Just a wee piece I wrote nearly three years ago about SeaBass and I.
Sea Bass Mama
I had a daydream yesterday as I was swirling my fingers around in the murky depths of our toilet: I was 22, I had my own apartment, and I told my future husband I loved him in the wee hours following my birthday party that evening. Everything was clean, beautiful, new, and shiny. Love—not just lust—but true love feels like that. I snap out of my daydream, and realize that it was all a lie; all those events did happen, they did feel like love, and they were actually a memory, not a daydream to escape into as my knees begin to ache on the bathroom floor. No, real love is swishing your 15-month-old’s poo-crusty diaper in the toilet, because there is no one else on this planet, galaxy, or universe that I love enough to do this. This is nasty. This is the wrong end of Italian bean soup I lovingly made for my family. And lovingly wiped up after it was flung at the floor with a smile. And lovingly washed away amidst the banshee screams from my son’s face.
Before I go on about what real love is and all the crap you expect to hear from a new mom, let me state this quite clearly: love and being dope-slapped into the bizarre world of parenting go hand in hand, and they’re both exceedingly messy, tiring, and frustrating. I am not a model parent. You will not see me in Gymboree. You won’t find me on the pages of a local parenting rag. You will, however, see me toting my little poo-flinger in a wrap down to the river on a sunny day so we can nurse and I can flash my breasts in public (the real goal of nursing mothers worldwide; we all hope to get into National Geographic or on the news or thrown off of airplanes for indecent exposure).
It has come to my attention, however, that I am not alone in my alternative parenting style. Apparently, there are other mothers and parents in this beer-soggy burg that also enjoy being part of a fringe group that use cloth diapers, make their own baby food, and generally try to live simple, thrifty, and socially responsible lifestyles. We keep a low profile, however, as we’re the same people that are hard to advertise to; my son got his junk mail within 2 weeks of his birth and we’ve been getting it since. He’s a fresh, potential consumer, easily marketed and marketable, and I’m wearing a sweater I’ve had since 1996. But I digress.
Here’s the thing: punk parenting isn’t easy, but it’s a hard-won satisfaction that is reinforced by the idea that I can raise an individual who isn’t a cog, who doesn’t take the easy way out, who can choose what he wants (I have a son, so I’m going to use the pronoun ‘he’, but you’re welcome to use whatever pronoun—if any—you want) to do with his life. I’m trying to teach him this in little ways, without creating animosity toward the freshly-scrubbed faces within the mainstream parenting world by showing him as much of his world as I can, as openly as I can.
For example, I was pulling Sea Bass (obviously not his real name, nor is it connected to the mean-spirited trucker in “Dumb and Dumber”) along in his red wagon on a post-holiday consumption walk, when what should I spy but a slightly stained coffeemaker on a neighbor’s lawn. This handy appliance was re-packaged in its replacement’s box (which had a few dangly bits of Xmas wrap on it); apparently the older model had been chucked for one with a few more bells and whistles. I could feel my fingers twitching. It had been months since my last big curb score (a pressed-board shelving system that now holds all our winter garb), and I wasn’t about to let this one slip by. However, in my nearly 10 years of scavenging and dumpster diving, I’ve learned a few caveats about the general consuming public:
A. If it works, but the former owner doesn’t want anyone else to have it (and they’re getting rid of it), the odds are high that they’ll purposely sabotage the item; i.e.: cut the cord on the appliance, break the glass bits, pour water on it, purposely put it out in the rain/extreme cold/heat, dump nasty trash on it, etc.
B. They’re lazy. Even if it can be fixed (re-wiring a plug on a lamp, for example), they probably won’t bother. Although, sadly, many conscientious consumers understand planned obsolescence and don’t give their products a second thought after they fail.
C. They love the newest and best. Case in point, my new old coffeemaker.
I did a brief inspection of the cast-off: carafe unbroken, cord intact, burner plate still attached. A thorough washing and a bottle of vinegar later, said coffeemaker is in perfect, working condition in its new home, happily percolating for some very grateful caffeine junkies.
I would like to add that my son looked at me like I was asking him to get out and push when I nudged the coffeemaker behind him in the wagon. “Baby, isn’t this exciting? We found a coffeemaker!” This was followed up with a worried half-whine/grunt and an impatience wiggle (as in, “Fine, good, I’m glad for you and the box. Can we please keep moving now that my already very small testicles are currently non-existent in this 20 degree weather?).
To me, this is showing my son what love is. It’s walking instead of driving, it’s re-using other people’s throw-aways, it’s swishing a cloth diaper cover in the toilet so that, in some small way, I’m giving him a friendlier, smarter, healthier world that he is happy to call his home.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Sticky Chunks for Selfish Reasons
This is the time of year when I begin to think about fall. 85 degrees, 70% humidity, children whining and expiring before my eyes due to excessive heat. I'm whining and expiring before YOUR very eyes! Actually, at this very moment, I'm hiding in our fairy room (for those of you unfamiliar to the fairy room, this is where all of mama & papa's special toys are kept--no, not those toys, you filthy beast! Sewing machine, printer, loads of cds, precarious books on perches, paints, needles, artwork, old journals, a shredder; ie, things that little hands should not touch).
This room--a sort of room of our own (mine and Michael's) will probably be forfeited to Beatrice, should we live here long enough; Sebastian's room is really the multi-purpose diaper-changing/sleep space/clothing storage area, but he doesn't seem to mind, as long as he has his fire fighter lamp...and his firetruck rug...and his world map...and his potty poster (stickers he earned for each successful pee trip when we were in training mode--or commode). I'm going to miss this room. When the sticky chunks from the children go flying, this is where I like to hide (usually with permission, so as not to leave Michael to simply track my dust cloud as I sprint away). Virginia had her own room, hell--so did Pandora--is it wrong to want to keep this room? A place for the holey shirts to collect, sadly awaiting mending; a refuge for the stuffed animals that have been bitten apart by a tiny teether; a landing strip for the airborne internet signal to alight; I shall miss them all dearly, should I sacrifice this space.
I've got a while yet; it's fortunate for me that Beatrice likes the taste of coffee (which is hopefully stunting her growth) and has a spirit for adventure; she might be content on a shelf, or perhaps in the hammock-shaped lens of the light fixture...
This room--a sort of room of our own (mine and Michael's) will probably be forfeited to Beatrice, should we live here long enough; Sebastian's room is really the multi-purpose diaper-changing/sleep space/clothing storage area, but he doesn't seem to mind, as long as he has his fire fighter lamp...and his firetruck rug...and his world map...and his potty poster (stickers he earned for each successful pee trip when we were in training mode--or commode). I'm going to miss this room. When the sticky chunks from the children go flying, this is where I like to hide (usually with permission, so as not to leave Michael to simply track my dust cloud as I sprint away). Virginia had her own room, hell--so did Pandora--is it wrong to want to keep this room? A place for the holey shirts to collect, sadly awaiting mending; a refuge for the stuffed animals that have been bitten apart by a tiny teether; a landing strip for the airborne internet signal to alight; I shall miss them all dearly, should I sacrifice this space.
I've got a while yet; it's fortunate for me that Beatrice likes the taste of coffee (which is hopefully stunting her growth) and has a spirit for adventure; she might be content on a shelf, or perhaps in the hammock-shaped lens of the light fixture...
Monday, April 19, 2010
You Can't Breastfeed a Baby Bird
So, I go outside to take the laundry off the line, and I do a full stop, dry cloth diaper in hand, to take in the small, pink lump that offered a change to the gray slab pavement. I walk over carefully, noting that I'm a little scared. I look closer and see that the little lump is breathing. A pink, translucent little critter is free-loading on my yard...and I realize it's a baby bird with no home. I need to digress here:
Shortly after the birth of little SeaBass, my midwife told me that, "when you become a mother, you become a mother to the whole world." No truer words have been spoken. When a kid cries, even if I know it's not one of my own, I'll look to see if I can help. I can't stand idly by anymore if anyone needs help. I just can't. I used to be much frostier than this; what was another whiny kid? A nuisance. Now? Oh, my...
My breasts fill with milk as I size up this helpless, probably dying creature. What the hell could I do? If it were me, pre-children, I'd say, "eh, an animal will get it and put it out of its misery. That's nature. Sucks to be the bird, but someone else will get an appetizer." I'm not horrified at that pre-babe me, but I'm glad she's gone. I'm a much softer, more tender me, and I can't help but think that I need to try to do my best to give this wee little creature a fair shot. My first thought: put on gloves, and hold the bird gently in a soft cloth until I can figure out what to do next.
What did I do next, you may ask? Well, it should be obvious, really...30 years ago--heck, even 15 years ago, people would reference an encyclopedia to figure out how to take care of a stranded bird; I did the modern thing: reference the all-knowing beastie we so lovingly turn to in times of crisis or drunkenness (especially when seeking out old classmates/crushes): the internet!
I'm told by the National Audubon Society that not only should I do nothing for this bird, but that it is illegal to harbor a wild bird in one's home. Okay, too harsh. Need a more liberal approach to bird-rearing...ask.com suggests the same, but to also consider putting the bird back in the nest (if I can find it) or, if it's feathered, leave it alone to let its parents take care of it. If it is unfeathered and has no nest, one could try to build a simple nest for it out of a berry container and some straw or paper strips and place it in a tree; the parent will find it and take care of it. Regardless, one should NOT FEED the bird.
This is where it gets difficult (although it was already difficult doing the research with one hand while the other was holding a peeping baby bird); I gave directions to Michael about how to build a nest and we managed to put together a decent home made out of 1/4 of an egg carton and shredded paper towels. I took it outside and nestled it into the lilac bushes (the nearest tree-ish home from whence the wee bird could have emerged), and placed the ugliest, most dearest thing inside. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. Repeat this 3 more times. I felt invested. I felt responsible. I felt like a mother to this bird's world.
Michael and I (and Bea, who was being slung by Michael) went inside, and I felt like I did something for the little bird, but I felt anxious. What if I moved the bird too far away? What if its mother gave up on it? What if it was a runt and meant to die in the first place? I conceded to myself that at least I gave it a more comfortable way to die, amongst the fragrance of the lilacs, the gentle breeze, the warm, green leaves, and the sounds of its brethren, rather than to face a gruesome, painful death entailing a slow mastication of its flesh by ants, mites, bugs, or other critters...To die peacefully in the trees must at least FEEL better than to be eaten alive, right?
I watched the egg-carton nest-condo on and off for an hour from the kitchen window, waiting for mama or papa to show up. Everytime a bird was in the slightest proximity to the lilacs, I would wonder (sometimes out loud), like some over-anxious foster mother waiting for the new adoptive parents to show up, "is that the one? That robin? I bet that robin is the mama. Or that fat sparrow. No, definitely the robin."
Yeah, go ahead and laugh...it doesn't stop there, either--no, in my addled brain, fueled with mama-milk hormones (prolactin's the biggie), I decided I needed to feed the bird. Seriously. Okay, by now you're probably wondering if I ate a few worms, vomited them up into a cup, and sucked up the snack w/a syringe for baby, right? Well, you're right about the cup and the syringe, but that's where it stops. The real craziness is that the only thing I could think to give this bird was a teeny amount of human baby formula (I have some from when I could not nurse due to a medicine that I had to take for a few days). Prepped, sucked into the syringe, and yep--baby bird drank some, desperately clinging onto the mouth of the syringe as if it were mama herself. I nearly cried.
I'm sure that in the end, it'll have been me that killed the bird. It might still be alive out there, but I'm guessing it has already died of exposure or possibly indigestion; sure, we've seen grown birds eating cheese before, but this is nonfat cow milk with a shitload of crazy human-growth vitamins. A tasty last meal, perhaps? A constipating cork of goo that overwhelmed an underdeveloped digestive system? All of the above. I couldn't leave it alone. I couldn't leave it unfed. The poor little thing didn't stand a chance.
Shortly after the birth of little SeaBass, my midwife told me that, "when you become a mother, you become a mother to the whole world." No truer words have been spoken. When a kid cries, even if I know it's not one of my own, I'll look to see if I can help. I can't stand idly by anymore if anyone needs help. I just can't. I used to be much frostier than this; what was another whiny kid? A nuisance. Now? Oh, my...
My breasts fill with milk as I size up this helpless, probably dying creature. What the hell could I do? If it were me, pre-children, I'd say, "eh, an animal will get it and put it out of its misery. That's nature. Sucks to be the bird, but someone else will get an appetizer." I'm not horrified at that pre-babe me, but I'm glad she's gone. I'm a much softer, more tender me, and I can't help but think that I need to try to do my best to give this wee little creature a fair shot. My first thought: put on gloves, and hold the bird gently in a soft cloth until I can figure out what to do next.
What did I do next, you may ask? Well, it should be obvious, really...30 years ago--heck, even 15 years ago, people would reference an encyclopedia to figure out how to take care of a stranded bird; I did the modern thing: reference the all-knowing beastie we so lovingly turn to in times of crisis or drunkenness (especially when seeking out old classmates/crushes): the internet!
I'm told by the National Audubon Society that not only should I do nothing for this bird, but that it is illegal to harbor a wild bird in one's home. Okay, too harsh. Need a more liberal approach to bird-rearing...ask.com suggests the same, but to also consider putting the bird back in the nest (if I can find it) or, if it's feathered, leave it alone to let its parents take care of it. If it is unfeathered and has no nest, one could try to build a simple nest for it out of a berry container and some straw or paper strips and place it in a tree; the parent will find it and take care of it. Regardless, one should NOT FEED the bird.
This is where it gets difficult (although it was already difficult doing the research with one hand while the other was holding a peeping baby bird); I gave directions to Michael about how to build a nest and we managed to put together a decent home made out of 1/4 of an egg carton and shredded paper towels. I took it outside and nestled it into the lilac bushes (the nearest tree-ish home from whence the wee bird could have emerged), and placed the ugliest, most dearest thing inside. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. Repeat this 3 more times. I felt invested. I felt responsible. I felt like a mother to this bird's world.
Michael and I (and Bea, who was being slung by Michael) went inside, and I felt like I did something for the little bird, but I felt anxious. What if I moved the bird too far away? What if its mother gave up on it? What if it was a runt and meant to die in the first place? I conceded to myself that at least I gave it a more comfortable way to die, amongst the fragrance of the lilacs, the gentle breeze, the warm, green leaves, and the sounds of its brethren, rather than to face a gruesome, painful death entailing a slow mastication of its flesh by ants, mites, bugs, or other critters...To die peacefully in the trees must at least FEEL better than to be eaten alive, right?
I watched the egg-carton nest-condo on and off for an hour from the kitchen window, waiting for mama or papa to show up. Everytime a bird was in the slightest proximity to the lilacs, I would wonder (sometimes out loud), like some over-anxious foster mother waiting for the new adoptive parents to show up, "is that the one? That robin? I bet that robin is the mama. Or that fat sparrow. No, definitely the robin."
Yeah, go ahead and laugh...it doesn't stop there, either--no, in my addled brain, fueled with mama-milk hormones (prolactin's the biggie), I decided I needed to feed the bird. Seriously. Okay, by now you're probably wondering if I ate a few worms, vomited them up into a cup, and sucked up the snack w/a syringe for baby, right? Well, you're right about the cup and the syringe, but that's where it stops. The real craziness is that the only thing I could think to give this bird was a teeny amount of human baby formula (I have some from when I could not nurse due to a medicine that I had to take for a few days). Prepped, sucked into the syringe, and yep--baby bird drank some, desperately clinging onto the mouth of the syringe as if it were mama herself. I nearly cried.
I'm sure that in the end, it'll have been me that killed the bird. It might still be alive out there, but I'm guessing it has already died of exposure or possibly indigestion; sure, we've seen grown birds eating cheese before, but this is nonfat cow milk with a shitload of crazy human-growth vitamins. A tasty last meal, perhaps? A constipating cork of goo that overwhelmed an underdeveloped digestive system? All of the above. I couldn't leave it alone. I couldn't leave it unfed. The poor little thing didn't stand a chance.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Phountains of Phlegm
Everyone's sick. Sebastian's laying beside me on the couch, sounding like a rock tumbler, in a lightly feverish snooze. Bea and Michael are curled up in bed upstairs; she's in and out of fevers, he's trying to crawl out of virus-induced lethargy. I'm still ill too, but I'm awake for some strange reason. I think I needed to twiddle about the internet, uninterrupted, for the first time in a week; Beatrice hasn't nursed this much since she was a newborn, and I'm astounded to find a laptop in my lap, rather than a feverish baby.
Some way to spend your 1st birthday; she was due on the 20th (yeah, yeah, 4/20, I know), but thankfully she was spared a lifetime of pot and Hitler-referenced birthday memories by having the good grace to come out on the 21st. Hopefully she'll be well for her big day, and I can take a ridiculous amount of cute pictures of my beautiful babe.
Just finished "His Dark Materials" book 3: "The Amber Spyglass" by Philip Pullman; it was so very, very good, that I'm sad its over--but then, I'm happy for that, because I love it when a good book is so good that it makes me sad. I've moved on to "Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O'Toole, and Oliver Reed." I first heard it mentioned on NPR, and to my surprise, it's not a new release, just newly paperbacked. It's astonishingly detailed and rather poorly punctuated and edited, but it's a riveting read about the naughtiest of the naughty British actors to ravage the screen/stage/pub/women...
Bleh. More coughing and sneezing. Not that this is vital information to a reader, but I think I'll mosey along, to blog again another day.
Some way to spend your 1st birthday; she was due on the 20th (yeah, yeah, 4/20, I know), but thankfully she was spared a lifetime of pot and Hitler-referenced birthday memories by having the good grace to come out on the 21st. Hopefully she'll be well for her big day, and I can take a ridiculous amount of cute pictures of my beautiful babe.
Just finished "His Dark Materials" book 3: "The Amber Spyglass" by Philip Pullman; it was so very, very good, that I'm sad its over--but then, I'm happy for that, because I love it when a good book is so good that it makes me sad. I've moved on to "Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O'Toole, and Oliver Reed." I first heard it mentioned on NPR, and to my surprise, it's not a new release, just newly paperbacked. It's astonishingly detailed and rather poorly punctuated and edited, but it's a riveting read about the naughtiest of the naughty British actors to ravage the screen/stage/pub/women...
Bleh. More coughing and sneezing. Not that this is vital information to a reader, but I think I'll mosey along, to blog again another day.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
In Just Seven Days...
"Let the great experiment begin!" --Tobias Funke
We've officially begun potty training (pee training, really, as Sea Bass is already poo-trained) in a flurry of new (Thomas) train undies, bribery, stickers, a potty poster (which will receive aforementioned stickers), and a promise of delightful prizes to come to he who can remain dry sans-diaper. So far, so good; the diaper is on during sleepy-time, but he doesn't seem to mind showing off his new knickers during the rest of the day. I hope this works.
In other news about my spawn:
Beet Rice is eating solid foods. Finally. She resisted all the usual, standard, bland baby fare for whatever we eat: tonight it was mixed-veggie quinoa risotto w/yogurt. She ate seconds.
Random details for you about me:
I've been going to the YMCA 2-3 times/week to ...sigh...(how I abhor the following phrase for its cliche) 'work out'. I found out I don't hate jogging as much as I thought I did, especially when doing it to "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" soundtrack; it's incredibly humorous and po-mo to hear Tim Curry's vibrato trilling out "I Can Make You a Man" while watching the beefy weight lifters beside my treadmill lifting 50 lb. barbells above their heads in time with the beat of the song...It's all really surreal in that little, sweaty body factory in the basement of the Y...
More later, surely...I suppose I should try to find more readers for this silly enterprise.
We've officially begun potty training (pee training, really, as Sea Bass is already poo-trained) in a flurry of new (Thomas) train undies, bribery, stickers, a potty poster (which will receive aforementioned stickers), and a promise of delightful prizes to come to he who can remain dry sans-diaper. So far, so good; the diaper is on during sleepy-time, but he doesn't seem to mind showing off his new knickers during the rest of the day. I hope this works.
In other news about my spawn:
Beet Rice is eating solid foods. Finally. She resisted all the usual, standard, bland baby fare for whatever we eat: tonight it was mixed-veggie quinoa risotto w/yogurt. She ate seconds.
Random details for you about me:
I've been going to the YMCA 2-3 times/week to ...sigh...(how I abhor the following phrase for its cliche) 'work out'. I found out I don't hate jogging as much as I thought I did, especially when doing it to "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" soundtrack; it's incredibly humorous and po-mo to hear Tim Curry's vibrato trilling out "I Can Make You a Man" while watching the beefy weight lifters beside my treadmill lifting 50 lb. barbells above their heads in time with the beat of the song...It's all really surreal in that little, sweaty body factory in the basement of the Y...
More later, surely...I suppose I should try to find more readers for this silly enterprise.
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