives.

Ha! Listen to me: talking about having my mom move in, short sales, buying additional properties, hurly burly burly. I always used to marvel at how grown-up people sounded when they discussed family arrangements and home selling and mortgages and all that. Here I am, same chucklehead I’ve always been, doing that very thing. Silly.

Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m forwarding a Code Pink Action Alert…

that I desperately wish was not necessary. Wish in one hand…dial a phone with the other, see which one is more effective, heh.

Now we need to stand up against HR 362, introduced by Congressman Gary Ackerman. The bill asks President Bush to “initiate an international effort” to impose a land, sea, and air blockade on Iran to prevent it from importing gasoline, and to inspect all cargo entering or leaving Iran-actions tantamount to declaring war with Iran.

Call your Congressperson today (202.224.3121) and urge her or him to vote NO on HR 362.

Call Congressman Ackerman (202.225.2601) and urge him to withdraw the resolution and promote diplomacy, not war.

And by the way, if you look up HR 362 to learn more, it takes you to a bill supporting teachers. Kinda misleading. The bill we need to freak out on is H.Con.Res.362 and can be discussed here: http://www.opencongress.org/bill/110-hc362/show

Expressing the sense of Congress regarding the threat posed to international peace, stability in the Middle East, and the vital national security interests of the United States by Iran’s pursuit of nuclear weapons and regional hegemony, and for other purposes.

So we were on our way

to May Street Market for the first-ever Kid’s Restaurant Week in Chicago (modeled after the one for adults in Manhattan) and who would have guessed, the bus actually got us there on time. Early, actually. That almost never happens. Being carless often provides us little unexpected adventures, especially related to public transportation, and most especially related to being delayed. Instead, we had one as a result of being early.

We went wandering around the far West Loopish area, enjoying the many characters and sights on the street. We found our way into a local artisan shop and what do I find but these grand things: Story People. So simple, so fabulous. Made me happy that someone took the time to create them. The food at May Street made me happy, too. Some (not all!) of the other restaurants’ pre fixe menus for their KRW events were kinda meh but May Street did it up right. No corners were cut for the sake of expedience. They had about 60 high chairs and booster seats on hand for the occasion and the host shook each child’s hand and seated them. The dining room was nuts with kids doing kid stuff and parents having wine together and laughing. Delightful. I would love for them to hold this event every month. Next year we’re calling earlier to get into Frontera Grill. The thought of having to wait outside for a table there this year didn’t attract me. I have little tolerance for lines. I’d rather go to a less celebrated place and sit right away, you know?

After getting to the West Loop early and having such a great time at dinner, we were up for taking the looooooong walk home, meandering our way through neighborhoods we’d never seen (Chicago is full of surprises, no matter how long you live here) because Bean is so chilled out right now and we can do that sort of thing on a whim. Give him some food and a paci just in case and keep his body cool and you can go just about anywhere with him.  He just waves at people and takes it all in, and is now so calm about the people and traffic and overlapping smells and noise.

I always used to look at city babies on my way to work and wonder what was going through their minds as they were strolled through the all of the action downtown. I suppose I will be finding out what one of them thinks, just as soon as he decides to tell me.

Co-parenting

I already tooted every horn in the universe with my Father’s Day post about my fella, but I do want to celebrate by writing this down. Since I have shared so many frustrations regarding this issue here, it feels right to share some happiness. We have undergone an evolution as a family over these last 21 months. I could cite a million little ways in which we’ve progressed, and another billion big and small mistakes we’ve made along the way, but dammit, we got here. We were such a cliche for a while. Totally freaked me out. Who the hell are we? I wondered. Where did we go? We are supposed to be Us, what the hell happened to Us? Over time, I learned to back off more and he learned to take over more. I won’t bother to get too specific, but I can now say that Huz and I are o-fficially co-parenting our little boy.

I feel proud and so very happy. We’re not perfect: I still take over sometimes and he still quite happily lets me, but MOST of the time our home and parenting responsibilities are now equally shared. The money thing, not right now, but I used to be the primary earner before we swapped that role. We’ll get back to that. It will be ideal if we can both work part-time, but with the way benefits operate in this country, that may have to wait until next lifetime. Still, the goal is that when Bean starts pre-school, I will start part-time work again and build up to full. When Bean is in Jr. High, Huz will work part-time, doing private parties a couple nights a week after I am home from my full-time work, wherever that work takes place. I can tell you that it won’t be in an office, not unless I own the building.

I want to say it again. I co-parent with my husband.

What a relief.

Well done, Chicago

One more reason to love this city:

With other cities now reported, Chicago’s 5th annual participation in
the World Naked Bike Ride last Saturday has SET THE WORLD’S RECORD
with 1700 bodies!!! Mad props to all; what a privilege it’s been serving this world-class
anti-oil pro-freedom event.

I’ll see ya next year, all ye noble naked peeps.

Dearest Huz

You work your ass off to provide us with the life we dreamed about when we lived together in a garage, you cook beautifully, do your fair share of housework, and grocery shop with me so it feels like a leisurely date. You are such a kind dad to Bean; you carefully prepare him for outings, read to him again and again and again, sing him off-key ditties when you think I can’t hear, give him funny little presents, do a lovely bath and bedtime routine, and stay calm when he tantrums. It is a gift that he gets to grow up with someone as sweet and true and smart as you looking over him. You have dealt with my anxiety and control issues while I’ve been learning how to be a mom and you’ve done so without losing much of your mind or your temper. You respect and support my personal, educational and work goals. You make me feel loved and beautiful every single day (I’m not kidding peeps, he does. It only takes a minute but it means the world, you know?). You’re ridiculously good looking, more than a little odd, and I think best described as an unassuming yet quirkily spectacular renaissance kind of fellow. All of this is just the tip of the iceberg, dear, when it comes to what I love and appreciate about you. If I could hire a small prop plane to write it all across the Great Lakes sky so that the greater Chicago area would look up in unison and awe and say to one another amidst their choking on all of the smoke that would undoubtedly consume them due to such a long list of virtues, “Now there, my friend, is a good man” I most certainly would. In lieu of that, due to financial and environmental constraints, I give you this humble blogpost. You truly, madly, deeply are the only man I could imagine being married to (that is a rilly, rilly big compliment even if it doesn’t come across the right way). I am so very glad you are my baby’s dad and that I am on this ride with you. We have come so far.

Happy Father’s Day.

P.S. Happy Father’s Day to all the faboo daddies out there. May your nerves be strong and your love be sweet. Skywriting for everyone.

P.P.S. Happy Father’s Day to you, too, Grandma Rose.

P.P.P.S. “My dad was an a__hole, and I’d rather not be one.” Yes!!!

Thank you, Hillary

You are an amazing politician, a true party leader and clearly a genius to boot. I’ve been an Obama supporter all along, but that never meant I stopped rooting for you, even when I questioned or disagreed with your decisions. You are essential fiber in the cloth of our nation and I admire the hell out of you. You’ve truly taken us to new places these past 16 months, you made this race mean even more than it already would have and I am grateful for it. Some criticized your speech this past Tuesday but I was impressed. Not just by the content, but by you and your supporters.

Now let’s hug it out and do this thing, all together. That’s the way it’s got to happen. We will be better people and a better country for it.

Love,

B.

P.S. This person says it all much better than me. I concur.

Just what the frack is it

I think I am supposed to be doing? We were all set to go to the food store this morning (when you usually get groceries delivered, food shopping is a novel outing) but were waylaid by tornado-ish windstorms. On the walk toward home, I took us through a sheltered street and ta-dah, there was a petting zoo. The winds died down enough for us to enjoy Bean’s first in-person roosters, goats, and rabbits. We ran around a park for a while, had a lovely walk home, then played inside before nap. Afterward, we walked to the bookstore, picked out a couple of supercuties I so should have written myself (Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! and Baby Loves Jazz) and meandered our way through the neighborhood, stopping to chat with strangers, look at dogs, climb some things we shouldn’t have, and take a peek at a new art installation. We came inside, ate dinner together, read our new books, listened to CDs and danced, and Bean had his puttering around alone time before his bedtime routine.

Doesn’t this sound grand? I mean it, doesn’t this sound phenomenally grand? And it was. It IS. It’s a gorgeous privilege. So why do I feel like I am supposed to be doing more?

Am I a person with such an overactive mind and body so accustomed to the worrying and hurrying and scurrying around I did pre-bambino (as well as for the 8 months or so of insanity that followed his birth) that I cannot just be satisfied with now providing my kiddo the calm days I wish I had as a child? By the way, my time is not all about Bean, I don’t want to give that impression so don’t give me the whole pitfalls of sahmhood schpiel. I write, I move, I create, I read, I live in a kickass neighborhood, I talk with grownups…I am deeply happy. So wtf is it I am seeking, other than compulsively acting like the trained monkey that I clearly am? What more am I expecting of myself right now?

Hrrrrmmmmmmmm.

One of the Beavers would say it’s “blue-collar guilt”. She wasn’t raised with much in the way of money or stability, either, and her current contentedness and ability to be so autonomous, rather than constricted by financial and familial circumstances, freaks her right out sometimes. Maaaaybe…I dunno. Of course, it is a textbook response of an acoa to panic when things are too calm (hullo, #6). 

I wonder how I can expect others to value my contribution to society during this phase of my life when I can’t even seem to entirely do so.

Motherhood is quite an education, far beyond actually taking care of the Bean.

Post-wean pain

No, not pain for the kiddo, he couldn’t care less.  I actually tried to get him to nurse again when I realized how much weight I was gaining after he weaned at 18 months. He was so over it, he practically rolled his eyes at me. We weaned sooooooo veeeeery graaaaaaadually that I never expected any problems like this. Seriously, glaciers may have moved faster. Still, despite two months and no no nursing, I am somehow still producing milk. That strikes me silly since I could barely prompt my body to do so way back in the beginning when I had a live baby human attached to my breasts every fifteen to thirty minutes. A lump has appeared and it hurts like hell. Oh, left breast, always the dramatic one. The rebel. Blockage, then undersupply, then oversupply, then undersupply, anything to be difficult, she did it.

So yeah. Two months post-wean, I’m in the hottest bath I can stand, vigorously massaging myself (you’re welcome, pervs). It didn’t work. I had to pull out the old, beat up pump with its electrical tape war wounds and set it to work trying to clear the blockage. It macerated me. Ah, memories. Helped, but not much. I hear cabbage in a brassiere does wonders. I’m willing to give anything a try. Otherwise, I’m doctor-bound. Joy.

I hope I do not discourage anyone from breastfeeding with this kind of posting. Don’t ever, ever wean and you’ll be fine. Ha! For real, breastfeed away. It does a body good. Mine is just obstinate.