No, this is not a dog post-- although Dugan could use some additional training. And it's not a kid post or a working out post either-- although if you know me, you know that those areas could also use some assistance. This is a relevant-to-my-community post. Because, well, I care about my community. And it's the long sought after solution to the most eminent problem facing my community today. The TRAIN.
We have a train track (and accompanying trains, of course) that cuts right through the neighborhood. I must be honest, when we bought this house I had no idea we had this train. From our back deck all I could see were trees and bushes and a somewhat dirty pond-- but it was picturesque and serene and a little bit of "country" in the midst of suburbia. I loved it. It wasn't until that first night in our new home, as JMahl and I lay in our bed (actually, our bed hadn't arrived yet, so we were lying on a mattress on the floor), holding in each other sweetly and dreaming aloud of the life we'd live in this house, that that dream world fell apart. We experienced our first earthquake. The house inspector was a fraud and our newly mortgaged home was collapsing at our feet. Or maybe the sky really was falling, Chicken Little. Regardless, save the kids and get out of here! Unfortunately, it was our first night and we hadn't yet planned a fire escape route, so we chose to cower instead amid the clamouring and banging and high pitched squealing and shaking until minutes that felt like hours later, the noise and shaking subsided and we discovered our house was still standing.
It was then that we realized we had a train in our backyard.
Fast forward six years and, to be honest, we don't hear the train anymore. It's become just background noise unless we have guests over-- guests who attempt to not pee their pants as the train barrels through; guests who squeal "What IS THAT?" while JMahl and I continue to nonchalantly eat our meal and look questioning at them. "What's what? Oh... that. That's the train. You won't notice it by the end of dinner." And they don't.
And I have developed a love-hate relationship with Tropicana. I feel compelled to buy it since I watch it being transported through my backyard many times a week, but at the same time I sometimes feel as though if I didn't buy it, maybe it would find a different route to travel, since it always comes right about the time I receive an important, sound-sensitive phone call.
I have also picked up some very interesting new words and phrases from the graffiti on the train cars... but those should not and won't be shared here. Needless to say, if you ever hear one of my children utter a curse word, don't blame me-- blame Tropicana.
So, we've come to live with our train, and it hasn't been so bad at all. But then, recently, we were advised that CSX intended to buy up some property on our train track and build an intermodal facility-- ie, a place to load and unload cargo. According to rumors, this facility would operate 24/ 7, would have 100 foot high cranes and light towers, and would just be an all around nuisance to the neighborhood and to any hope I may have of selling this house one day. And I, along with my neighbors, got really up in arms about it.
And then, I discovered the solution. The solution to this train problem, this facility noise and light issue: HUSBAND AND CHILDREN.
You see, as I lay in bed one night thinking about how annoying this Intermodal facility is going to be, my husband began to snore. And when he snores, he snores. So I elbowed him. And he rolled over and continued to snore. And so I pinched his nose shut, and he began to snore even louder through his mouth. Just as I raised the pillow to smother him, the hall lights flashed on, footsteps banged across my hall, the toilet seat crashed down, and water began to run. Thirty seconds later, more water running, another crash that I couldn't label, more feet running, door banging.
Husband still snoring.
Baby screamed.
Child's bedroom light flashed on; yelling: "Mommy, Micah's awake"
Dugan barked.
Kolbie yelled.
A bang as someone or something hit the wall.
Light flashed off and back on.
Train went by.
Husband snored louder, but now combined grunts with his snores.
Toilet flushed.
Door banged.
Lights off.
From Kayton: Don't turn the lights off, Mason! I want the lights on!
Lights on.
Bedroom light flashed on: MoMMY!
Baby yelled.
Dog barked.
Husband snored.
See? With all this going on, I won't even notice the intermodal facility. In fact, I may just take a tent and a sleeping bag out there and call it a vacation.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
A Rose by any other name is still a GIRL.
Two things I need to admit here today. 1/ working out is not doing a darn thing for me. I started this blog as a way to track my efforts and keep myself committed to working out, but after almost three months of two hours a week (minimum) at the gym and many other hours a week of tossing babies and three year olds around (safely, of course), I have to admit that my body is just giving up on me. I actually took my measurements today to mimic the first ones I posted in "Ten Months Out" and was dismayed to see that I have not only lost no weight, but I have gained a half a pound at this morning's weigh in-- and I have also lost no inches. Well, here and there maybe a half an inch, but I could have been sucking in...
Now I know some of you are going to read this and give me the pep-up of "don't worry- it will happen" or "maybe you should step it up a bit?" (this IS stepped up!) Or what's even worse: "well, you're doing this for your health you know-- your body is going to be what it is, given the four kids you've had". Seriously, I don't like you for saying that. Not at all.
I did make JMahl poke my belly to see how hard it was, but his facial expression wasn't quite as impressed as I was hoping it would be. Oh well, such is (my) life. I can say that it's nice to get some reading in (yes, I read on the treadmill as I walk quickly uphill for 30 minutes) and that my back doesn't hurt quite as much as it used to, so there is some improvement. But for those of you who were waiting impatiently for me to post half-naked sexy, in shape, bikini photos of myself- well, you'll just have to wait a bit longer.
Granted, I haven't changed my eating habits at all-- and working out tends to make me very hungry... so that may be part of my problem. Or maybe all of it?
So that's my first admission. The second admission is that I am sexist. And not just sexist, but a hypocritical sexist. Now, some of you may have heard this rant before, but it's especially applicable today because of my experience at the gym yesterday.
I walked into the daycare to pick up my kids, soaked in sweat and exhausted, and I hear the daycare provider say "put that down, Mason". My next three thoughts were as follows:
1/ I brought Mason today?
2/ Oh, of course not... but isn't it funny that the daycare provider also gets my kids' names confused?
3/ Wait-- how does she know I have a Mason? Oh- it must be another child.
So, having figured that out, I walk on in and ask her which of the kids is Mason since, as I explained to her, I have a Mason at home.
She points to a group of children playing a few feet away. "Oh, the little red-haired boy?"
No- the blond one.
I don't see a blond boy.
Not the boy, the girl.
What? A girl Mason? Yes, I've heard that Mason can be a girl's name. But hearing it and coming face to face with the reality of it... well, that was a shocker. A cute, fat, little blond Mason- with long curls and a vagina. That did not make me happy.
And this is where my hypocrisy comes in. Yes, I am fully aware that Kolbie (Colby) is a boy's name historically. And that Micah is a boy's name Biblically. But it is one thing for me to give my girl's masculine names. It is a completely different matter for my boy to have a name that might perhaps be construed as a feminine name. And I know, I know. Those of you out there who have boys named [Colby] or Micah may not appreciate the feminization (sp?) of these names as I have done, but come on! At least Kolbie has a "ie" ending to it-- Julie, Carrie, Mary, Kolbie... it works. And Micah...well, let's be honest here, you don't get much more feminine than an "a" sound on the end of a name-- ask the vast majority of DeMeritt men whose wives have names that end in "A"... Barbara, Linda, Tamara, Claudia, Lorinda, Lana, Angela (and dare we hope, Laura???) But MASON is all boy. I mean, it actually says SON in it-- why would you name your daughter SON?
So, shooting angry glares at the little girl- yes, I'm going to take it out on her since I don't yet know who her parents are-- I left the playroom, fuming and wondering if it was too late to change my dear son's name to something irrevocably masculine. Like Grayson (which was a discussion 7.5 years ago until I over-analyzed that it could be somewhat awkward to name my half black- half white son "Gray-son") or Bob. (oops, my Grandma's nickname was "Bobbie").
Let's be honest-- no names are safe anymore. Last year a local politician was campaigning in my neighorhood- she got my vote and I bought a copy of her book, all because her name was Trent. A female Trent-- imagine that. So why does it bother me so much that my son may one day be confused as female and yet not bother me that my daughters may be confused as male?
I guess that's where the sexism comes in- and probably, according to my husband, some necessary therapy. At least I can admit my faults.
Now I know some of you are going to read this and give me the pep-up of "don't worry- it will happen" or "maybe you should step it up a bit?" (this IS stepped up!) Or what's even worse: "well, you're doing this for your health you know-- your body is going to be what it is, given the four kids you've had". Seriously, I don't like you for saying that. Not at all.
I did make JMahl poke my belly to see how hard it was, but his facial expression wasn't quite as impressed as I was hoping it would be. Oh well, such is (my) life. I can say that it's nice to get some reading in (yes, I read on the treadmill as I walk quickly uphill for 30 minutes) and that my back doesn't hurt quite as much as it used to, so there is some improvement. But for those of you who were waiting impatiently for me to post half-naked sexy, in shape, bikini photos of myself- well, you'll just have to wait a bit longer.
Granted, I haven't changed my eating habits at all-- and working out tends to make me very hungry... so that may be part of my problem. Or maybe all of it?
So that's my first admission. The second admission is that I am sexist. And not just sexist, but a hypocritical sexist. Now, some of you may have heard this rant before, but it's especially applicable today because of my experience at the gym yesterday.
I walked into the daycare to pick up my kids, soaked in sweat and exhausted, and I hear the daycare provider say "put that down, Mason". My next three thoughts were as follows:
1/ I brought Mason today?
2/ Oh, of course not... but isn't it funny that the daycare provider also gets my kids' names confused?
3/ Wait-- how does she know I have a Mason? Oh- it must be another child.
So, having figured that out, I walk on in and ask her which of the kids is Mason since, as I explained to her, I have a Mason at home.
She points to a group of children playing a few feet away. "Oh, the little red-haired boy?"
No- the blond one.
I don't see a blond boy.
Not the boy, the girl.
What? A girl Mason? Yes, I've heard that Mason can be a girl's name. But hearing it and coming face to face with the reality of it... well, that was a shocker. A cute, fat, little blond Mason- with long curls and a vagina. That did not make me happy.
And this is where my hypocrisy comes in. Yes, I am fully aware that Kolbie (Colby) is a boy's name historically. And that Micah is a boy's name Biblically. But it is one thing for me to give my girl's masculine names. It is a completely different matter for my boy to have a name that might perhaps be construed as a feminine name. And I know, I know. Those of you out there who have boys named [Colby] or Micah may not appreciate the feminization (sp?) of these names as I have done, but come on! At least Kolbie has a "ie" ending to it-- Julie, Carrie, Mary, Kolbie... it works. And Micah...well, let's be honest here, you don't get much more feminine than an "a" sound on the end of a name-- ask the vast majority of DeMeritt men whose wives have names that end in "A"... Barbara, Linda, Tamara, Claudia, Lorinda, Lana, Angela (and dare we hope, Laura???) But MASON is all boy. I mean, it actually says SON in it-- why would you name your daughter SON?
So, shooting angry glares at the little girl- yes, I'm going to take it out on her since I don't yet know who her parents are-- I left the playroom, fuming and wondering if it was too late to change my dear son's name to something irrevocably masculine. Like Grayson (which was a discussion 7.5 years ago until I over-analyzed that it could be somewhat awkward to name my half black- half white son "Gray-son") or Bob. (oops, my Grandma's nickname was "Bobbie").
Let's be honest-- no names are safe anymore. Last year a local politician was campaigning in my neighorhood- she got my vote and I bought a copy of her book, all because her name was Trent. A female Trent-- imagine that. So why does it bother me so much that my son may one day be confused as female and yet not bother me that my daughters may be confused as male?
I guess that's where the sexism comes in- and probably, according to my husband, some necessary therapy. At least I can admit my faults.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Work it out.
This weekend I convinced my husband to go to the gym with me. Believe it or not, we've never been to the gym together in the four weeks I've had a membership, so needless to say, I thought it would be romantic... or at the very least, quality time together, as we sweated and laughed and chatted about our children and how great it felt to work out.
And I admit, I envisioned a scene from an 80's movie as we entered the gym together: cue bomp-bomp-badow music, wind machine, and slow motion movement as we enter the gym door... all eyes turning to us "who is this beautiful couple that is entering this place?" But it didn't really work out like that.
For one, he doesn't like being told what to do.
Once the kids were properly in place in their daycare, I attempted to start our workout regimen. (side note, I do not like the new daycare person: what type of woman sits there staring vacantly at a child as they cry with their arms outstretched? If you don't like kids, get a different job. If you've got this one, pick up my sobbing baby so I can work out! That's what I'm paying you for!)
So I lead JMahl over to the ellipticals.
First, we're going to do this for 20 minutes to work up a sweat and work off some calories.
No, we're not.
Yes, we are. This is what I do.
Well, I don't like the eliptical. I'm going to ride the bike.
The bike isn't as good for you as this machine.
You realize I'm a grown man, right? You realize I can choose my own workout, right?
Well, Honey, I've been coming here twice a week for the last four weeks, so I do think I know what we should be doing. (Because, truly, this makes me practically an expert.)
At this point I get the look- the long look up and down my body. I'm going to choose to believe that this was a look of lust (or at the very least, affection), but chances are good that it was more a look of "if you'd dropped six inches in the last four weeks, I might buy that argument, but since you didn't, I'll stick with my own plan". And with that, he walked off to the bikes.
The next- and last- I saw of him was his reflection in the wall-length mirror as he lifted weights- and I continued to sweat on the elliptical until the un-helpful daycare provider informed me Micah would not stop crying and needed me.
So, needless to say, while I didn't get the wind-blowing, giggling experience of running side by side on the treadmills together into some imagined sunset, at least I could ogle him from across the gym, so it wasn't all bad.
Truth be told, it was a pretty good weekend. We went roller-skating with the kids. Another attempt to align my visions with reality that completely fell through. In the movies, JMahl, the kids and I would all swing effortlessly around the ring, holding hands and smiling beatifically at each other-- no wind machine needed due to our speed and gracefulness on the floor. In reality, I plodded, bent double, gripping the wall, scared to death of falling while trying to convince Mason, plodding with me, that "there's no need to be afraid! It won't hurt if you fall!" (the things we lie to our children about). Kayton passed me about six times for my every lap around the ring; Mason was surpassing my speed within minutes (he fell alot, but didn't cry once); and Kolbie refused to even set a foot in the rink. Or put on the skates for more than 30 seconds-- as long as it took for her to realize that this was not going to be the fun I'd promised her it would be. JMahl sat on the sidelines (other than one sneakered trip into the center of the ring to get Mason on his feet) and held Micah-- who just stared at us as if we'd all lost our marbles-- which maybe we had.
And while Kayton and Mason loved skating, I realized rather quickly that it would be a few years before that was the full-family-fun activity I'd dreamed of it being; so, following the rather frustrated advice from my husband, we regrouped and refocused, and went to Old Navy.
Here, my husband made an almost fatal mistake-- miscalculating the maturity of Kayton's shopping drive. ie. Don't ever tell any female-- even an 8 yr old girl-- to "just pick out whatever you want". It was like a scene from Pretty Woman (minus the 80s music, again... I really need to set up an iPod playlist to accentuate my life.) Kayton was running around the store, grabbing things off the shelf and throwing them in my arms. At some point, I don't even think she realized what she was grabbing-- (although, maybe she really loved the white jean jacket and pants ensemble with bright pink sequins, but I choose not to believe that- yes, I, too, am shocked that Old Navy actually had that.) JMahl was right, though. This was a great family activity, since even Mason and Kolbie got into it. Mason's technique was a little different, though. He found one pair of shorts that he liked, and proceeded to bring me every single pattern of that style of shorts (about 12, to my count), then found the $5 t-shirt shelf and thought that one of each would also be perfect. Kolbie was content to just find one dress, attempt to slip it on over her clothes, then follow me around for the next thirty minutes repeating "can I have this dress, Mommy? can I have this dress, Mommy? can I have this dress, Mommy?".
At some point my father-in-law showed up- I suppose I told him where we were going, although he has a tendency to just appear wherever the kids are, as though he's got a sixth-sense for grandchildren's where-abouts- and he just sat back with a smile on his face enjoying the bedlam. If I could read his mind, it probably would have told me something like "glad they're not my problem, but they sure are cute when they're having fun." It didn't help that he started slipping them quarters without my knowledge so they could retrieve bouncing balls from the gum ball machine-- which then meant that I was, Micah in one arm, piles of clothes in the other, attempting to read price tags, send bikinis back to their shelves, hide the overly-graphic graphic tees and grab potentially-deadly bouncing balls before they caused a wipe out-- all the while Granddaddy was just smiling at the fun the kids were having, and JMahl was applauding the kids' choices in clothes. I think he'd gone into "just make it through without losing your temper" mode-- at which point a parent just gives up trying to maintain any control and just shuts down in order to avoid an over-frying of the brain from the stress of attempting to have well-behaved kids in public.
We made it out of the store eventually without shoplifting any clothes that Kolbie was trying to wear home, with t-shirts fit for a seven year old, no bikinis, and only one over-priced sweater that managed to fool me into thinking it was part of an ensemble.
But the kids were happy.
The husband was happy.
The granddaddy was very happy.
And me, well, I was happy that everyone else was happy. But honestly, I think I was sweating more from stress and balancing/ grabbing acts in that Old Navy than I was on the elliptical at the gym. So maybe JMahl's right. Maybe he does know the best way to work out.
And I admit, I envisioned a scene from an 80's movie as we entered the gym together: cue bomp-bomp-badow music, wind machine, and slow motion movement as we enter the gym door... all eyes turning to us "who is this beautiful couple that is entering this place?" But it didn't really work out like that.
For one, he doesn't like being told what to do.
Once the kids were properly in place in their daycare, I attempted to start our workout regimen. (side note, I do not like the new daycare person: what type of woman sits there staring vacantly at a child as they cry with their arms outstretched? If you don't like kids, get a different job. If you've got this one, pick up my sobbing baby so I can work out! That's what I'm paying you for!)
So I lead JMahl over to the ellipticals.
First, we're going to do this for 20 minutes to work up a sweat and work off some calories.
No, we're not.
Yes, we are. This is what I do.
Well, I don't like the eliptical. I'm going to ride the bike.
The bike isn't as good for you as this machine.
You realize I'm a grown man, right? You realize I can choose my own workout, right?
Well, Honey, I've been coming here twice a week for the last four weeks, so I do think I know what we should be doing. (Because, truly, this makes me practically an expert.)
At this point I get the look- the long look up and down my body. I'm going to choose to believe that this was a look of lust (or at the very least, affection), but chances are good that it was more a look of "if you'd dropped six inches in the last four weeks, I might buy that argument, but since you didn't, I'll stick with my own plan". And with that, he walked off to the bikes.
The next- and last- I saw of him was his reflection in the wall-length mirror as he lifted weights- and I continued to sweat on the elliptical until the un-helpful daycare provider informed me Micah would not stop crying and needed me.
So, needless to say, while I didn't get the wind-blowing, giggling experience of running side by side on the treadmills together into some imagined sunset, at least I could ogle him from across the gym, so it wasn't all bad.
Truth be told, it was a pretty good weekend. We went roller-skating with the kids. Another attempt to align my visions with reality that completely fell through. In the movies, JMahl, the kids and I would all swing effortlessly around the ring, holding hands and smiling beatifically at each other-- no wind machine needed due to our speed and gracefulness on the floor. In reality, I plodded, bent double, gripping the wall, scared to death of falling while trying to convince Mason, plodding with me, that "there's no need to be afraid! It won't hurt if you fall!" (the things we lie to our children about). Kayton passed me about six times for my every lap around the ring; Mason was surpassing my speed within minutes (he fell alot, but didn't cry once); and Kolbie refused to even set a foot in the rink. Or put on the skates for more than 30 seconds-- as long as it took for her to realize that this was not going to be the fun I'd promised her it would be. JMahl sat on the sidelines (other than one sneakered trip into the center of the ring to get Mason on his feet) and held Micah-- who just stared at us as if we'd all lost our marbles-- which maybe we had.
And while Kayton and Mason loved skating, I realized rather quickly that it would be a few years before that was the full-family-fun activity I'd dreamed of it being; so, following the rather frustrated advice from my husband, we regrouped and refocused, and went to Old Navy.
Here, my husband made an almost fatal mistake-- miscalculating the maturity of Kayton's shopping drive. ie. Don't ever tell any female-- even an 8 yr old girl-- to "just pick out whatever you want". It was like a scene from Pretty Woman (minus the 80s music, again... I really need to set up an iPod playlist to accentuate my life.) Kayton was running around the store, grabbing things off the shelf and throwing them in my arms. At some point, I don't even think she realized what she was grabbing-- (although, maybe she really loved the white jean jacket and pants ensemble with bright pink sequins, but I choose not to believe that- yes, I, too, am shocked that Old Navy actually had that.) JMahl was right, though. This was a great family activity, since even Mason and Kolbie got into it. Mason's technique was a little different, though. He found one pair of shorts that he liked, and proceeded to bring me every single pattern of that style of shorts (about 12, to my count), then found the $5 t-shirt shelf and thought that one of each would also be perfect. Kolbie was content to just find one dress, attempt to slip it on over her clothes, then follow me around for the next thirty minutes repeating "can I have this dress, Mommy? can I have this dress, Mommy? can I have this dress, Mommy?".
At some point my father-in-law showed up- I suppose I told him where we were going, although he has a tendency to just appear wherever the kids are, as though he's got a sixth-sense for grandchildren's where-abouts- and he just sat back with a smile on his face enjoying the bedlam. If I could read his mind, it probably would have told me something like "glad they're not my problem, but they sure are cute when they're having fun." It didn't help that he started slipping them quarters without my knowledge so they could retrieve bouncing balls from the gum ball machine-- which then meant that I was, Micah in one arm, piles of clothes in the other, attempting to read price tags, send bikinis back to their shelves, hide the overly-graphic graphic tees and grab potentially-deadly bouncing balls before they caused a wipe out-- all the while Granddaddy was just smiling at the fun the kids were having, and JMahl was applauding the kids' choices in clothes. I think he'd gone into "just make it through without losing your temper" mode-- at which point a parent just gives up trying to maintain any control and just shuts down in order to avoid an over-frying of the brain from the stress of attempting to have well-behaved kids in public.
We made it out of the store eventually without shoplifting any clothes that Kolbie was trying to wear home, with t-shirts fit for a seven year old, no bikinis, and only one over-priced sweater that managed to fool me into thinking it was part of an ensemble.
But the kids were happy.
The husband was happy.
The granddaddy was very happy.
And me, well, I was happy that everyone else was happy. But honestly, I think I was sweating more from stress and balancing/ grabbing acts in that Old Navy than I was on the elliptical at the gym. So maybe JMahl's right. Maybe he does know the best way to work out.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
My husband's my hero.
I think the repeat references to my husband in this blog are starting to make him a little nervous. The first few (many) weeks I was blogging, I had to beg him to read my blogs and, to be honest, this was frustrating and, therefore, inspired me to antagonize him with what I wrote. Then, about six weeks into my blog, he said, rather offhandedly as he was looking at his FaceBook page, "can you not tag me in your posts anymore?". I, of course, feigned ignorance. Why ever not, my dear? And was informed, ever so kindly, that he didn't need or want his friends or coworkers reading the intimate details of his life. (For the record, the post that day had been in relation to Micah's birth and JMahl's wariness of the soft spot on her head.)
I was shocked. Why, dear, I was only ever complimentary! And besides, why you would be concerned about your coworkers and friends reading that you have a ____ inch ____? I mean, they're going to somewhat assume anyhow, considering you wear a size 13 shoe and have a 3.5 inch long thumb. And, we can't avoid the most obvious stereotype of all...
What's the most obvious stereotype of all, Katryn?
Oh, well, I don't know. I guess it's your shoe size. I wouldn't know. I don't pay attention to stereotypes.
uh. huh.
So, I quit tagging him in my posts... so now only my friends and family can read my posts. (or those of JMahl's friends and family that have friended me on Facebook- isn't FB great? Takes "my friends are your friends and your friends are my friends... the more we get together the happier we'll be" to a whole new level.) But he's still nervous. Today I got an email from him: "did you post today? I didn't see one. Can I read it?"
Not yet. Too bad. Not until I write it. But hey, the laundry's done!
Because, while I definitely respect my husband's privacy and humility, I also have to satisfy my own primal urges to write what is in my head and heart. And very often, it is my husband (I will not mention his anatomy) that is in my head and heart. (Honey, that's a sweet comment, so take it as such.)
But this has also worked well in my favor; because, you see, knowing that there is a great potential for his being the antagonist in my weekly "story", JMahl is attempting to ensure his role as protagonist, and is starting to go above and beyond. And I like this. Call me manipulative-- heck, you can even say I'm blackmailing him- but he's now got to make sure that anything I could potentially write about him will be entirely complimentary, since he doesn't have the option of telling me I can no longer write. Or write about him. That could be considered too controlling, and he doesn't want to ever be perceived in a negative light.
In the last few weeks, whenever I've informed him he needs to apologize to me (because that's what I do when I'm tired of fighting: "just apologize already. you know you're going to do it eventually, and I'm tired of being mad and I won't apologize until you do.")- I get a heartfelt apology almost immediately. It used to take a few hours and a small bribe. He's called before leaving work to ask me if I need wine (I do tonight); he's given me shoulder and neck rubs without me having to ask. He even brushed my hair for me the other night- something that rarely happens. And I saw potential here. Potential for an improved husband (I mean "relationship", of course. Relationship.) But I still felt the need for a test. Something to prove that he was going to do whatever it takes to make me feel good- and, therefore, make him look good to anyone still reading this post.
So I asked my husband the other night as I climbed into bed- do you see the difference, the tightness, the firmness in my body since I've been working out? His response was spot on. YES.
And when I asked him if he thought I could ever get rid of the excess belly as a result of four children.. again, I got a YES. (the fact that he never took his eyes off his iPad for any of this conversation is not going to figure into this post).
And when I moaned and complained that when I got on the scale it told me I'd gained six pounds over the weekend, he didn't start listing off the entire package of pizza rolls, the excess amount of chinese food, and ho-hos and the ice cream that I'd consumed over the course of the weekend. Instead he said "The scale's off."
Baby, you keep this up, and you've got nothing to worry about.
I was shocked. Why, dear, I was only ever complimentary! And besides, why you would be concerned about your coworkers and friends reading that you have a ____ inch ____? I mean, they're going to somewhat assume anyhow, considering you wear a size 13 shoe and have a 3.5 inch long thumb. And, we can't avoid the most obvious stereotype of all...
What's the most obvious stereotype of all, Katryn?
Oh, well, I don't know. I guess it's your shoe size. I wouldn't know. I don't pay attention to stereotypes.
uh. huh.
So, I quit tagging him in my posts... so now only my friends and family can read my posts. (or those of JMahl's friends and family that have friended me on Facebook- isn't FB great? Takes "my friends are your friends and your friends are my friends... the more we get together the happier we'll be" to a whole new level.) But he's still nervous. Today I got an email from him: "did you post today? I didn't see one. Can I read it?"
Not yet. Too bad. Not until I write it. But hey, the laundry's done!
Because, while I definitely respect my husband's privacy and humility, I also have to satisfy my own primal urges to write what is in my head and heart. And very often, it is my husband (I will not mention his anatomy) that is in my head and heart. (Honey, that's a sweet comment, so take it as such.)
But this has also worked well in my favor; because, you see, knowing that there is a great potential for his being the antagonist in my weekly "story", JMahl is attempting to ensure his role as protagonist, and is starting to go above and beyond. And I like this. Call me manipulative-- heck, you can even say I'm blackmailing him- but he's now got to make sure that anything I could potentially write about him will be entirely complimentary, since he doesn't have the option of telling me I can no longer write. Or write about him. That could be considered too controlling, and he doesn't want to ever be perceived in a negative light.
In the last few weeks, whenever I've informed him he needs to apologize to me (because that's what I do when I'm tired of fighting: "just apologize already. you know you're going to do it eventually, and I'm tired of being mad and I won't apologize until you do.")- I get a heartfelt apology almost immediately. It used to take a few hours and a small bribe. He's called before leaving work to ask me if I need wine (I do tonight); he's given me shoulder and neck rubs without me having to ask. He even brushed my hair for me the other night- something that rarely happens. And I saw potential here. Potential for an improved husband (I mean "relationship", of course. Relationship.) But I still felt the need for a test. Something to prove that he was going to do whatever it takes to make me feel good- and, therefore, make him look good to anyone still reading this post.
So I asked my husband the other night as I climbed into bed- do you see the difference, the tightness, the firmness in my body since I've been working out? His response was spot on. YES.
And when I asked him if he thought I could ever get rid of the excess belly as a result of four children.. again, I got a YES. (the fact that he never took his eyes off his iPad for any of this conversation is not going to figure into this post).
And when I moaned and complained that when I got on the scale it told me I'd gained six pounds over the weekend, he didn't start listing off the entire package of pizza rolls, the excess amount of chinese food, and ho-hos and the ice cream that I'd consumed over the course of the weekend. Instead he said "The scale's off."
Baby, you keep this up, and you've got nothing to worry about.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Romance is Over-Rated
My husband is neither the most romantic man, nor is he the most physically affectionate man. I understood and accepted this well-before I married him, but decided that locking him down was a better alternative than continually searching for that person who would decorate my house with paper hearts on valentines day (ie, my next-door-neighbors). Sure, I have the occasional fantasy of him coming home with flowers and expensive jewelry, sweeping me into his arms, and crooning love songs to me, but, well, chances are there would be a baby hanging on me when he attempted to do so, or a dog pawing to be loved by his master (Dugan lives for the first pat from JMahl upon his return home), and we'd all wind up in a rather painful pile on the floor while the jewelry got eaten by the baby and the flowers got eaten by the dog.
But please don't think that JMahl is never romantic-- he does have his moments. For example, when he proposed to me, he made certain that Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" was playing in the background... a song that I had mentioned months earlier as being, what I considered, the most romantic song ever. That's romantic-- if you can overlook the fact that I was wearing a ratty old hand-me down nightgown (nope, he couldn't at least let me be in sexy lingerie for it) and that it was early on a Sunday morning and I had neither brushed my teeth (or hair) or washed my face. I was, actually, quite nasty. If you look at it from another perspective, the fact that he proposed to me when I was at my most unattractive must prove that he really did love me and want to marry me.
And, of course, he's romantic enough to know that when I'm mad at him, wine goes further than flowers. Depending on how angry I am, I may ignore the flowers, but I will always drink the wine.
And sure, sometimes it bothers me that he likes his quiet time. His alone time. (Although I saw a movie where they referred to it once as "Gentleman's time", but I think (hope) something a little different was going on in that movie than what goes on in JMahl's basement.) But it's not his fault that he wasn't raised sharing a room with three younger siblings. If he had been, I'm sure he'd be quite content to come home after a hard day's work and spend the next few hours being swarmed, suffocated, and deafened by the children (and his wife. Yes, I admit I can (maybe) be a little suffocating at times.) So over the years I've come to accept that he may sometimes need a break from it all.
And while he's never been one much for PDA (he didn't have the luxury of watching his father sweep his mother into an Oklahoma HELLO after work every day (watch the movie if you are curious)... or the complete and utter joy (sarcasm!) of overhearing your parents' giggles late at night because the closet in his bedroom opened into the closet in his parents room, providing a great hiding place/ escape from siblings, but not a great sound barrier from his parents' nocturnal activities), but he has come around quite a bit, perhaps due to my insistence that constant touching confirms constant love. And, when we're not desperately grabbing a child to keep them from getting run over by a car, he'll actually hold my hand in public now... so we're getting somewhere. And yes, I appreciate each little baby step that we take.
But regardless, we haven't come so far that I wasn't just a little bit taken off guard the other night when, as I was cleaning the kitchen counter and yelling to him in the other room "do you want to open a bottle of wine for me?", he came into the kitchen, snuggled up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, pressed against me, and nuzzled my neck. Surprised, but appreciative. And then, my husband whispered in my ear in his most seductive, deep, vibrating, this-is-why-I-have-four-children voice: "oh, honey. I love you so much. Even if you are a wino."
Way to ruin the mood, JMahl. Way to ruin the mood. Now get me a glass of wine.
And the most romantic part? He did.
But please don't think that JMahl is never romantic-- he does have his moments. For example, when he proposed to me, he made certain that Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" was playing in the background... a song that I had mentioned months earlier as being, what I considered, the most romantic song ever. That's romantic-- if you can overlook the fact that I was wearing a ratty old hand-me down nightgown (nope, he couldn't at least let me be in sexy lingerie for it) and that it was early on a Sunday morning and I had neither brushed my teeth (or hair) or washed my face. I was, actually, quite nasty. If you look at it from another perspective, the fact that he proposed to me when I was at my most unattractive must prove that he really did love me and want to marry me.
And, of course, he's romantic enough to know that when I'm mad at him, wine goes further than flowers. Depending on how angry I am, I may ignore the flowers, but I will always drink the wine.
And sure, sometimes it bothers me that he likes his quiet time. His alone time. (Although I saw a movie where they referred to it once as "Gentleman's time", but I think (hope) something a little different was going on in that movie than what goes on in JMahl's basement.) But it's not his fault that he wasn't raised sharing a room with three younger siblings. If he had been, I'm sure he'd be quite content to come home after a hard day's work and spend the next few hours being swarmed, suffocated, and deafened by the children (and his wife. Yes, I admit I can (maybe) be a little suffocating at times.) So over the years I've come to accept that he may sometimes need a break from it all.
And while he's never been one much for PDA (he didn't have the luxury of watching his father sweep his mother into an Oklahoma HELLO after work every day (watch the movie if you are curious)... or the complete and utter joy (sarcasm!) of overhearing your parents' giggles late at night because the closet in his bedroom opened into the closet in his parents room, providing a great hiding place/ escape from siblings, but not a great sound barrier from his parents' nocturnal activities), but he has come around quite a bit, perhaps due to my insistence that constant touching confirms constant love. And, when we're not desperately grabbing a child to keep them from getting run over by a car, he'll actually hold my hand in public now... so we're getting somewhere. And yes, I appreciate each little baby step that we take.
But regardless, we haven't come so far that I wasn't just a little bit taken off guard the other night when, as I was cleaning the kitchen counter and yelling to him in the other room "do you want to open a bottle of wine for me?", he came into the kitchen, snuggled up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, pressed against me, and nuzzled my neck. Surprised, but appreciative. And then, my husband whispered in my ear in his most seductive, deep, vibrating, this-is-why-I-have-four-children voice: "oh, honey. I love you so much. Even if you are a wino."
Way to ruin the mood, JMahl. Way to ruin the mood. Now get me a glass of wine.
And the most romantic part? He did.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Breast is Best! Now you see them...
If someone had told my husband ten years ago--before he met me, married me, had four children with me-- that he would one day marry a woman who walked around the house half-nude with her rather large bosom hanging out for him to ogle at his will, he probably would have been thrilled. In fact, I'm quite sure that when he did meet me he had some fantasies that involved coming home from work and finding me wearing nothing but a dressing gown (and heels, his fantasy probably involved heels) with my breasts proudly out. I've done my best to live up to these fantasies, but it doesn't really seem to be having the effect that I'm sure he imagined it would.
Maybe it has to do with the fact that he's not the only one seeing them. Alot of people have seen my breasts over the last eight and a half years. Most of my neighbors have seen them. I'm sure all of the neighborhood boys have seen them. My children's school friends and even their mothers (and one or two of their fathers) have seen them. They are a common sight at my church, even at my parents' church. Restaurant owners and restaurant goers-- yup, they've seen them. One of my brothers informed me last summer that he'd seen more of my breasts than he had his own wife's, so you know they make a regular appearance at family gatherings as well. A friend called me the other day, knowing I was about to do my first ever Mom's group meetup (a big first for me), and advised me to keep them covered up-- other moms don't want to see your breasts. I followed her advice, for the first hour or so. Then out they came. The mailman, the cable man, the door-to-door salesmen, the Jehovah's Witnesses-- they've all seen them. Doctors, real estate agents, receptionists, store employees-- pretty much anyone I've interacted with over the last several years has seen them.
It's not that I'm an immodest person. I was raised with strict guidelines on clothes. Knee-length skirts, no cleavage, keep it all covered-- and to be honest, by the time I developed my breasts at a rather late age (16) they came so suddenly that I was more embarrassed by them than eager to show them. But somewhere down the line, well, keeping them covered became more work than it was worth it to keep them hidden. And that line reduced a little more with each child I had.
When Kayton was born, breastfeeding was amazing, but somewhat embarrassing. I felt like the whole world was looking each time I put her to nurse, and I was bashful about it. If I was out to eat, I'd keep a blanket covering me, and do my best to make sure no one would hear her contented slurps and sighs as she filled her belly. With Mason, I attempted to be equally discrete, although I often found the blanket slipping as I attempted to nurse him while trying to keep an active one year old Kayton from escaping or making a mess. And as time went on and the infant would much prefer to look at his mother while nursing then be hidden under a blanket, I stopped worrying so much about the blanket, and just worried about keeping both children quiet and well-behaved. So if a little bit of breast showed, so be it. I was just feeding my child- better that than listening to him scream, right?
With Kayton and Mason, however, I was working full-time, so much of my breast-feeding was done in private, and I also tried to be discreet about the pumping during the day at work. However, in the small office I worked in, well, even that became an issue. My coworkers knew that a few times a day, I'd be retiring to my assigned pumping location- an empty office- to fill up the bottles for the next day. They were pretty good about giving me my privacy during that time, but I did manage to flash a coworker one time when, forgetting that I was in there, he barged in to set up a private conference call, only to discover me, both breasts holding forth hooked up to my awesome double breast pump (thank you, Lana), as I relaxed in the chair reading a book. I'm not sure who was more embarrassed- me or him- but I've never felt more like a cow than at that moment. And maybe that moment is what started my transition to just not caring. Or maybe it was more subtle.
By the time Kolbie was born I was wrangling two other children while attempting to keep her latched on to my nipple. At home, it wasn't a big deal. My children are so used to my nursing that they don't even blink an eye. Oh, with each new child there's always a little bit of "let me see where the milk comes from again", but it quickly becomes nothing. Well, nothing to me or to them. To the "others" who come into range... well...
One time, when Kolbie was a few months old, we went out to Applebees. It was dinner time for all of us, and of course, Kolbie was hungry. So I put her on my breast and proceeded to scan the menu. The waiter, a young boy, probably 18 or 19, came to the table and started to take our order. I make it a point to always be very nice and polite to servers, since that's how I paid for college, and I was chatting nicely with him about his recommendations when I noticed he'd started to stumble over his words a bit and his face was turning different shades of red very rapidly. I felt sort of badly for him, assuming that he was, perhaps, new and wasn't used to being asked so many questions (seriously, how hard is it to order from an Applebees menu?), so I went into extra nice mode. After what was, to him apparently, a painfully long time, he left to fill our orders, and I returned my attention to Kolbie-- only to then realize that she was sound asleep-- mouth turned to the side--and my prominent, recently nursed nipple pointing out and up for all the world-- specifically, my young waiter- to see. I would say that he got a big tip, but, well, that pun is already pretty obvious.
My level of modesty just went down hill from there. Micah came into the world and I just gave up. Besides, there's something about writhing naked on a table in a brightly lit room surrounded by 10 to 15 people moments after giving birth to a child that strips your last semblances of modesty. With my first three births I'd managed to stay somewhat covered up and modest. With Micah, there was so much blood and so much pain (and so much fear of death, to be honest) that I just went all out naked. And with people running in and out of the room desperately, heck, I didn't care. So from the first time I put her on my breast, moments after delivery, surrounded by doctors and nurses and a panicked looking husband, I didn't care who saw my breasts anymore. (or my hoo-ha, at that point, either)
And leaving the hospital didn't cure that problem. Micah likes to nurse on a whim. She nurses like she's smoking a joint. Puff, puff.... pass for a few minutes... then back to puff, puff again. This means that in order to maintain a level of modesty, I'd be hooking and unhooking my bra and arranging my shirt every three and a half minutes. And, let's be honest, I'm too lazy for that. So often, one or both breasts are just hanging out there waiting for her to crawl back over for another drag. Which explains why so many people have been witness to my ample blessings from God. (A fact that my mother never hesitates to remind me of since I spent years between the ages of 12 and 15 begging God to please give me breasts so the boys would stop calling me "Flatryn". Well, He did. He has a sense of humor, too. Now I pray that He would please take some of this away, since JMahl's not too keen on paying for a breast reduction.)
But while my sense of modesty may be (almost) non-existent, my sense of propriety is not. Nor is my husband's. And while he's used to me whipping them out on a moment's notice, regardless of who may be around, he still attempts to keep them a little under control. For example, when we visited Alabama a few months ago- my first time meeting much of his family- he asked me to please nurse in the backroom. And I happily did so-- for the first few minutes. The first time his Aunt told me to just "stay right there, we're all women- we've all done it", I took her up on that offer. And now much of my husband's extended family have seen my breasts- including the men, since the "we're all women" lasted only as long as it took for the men to come back inside, and by then I had a half-sleeping child and was loathe to relocate and risk waking her.
I've also got various members of my family who, while used to my nursing, are not quite comfortable with it and tend to drop hints such as "she's almost a year now, so I guess you'll be weaning her soon", to which I normally reply "yup, she'll be four in no time!" My husband says I will absolutely NOT be nursing a four year old Micah, but I tell him "my breasts, my baby, and you've never tried to wean a child who didn't want to be weaned." Kayton and Mason weaned pretty easily, but they also were used to the bottle. Kolbie, not quite as easy, but not hard. But again, I worked part time throughout her infancy, so she, too, was used to taking a sippy cup in lieu of the breast. Micah, on the other hand? She's got no desire, at 11 months, to even try to take a bottle or a sippy cup or any thing other than my breast-- and can you blame her? I've got a friend who still occasionally nurses her two year old child. I say more power to you! She managed to keep that baby nursing through a full-time job. That takes commitment. And, let's be honest, it's easier to keep going than to stop sometimes.
And really, why should I tackle the whole weaning thing when there doesn't seem to be a real reason to? I don't have a job yet (I am looking!), and breast milk is so much cheaper and easier than filling a bottle/ cup with juice or cow milk or formula. And there's something so comforting and relaxing for her and me both to just sit together and be together. And besides, many studies say that the longer you nurse a child the healthier, happier, SMARTER**, and better socially-adjusted the baby will be. And I'm all about healthy, happy, smarter, well-adjusted kids. Especially when it involves little or no extra work on my part.
And while this may not be the exact fantasy my husband had in mind when he envisioned a bare-breasted woman meeting him at the door each day after work, well, it hasn't been so hard on him. They just came out with a study that said men who stare at breasts 10 minutes a day significantly decrease their risk of heart disease***. I'm just doing my part to keep him (and you, if you're male) healthy-- and sure, we learned the very uncomfortable way that trying to make out while a baby is nursing is just very very "weird" for me, and somewhat incestuous (never doing that again), but, heck, he wanted big breasts and he got them!
And one day these breasts will be his again-- and on display for only him. And if he's lucky, I'll never quite regain my sense of modesty and he'll still come home to me flaunting myself shamelessly around the kitchen-- but maybe by then all four kids will be in school and there won't be a baby hanging from my nipple, and he can actually enjoy the experience.
*http://www.kellymom.com/bf/bfextended/ebf-benefits.html
**http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1651-2227.2005.tb01997.x/full
***http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1651-2227.2005.tb01997.x/full
Maybe it has to do with the fact that he's not the only one seeing them. Alot of people have seen my breasts over the last eight and a half years. Most of my neighbors have seen them. I'm sure all of the neighborhood boys have seen them. My children's school friends and even their mothers (and one or two of their fathers) have seen them. They are a common sight at my church, even at my parents' church. Restaurant owners and restaurant goers-- yup, they've seen them. One of my brothers informed me last summer that he'd seen more of my breasts than he had his own wife's, so you know they make a regular appearance at family gatherings as well. A friend called me the other day, knowing I was about to do my first ever Mom's group meetup (a big first for me), and advised me to keep them covered up-- other moms don't want to see your breasts. I followed her advice, for the first hour or so. Then out they came. The mailman, the cable man, the door-to-door salesmen, the Jehovah's Witnesses-- they've all seen them. Doctors, real estate agents, receptionists, store employees-- pretty much anyone I've interacted with over the last several years has seen them.
It's not that I'm an immodest person. I was raised with strict guidelines on clothes. Knee-length skirts, no cleavage, keep it all covered-- and to be honest, by the time I developed my breasts at a rather late age (16) they came so suddenly that I was more embarrassed by them than eager to show them. But somewhere down the line, well, keeping them covered became more work than it was worth it to keep them hidden. And that line reduced a little more with each child I had.
When Kayton was born, breastfeeding was amazing, but somewhat embarrassing. I felt like the whole world was looking each time I put her to nurse, and I was bashful about it. If I was out to eat, I'd keep a blanket covering me, and do my best to make sure no one would hear her contented slurps and sighs as she filled her belly. With Mason, I attempted to be equally discrete, although I often found the blanket slipping as I attempted to nurse him while trying to keep an active one year old Kayton from escaping or making a mess. And as time went on and the infant would much prefer to look at his mother while nursing then be hidden under a blanket, I stopped worrying so much about the blanket, and just worried about keeping both children quiet and well-behaved. So if a little bit of breast showed, so be it. I was just feeding my child- better that than listening to him scream, right?
With Kayton and Mason, however, I was working full-time, so much of my breast-feeding was done in private, and I also tried to be discreet about the pumping during the day at work. However, in the small office I worked in, well, even that became an issue. My coworkers knew that a few times a day, I'd be retiring to my assigned pumping location- an empty office- to fill up the bottles for the next day. They were pretty good about giving me my privacy during that time, but I did manage to flash a coworker one time when, forgetting that I was in there, he barged in to set up a private conference call, only to discover me, both breasts holding forth hooked up to my awesome double breast pump (thank you, Lana), as I relaxed in the chair reading a book. I'm not sure who was more embarrassed- me or him- but I've never felt more like a cow than at that moment. And maybe that moment is what started my transition to just not caring. Or maybe it was more subtle.
By the time Kolbie was born I was wrangling two other children while attempting to keep her latched on to my nipple. At home, it wasn't a big deal. My children are so used to my nursing that they don't even blink an eye. Oh, with each new child there's always a little bit of "let me see where the milk comes from again", but it quickly becomes nothing. Well, nothing to me or to them. To the "others" who come into range... well...
One time, when Kolbie was a few months old, we went out to Applebees. It was dinner time for all of us, and of course, Kolbie was hungry. So I put her on my breast and proceeded to scan the menu. The waiter, a young boy, probably 18 or 19, came to the table and started to take our order. I make it a point to always be very nice and polite to servers, since that's how I paid for college, and I was chatting nicely with him about his recommendations when I noticed he'd started to stumble over his words a bit and his face was turning different shades of red very rapidly. I felt sort of badly for him, assuming that he was, perhaps, new and wasn't used to being asked so many questions (seriously, how hard is it to order from an Applebees menu?), so I went into extra nice mode. After what was, to him apparently, a painfully long time, he left to fill our orders, and I returned my attention to Kolbie-- only to then realize that she was sound asleep-- mouth turned to the side--and my prominent, recently nursed nipple pointing out and up for all the world-- specifically, my young waiter- to see. I would say that he got a big tip, but, well, that pun is already pretty obvious.
My level of modesty just went down hill from there. Micah came into the world and I just gave up. Besides, there's something about writhing naked on a table in a brightly lit room surrounded by 10 to 15 people moments after giving birth to a child that strips your last semblances of modesty. With my first three births I'd managed to stay somewhat covered up and modest. With Micah, there was so much blood and so much pain (and so much fear of death, to be honest) that I just went all out naked. And with people running in and out of the room desperately, heck, I didn't care. So from the first time I put her on my breast, moments after delivery, surrounded by doctors and nurses and a panicked looking husband, I didn't care who saw my breasts anymore. (or my hoo-ha, at that point, either)
And leaving the hospital didn't cure that problem. Micah likes to nurse on a whim. She nurses like she's smoking a joint. Puff, puff.... pass for a few minutes... then back to puff, puff again. This means that in order to maintain a level of modesty, I'd be hooking and unhooking my bra and arranging my shirt every three and a half minutes. And, let's be honest, I'm too lazy for that. So often, one or both breasts are just hanging out there waiting for her to crawl back over for another drag. Which explains why so many people have been witness to my ample blessings from God. (A fact that my mother never hesitates to remind me of since I spent years between the ages of 12 and 15 begging God to please give me breasts so the boys would stop calling me "Flatryn". Well, He did. He has a sense of humor, too. Now I pray that He would please take some of this away, since JMahl's not too keen on paying for a breast reduction.)
But while my sense of modesty may be (almost) non-existent, my sense of propriety is not. Nor is my husband's. And while he's used to me whipping them out on a moment's notice, regardless of who may be around, he still attempts to keep them a little under control. For example, when we visited Alabama a few months ago- my first time meeting much of his family- he asked me to please nurse in the backroom. And I happily did so-- for the first few minutes. The first time his Aunt told me to just "stay right there, we're all women- we've all done it", I took her up on that offer. And now much of my husband's extended family have seen my breasts- including the men, since the "we're all women" lasted only as long as it took for the men to come back inside, and by then I had a half-sleeping child and was loathe to relocate and risk waking her.
I've also got various members of my family who, while used to my nursing, are not quite comfortable with it and tend to drop hints such as "she's almost a year now, so I guess you'll be weaning her soon", to which I normally reply "yup, she'll be four in no time!" My husband says I will absolutely NOT be nursing a four year old Micah, but I tell him "my breasts, my baby, and you've never tried to wean a child who didn't want to be weaned." Kayton and Mason weaned pretty easily, but they also were used to the bottle. Kolbie, not quite as easy, but not hard. But again, I worked part time throughout her infancy, so she, too, was used to taking a sippy cup in lieu of the breast. Micah, on the other hand? She's got no desire, at 11 months, to even try to take a bottle or a sippy cup or any thing other than my breast-- and can you blame her? I've got a friend who still occasionally nurses her two year old child. I say more power to you! She managed to keep that baby nursing through a full-time job. That takes commitment. And, let's be honest, it's easier to keep going than to stop sometimes.
And really, why should I tackle the whole weaning thing when there doesn't seem to be a real reason to? I don't have a job yet (I am looking!), and breast milk is so much cheaper and easier than filling a bottle/ cup with juice or cow milk or formula. And there's something so comforting and relaxing for her and me both to just sit together and be together. And besides, many studies say that the longer you nurse a child the healthier, happier, SMARTER**, and better socially-adjusted the baby will be. And I'm all about healthy, happy, smarter, well-adjusted kids. Especially when it involves little or no extra work on my part.
And while this may not be the exact fantasy my husband had in mind when he envisioned a bare-breasted woman meeting him at the door each day after work, well, it hasn't been so hard on him. They just came out with a study that said men who stare at breasts 10 minutes a day significantly decrease their risk of heart disease***. I'm just doing my part to keep him (and you, if you're male) healthy-- and sure, we learned the very uncomfortable way that trying to make out while a baby is nursing is just very very "weird" for me, and somewhat incestuous (never doing that again), but, heck, he wanted big breasts and he got them!
And one day these breasts will be his again-- and on display for only him. And if he's lucky, I'll never quite regain my sense of modesty and he'll still come home to me flaunting myself shamelessly around the kitchen-- but maybe by then all four kids will be in school and there won't be a baby hanging from my nipple, and he can actually enjoy the experience.
*http://www.kellymom.com/bf/bfextended/ebf-benefits.html
**http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1651-2227.2005.tb01997.x/full
***http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/j.1651-2227.2005.tb01997.x/full
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
History and Hair
I didn't do any laundry yesterday- or any exercising either. Dinner was on the table by 6:30, but the kitchen wasn't all that clean; and I didn't go to bed until long past my normal schedule. But I did read a book- start to finish in one day- and sometimes, that counts as a successful day for me.
On the recommendation of a few friends of mine (and NPR), I read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. (and no, Mom, I didn't "borrow" your copy- I got mine from the library.
Now, I didn't think this was the greatest book ever written, and it wasn't necessarily one of those books that you just can't put down, but it was definitely a good read and I do recommend it. What got me about this book was that it delved into a social relationship that I'd never fully considered- that of female black help and their female white bosses. Sure, we all know about Civil Rights and racism, but this book went beyond that to show the less overt factors that influenced a black woman's ability to feel proud of herself and her position as a black woman. And I can't say I would have liked it as much had I not constantly envisioned my children's grandparents and great-grandparents in those scenarios.
JMahl's family is from the South. His grandmother still lives in Memphis where my Mother-in-law was born and raised; his father is from Birmingham. JMahl will tell me stories of visiting his relatives in the projects of Memphis, but he never came from that world himself. His parents met in Baltimore, where they had both moved to give themselves a new start and a new life. JMahl was raised in Columbia, Maryland, which is often considered to be one of the most affluent, educated, and diverse areas in the United States. As a result, he is as much like me in that we don't 'really' know what it was like to be poor and black in the South-- much less in the 1960's south.
I've asked my Mother-in-law about her life, but most of what I get in response is "I could write a book". But she doesn't ever go into that much detail. I do know she was one of the first black females to enroll in the University of Memphis, which should tell you something about the courage and fortitude of my Mother-in-Law. I also know that it was so difficult on her that she chose not to stay there. I know she was one of ten children and that her father was a truck driver who always expected the house to be spotless (JMahl doesn't fall far from that tree), and that she spent some time working in San Fransisco in the 60's. But I don't know much else about her life prior to moving to Baltimore, completing a Masters degree, meeting her husband, giving birth to JMahl, and spending the next thirty years teaching in the Baltimore Public School System.
It wasn't until I read "The Help" yesterday that I began to wonder if maybe her reluctance to talk to me openly about her past isn't that she doesn't want to recall it, but maybe she doesn't think that I, a white woman, can understand it.
We like to believe that racism is dead, and yet we know that it is not. This is a frequent discussion in my home, actually. (Yes, discussion could be code for argument.) When I mention the amount of racism that I believe still exists in the United States, JMahl is typically quick to argue that most places are not like the small town in which I was raised in which there was, during my childhood, a clear color line; although, when I discuss my desire to move away from Columbia (I get bored), he quickly switches positions and argues that Columbia is the best place to raise an interracial family. And maybe both factors are true. Maybe there is a lot of room in between for not-quite acceptance, but not quite-racist. The post-civil rights era seems to demonstrate that... but we're in 2011 now. Can this still be true? Or are we afraid that yes, it is still true, and maybe that's why we don't really want to talk much about it? I went to a small all-white high school, which I'm sure influenced my belief in the color line, even if others did not see it as such, and the one black friend I had as a teenager didn't discuss the issue of race much with me either. I don't know if we felt it was taboo to talk about it, or what. Maybe discussing color would make it real, while ignoring the differences would make them unapparent?
Even with my own children, I sometimes find it very difficult to discuss race with them. Do I want to refer to my husband and my children as "black"? That term seems so--- labeling. And as Kayton was always quick to point out to me (and now Kolbie does the same)- "Daddy's not black, he's brown!" Oddly enough, my light coffee colored children (except for Micah who is pretty much coffee with a gallon of milk poured in) all tend to relate more to JMahl in regards to their looks. Whenever someone tells Kayton she looks just like me (which she does), she quickly responds with a No I don't! I have Daddy's hair and Daddy's eyes and Daddy's skin! I don't look like my Mom at all!
And if this is how they see themselves now-- will this change? Will they recognize that they don't have to choose one race over another on their census forms (like Obama did. Yes, that bothered me, as the mother of bi-racial children.) But really, who am I to discuss with them their race when I have no insight into what it's like to be black? Their father may provide some "black" insight, but he also grew up in a pretty color-free zone. So it falls on their grandparents, then, to teach them about what it was like... then... before...
I'd like to think that our history doesn't affect this generation. And maybe it doesn't matter at all. Maybe their racial history is as unimportant to them as mine. Or maybe the fact that they are both white and black will balance itself out and they will feel comfortable with the history they read in books and not feel the need to understand their personal history-- how their grandmother was treated as she attempted to desegregate a state college. How their grandfather was treated as a Black in the Air Force. Or maybe they'll be stuck in limbo land... like their hair.
The hair on the heads of my children could easily become a metaphor for what it's like to be bi-racial. Each of my kids was born with an entirely different texture, color, curl to their hair. Kayton's is dark brown, thick and long with nice round curls- but frizzes within minutes of a bath. Mason has coarser, darker black hair. When we grow it out in the winter it becomes the perfect replica of a 1960's afro.. with maybe a little less bounce. Kolbie got a headful of golden tinted light brown spirals that stick straight off her head in all directions. No need to push her hair out of her face or raise it off her neck--it's already there-- sticking straight six inches into the air. It defies gravity, that hair. And Micah, soft, large, black curls.
But as to the metaphor-- many times I have asked my mother-in-law for advice on what to do with their hair. Here am I, a white girl who hardly knows how to use a hair dryer on myself, forced to deal with four heads of unruly "biracial" hair. And yet my mother-in-law's response is the same as mine. "I don't know-- that's not black hair." Not black hair, not white hair. Stuck somewhere in limbo. And sure, they sell products for such hair-- but it doesn't work on all kids-- or any of mine for longer than four minutes. And do I really want to cake product after chemical on my little girls beautiful heads simply so there can be some "normalcy", controllability to their hair? Or do I let it go free, wild- this is your hair, love it as it is-- because that's the way for them to understand that they are who they are- a mix of both, and perfect as they are.
Maybe it's not about solving a problem, fixing their hair; maybe it's not about educating them on what their ancestors went through to get them to where they are; and how we are the same- which implies there are ways in which we different. Maybe it's not something that I can ever understand. Maybe it's not something that any white person can ever understand. Or any thing any person born after 1980 can understand.
But I know that if my Mother-in-Law ever sits me down and says "I want to tell you how it was. I want to tell you what I went through-- so that you will know. So that you will be able to tell my grandchildren one day". If that day comes I do want to try to understand to the best of my ability. Because while it may not be a part of my history, it is a part of my children's. And even though their hair may not be "black hair" and it may not be "white hair", it is still their hair.
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