Four Months

Leo,

I’m hiding behind the couch as a spin this letter out in my head.

I left you napping on the living room floor while I went to take care of some things around the house. I folded some laundry, swept the floor, and went to put something away in the closet on the back side of the living room.

That’s when you woke up.

I saw your forehead move a little. Your eyelashes fluttered a bit. Then you opened your eyes. At first they didn’t focus and you looked around, trying to figure out where you were while your vision got clearer.

You saw me. Or at least you almost saw me, I think. I’m not sure because as soon as your eyes came around to my side of the room I ducked behind the couch.

And stayed there for five minutes.

Because as soon as you see me, you will realize that you have demands.  You have things that just  must be attended to now. You have problems. Well, problems that don’t really exist, but that you must scream about because you see me now.

So I hid.

Behind my own couch in my own living room from an infant.

Because you are an infant.  A four-month-old infant.

You sleep through the night now, if only in your car seat. You look ridiculous strapped into your car seat in your crib, but it works. You’ve slept all through the night for almost a month now. Your aunt thinks it’s because the car seat is just a little restrictive, like a big boy swaddle, and I think she’s right. Even if she’s not, I don’t care. Your pediatrician reassured us that you will suffer no long- or short-term consequences of this arrangement, and so it will be for the foreseeable future.

I got you a sippy cup the other day because lately you’ve been holding my fingers on opposite sides of you bottle when I feed you, just like you’d hold the handles of a sippy cup. You don’t really get it yet, but you recognize it and are trying. You grab both handles and try to steer the thing into your mouth. At least you did after you figured out you couldn’t just open your mouth and magically be fed. We were doing that, young man, and I guess now is the time for you to start puzzling that one out for yourself.

It’s time for more steps toward independence.

For example, mobility.  Just last week you suddenly tried to start rolling over. You can almost do it, and have done it a few times, but your arm gets in your way like a speed bump. When you do make it all the way over, you haven’t quite figured out what to do with your legs yet, so they stay crossed, which sticks your butt up in the air. This is hilarious.

You also do solid food now. I make most of it myself after we’ve done a test-run with a store-bought jar to make sure you’ll eat it. Otherwise I’m wasting my time making food you won’t eat. Not happening. Though I do love making it. It’s so easy and fun I don’t know why more people don’t do it. Steam vegetables (minimal effort) and then puree them with mixer thing. This second part is so fun that if you hadn’t woken up the first time I did it, I easily could have pureed everything in the kitchen.

Now that you’re starting to feed yourself and move on your own I’ve started to realize how much I’m going to miss my baby. Because you’re not going to be my baby forever, and when my baby is gone, he’s never coming back.

He’ll be replaced with a toddler, a child, young adult, and, too soon, an adult.

Before I know it, you’ll be taking care of yourself, first in small ways, then completely, and you won’t need me. As much as I don’t like the neediness, I’m going to miss it.

You’ll have opinions and make them known. You’ll make choices about what you do with your self and your time. You won’t be my pudgy little baby any more who goes where I go and does what I do.

And as much joy as that will bring us both, I’m going to miss my baby.

Love,

Mama

Who am I when the value I contribute to my home and community is intangible and unpaid?

One of the most depressing moments in recent memory for me occurred as I was driving home from the store with my new sewing machine and I realized that I am excited to be driving my new sewing machine home in my old car to the house where I spend all day with a baby. I am the lamest of 1950s cliches.

This was most depressing since we had our taxes done, when the lady filled in my “occupation” blank on the tax form with “housewife.” I almost cried right there in the tax office.

My new role in life is still a challenge for me. I am still struggling with my identity as stay at home mother, housewife, or whatever you want to call it. No matter what word or phrase is attached to it, it’s hard for me to feel like I’m really contributing or doing something good, even though I firmly believe that what we are doing is right for our family and our child(ren).

The problem is, who am I when I’m not building my resume? Who am I when I’m not working on projects or working for an employer? Who am I when the value I contribute to my home and community is intangible and unpaid?

In lighter news (but also of the depressing variety because my pride now comes from crafting rather than serious professional or intellectual pursuits), I made these a couple days ago by looking at a picture I found through a basic Google search. I don’t want to make this go away, but if you’re going to sell patterns only on Etsy, don’t put up detailed pictures showing the entire finished project, because it’s not too terribly difficult to figure out.

crochet cowboy boot

Love, InshAllah

love, inshallah

 

For the brief period before the inevitable early Spring Minnesota re-freeze, while it was still nearly fifty degrees out, I walked down to the library to 1) see adults, and 2) pick up a book or two written by and for adults.

The most recent to catch my attention and ring some bells as something I’d hoarded away on my Goodreads “Hopefully Someday I’ll Have Time To Read It” list was Love, InshAllah: The Secret Lives of American Muslim Women, edited by Nura Maznavi and Ayesha Mattu.

The book is twenty-five essays broken into five categories, all about women and their experiences with love as Muslims in America. The essays are written by a diverse group of women whose common thread is a strong Muslim and American identity. Some of them were born in America to Muslim families, some are immigrants, others are converts, and many are any combination of the above. Ultimately, no matter how their path, they all identify as Muslim and American and have dealt with the challenges that combination can pose, both in terms of conservative Islam versus liberal mainstream America and their peaceful, productive version of Islam versus America’s general “understanding” of Islam as necessarily violent and extremist.

Many of the writers were born into Islam and maintain strong family and social ties to the religion and familial Middle Eastern roots, but several are converts who came to it in adulthood after much thought, debate, and soul-searching. The purpose of this second group of women seems to be to show that women can choose Islam and the cultural and religious challenges, rules, and difficulties that go with it. These women show that the conservative nature of the Muslim courtship is not necessarily a male-centered burden shoved on women, but something that can be fulfilling and voluntary.

It was fascinating to discover throughout my reading how many assumptions and ignorant ideas about the culture had seeped into my thoughts about Muslim women. I was startled to discover that I was startled by the women’s stories of sneaking out to see boys, engaging in premarital sex, dating men of other cultures (but not surprised by the struggle with a woman of one club has with dating a man from another), divorcing and remarrying, and their uncertainty or certainty of marrying a man they barely knew (in some of the cases). My shock betrayed my ignorance. Each story showed how much these women’s experiences are similar because they’re all interpreted through the lens of the same religion, and how much they’re different because that lens is more individualized than media portrayals of Islam generally allow.

The most irritating part of this book, for me, was the refrain by many of the contributors that “Muslims can…” or “Muslims don’t…” or something else along those same lines that suggests Islam (or any religion) is a mere set of hard-line rules to be followed by members of a club, rather than a set of ideas that helps shape the behavior and narrative of a human life. This approach to religion more often than not serves to absolve the adherent from responsibility for their own actions, and, more than that, from thinking. The line replaces critical thought and deep introspection with a simple look to a rule book and a statement that “it says this here, so this is what people of this club do,” rather than “here is this book and group of people who have input on my behavior and thought, and I can take into serious consideration their input while keeping in mind my own circumstances.”

It also takes away the reality that the adherent is a person with a set of ideas based on personal experience that happen to be similar to the ideas of others, and that all those people happen to use the same label. The truth is not that a person is a member of a club and therefor has these ideas; the truth is that a person has these ideas and is therefor a member of this club. The distinction is significant, and seems to have been made by most, if not all, of these contributors. For many of them, it seems they find their peace and happiness when the stop trying to be members of a club and realize that they are individuals who belong to the club because it supports them in developing ideas that make their lives fulfilling. They can be good daughters, wives, mothers, and Muslims while leading lives of thought and choice.

Love, InshAllah is enlightening and though-provoking, which I think are primary goals. The reader needs to set aside previously held ideas about Muslim women and open themselves up to learning about it from real women’s experiences, which are clearly demonstrated by the articulate, engaging women who contributed. The stories are organized in a way that holds the reader’s attention and develops the idea of the independent Muslim woman who still needs her family, religion, and culture to create the fulfilling life she desires

The First Three Months

Leo,

We know how lucky we are. Not just in that schmaltzy, cheesemo “so lucky this little man is in our lives” way, though we definitely are, but in what a good baby you generally are. We know we’re lucky.

When people talk about how hard being  parent is for the first time, especially in the first few months, we just can’t relate. You had three days of solid screaming in your third week, but since then, you only have fussy fits once or twice a week, and generally only for twenty minutes at a time, tops. This is pretty darn great.

This is to say that the first three months have been getting better and better. You know how rocky the first three weeks were, and maybe because of that, you’ve made the following weeks mostly a joy.

Now that the first quarter of your first year is over, I can see more easily how much you’ve grown and, honestly, I DO NOT APPROVE.

My little baby is growing up! GROWING UP! NOT BEING MY BABY ANY MORE! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

You don’t have any teeth yet, and you can’t sit up on your own, and you haven’t figured out that your hands are good for anything other than chewing on, but in so many other ways, you’re growing far too quickly for me.

You think you’re a big boy, as demonstrated by your preference for “sitting up” on your own propped up in the corners of furniture. You “talk” to us a lot, using patterns of pause and talk and general prosody we recognize as our own. This is both awesome and alarming, since it means you’re learning how to interact with others from us already. You’ve become the adorable little mirror we always knew you would be, just sooner than we thought.

A couple weeks ago I packed up your newborn clothes (just the tops, your newborn pants still fit) and I cried a little.

Your top half is growing so quickly, and your bottom half, while still quite small, is very strong. You’ve figured out how to make your bouncy contraption make more noise, and I’ve figured out that if you’re in that thing and you get bored and throw an I’M BORED, ENTERTAIN ME fit, you’ll kick a lot, which will make the thing squawk and light up. This works well for both of us, since it distracts you, ends the fit, and keeps you busy another five or ten minutes.

You also love your puppy. You’ve started to recognize him as something that can interact with you and responds to your actions (even though don’t seem to have yet figured out that you have control over your arms and hands). Yesterday you were laying on the floor and he waddled up to you to see what’s going on. You grabbed his eyelid, rendering him unable to blink, and he wagged his tail and smiled. When I took that out of your hand, you grabbed two handfuls of fur, and he wagged his tail and smiled. Finally, you grabbed his big goofy ear and held it like a  hand and he laid down and wagged his tail and smiled.

You know this, because you look at his face now, just like you do to people, and you two make eye contact. Your puppy loves you, and I think you love him.

So now we have no choice but to keep moving forward. You’re going to keep getting bigger, smarter, stronger, and soon, more mobile, and there’s nothing we can do about it but help you grow. You’re not going to be my baby much longer. Soon you’ll be my little toddler and I’m excited for that too.

Love,

Mama

Give up the Nap

It’s time to give up the nap.

The glorious, wonderful, magnificent, soul-saving nap that I’ve been treasuring nearly every day since last August.

The nap I take every morning after Josh leaves for work and the infant goes back down for his early morning nap.

It usually only lasts a couple hours, but those hours are wonderful. I catch up on the sleep I lose by staying up until 1:00 AM for the infant, and I feel more ready for a long, boring, draining day of taking care of someone with the communication skills and gratitude of a cantaloupe.

But, the time has come to let it go. Sooner rather than later the infant will be cutting out his naps and I’ll have to be awake and alert all day, lest he break something or choke on a random object, such as air or his own copious drool.

Plus, I have work to do and a house to clean and soon, VERY SOON OR ELSE, a lawn and garden to maintain.

So it’s time to let go of the naps and the selfish college attitude that goes with them and be a grown up. It’s time to wake up in the morning and pretend I’m a 27-year-old adult with a marriage, child, mortgage, and failing career.

It’s time to wake up and stay awake.

This will allow me to develop a schedule that includes tasks that should (I hope) restore my sense of self and purpose, two things that I have almost completely lost since the infant was born. I’m an ambiguous mix of ambition and pure laziness, and being unable to pursue anything other than drool and poop for the last three months has been demoralizing for me.

Basically, I did not realize how much of my identity was tied up in being productive and contributing to my home, community, and professional field (whatever that even is now), but a great deal is. Not being able to teach, research, write, or learn for the last several months has driven me into an ugly place where I feel worthless and leech-like, even though I know I’m not and that what I am doing with my time instead is valuable in so many ways. I just need to be doing more of what matters to me and engages me intellectually and as an adult.

So, the naps go and a schedule full of ways to make my days and my life better replaces them.

Wish me luck.

Preachy

Leo,

Today’s super-preachy righteous know-it-all post is about how you don’t know it all, and neither do I, or your dad, or your grandparents. Or anyone.

First I want to tell you that I worked in environmental education for nearly five years. I read, researched, wrote, taught, and did those things with some of the best minds in the country (and at least one who is internationally acknowledged). This means that I have some background and my opinion on the topic is valid. It’s not the best opinion out there, and most certainly is not the final word or most informed version of reality there is, but it’s more valid than other opinions.

The point of that story is to tell you that not all opinions are valid or equally valid.

When someone tries to stop you or defend their position with “that’s your opinion” or “it’s my opinion,” what they’re saying is that they think all opinions are equally valid and above reproach or critique.

This is stupid, just plain idiotic as the day is long.

My opinion on climate change and science is more valid than a science-illiterate person who thinks that because it’s cold in Minnesota in winter, obviously Global Warming isn’t true. Because that person is so stupid they think that an entire science, a phenomenon as massive as Global Warming, can be reduced to “it’s hot.” Stupid. Just too stupid for words.

My opinion on this is more valid than the opinion of a WalMart cashier or sixth grade English teacher who have never read anything about the topic they couldn’t find on Fox “News” or a conservative “information” site or their storybook. They’ve made a point of maintaining ignorance for the sake of being right. Because learning is difficult, and learning new things is difficult, and challenging your currently held ideas and beliefs is difficult. These people avoid these challenges. This is bad, very bad, both for them and for the world around them.

This is the same thing as my mechanic’s opinion on my transmission: it is far, far more valid than my opinion. He has experience and training. He knows what he’s talking about, so his opinion, and that’s all it is, an opinion, is informed. Mine is not. It is guesses and speculation and is not significant.

People who adore Fox “News” will tell you that those who think Global Warming is real are elitist snobs because those people (who understand Global Warming) think some opinions are more valid that others. THEY ARE.

These same people prove this point when they will take their mechanic’s opinion on their transmission over mine. For some reason, the mechanic’s training and experience in this field make him an expert whose opinion should be valued and counted, but a scientist’s opinion, also based on training and experience, is not. Stupid? Yes. You will not be this stupid, son. I will not have it.

It doesn’t matter what the average science-illiterate person thinks of a scientific phenomenon. The thing is, science is true and real regardless of what you or anyone else thinks of it. Scientists don’t create science or create things like Global Warming; they study patterns and events in order to discover and understand.

Finally, and it is very, very important to me that you understand this, just because you don’t know something, and no one you know knows something, and neither you nor anyone you know can discover, know, or understand something today does not mean that no one anywhere at any time could ever know it or have known it.

You and your friends are not the end-all of understanding and knowledge, and today is not the end of learning, discovery, and understanding.

Just because we don’t know something today does not mean we will not know it or understand it next week, or in ten years, or in a thousand years. So just because you don’t know does not mean it is a “great, unknowable mystery,” and does not mean a great imaginary friend must be created to account for the current gap it evidence, research, or knowledge. It means we must persevere and push forward into the future with research, observation, communication, and patience.

Thus ends today’s righteous, know-it-all rant from Mama. I don’t want you to grow up to be as much of a righteous pain in the ass as me, but I do want you to be smart, critical, and open to new ideas. It starts with knowing that you do not know.

Love,

Mama

 

Mr. Fussy Britches

Leo,

Today was the roughest day you’ve had since you were three weeks old.

If you remember (I think I wrote it out for you but I’m not going to bother looking for that post right now) you were a good baby for the first three weeks, and then on the first day of week three you suddenly started screaming and didn’t stop for three days. Then you were good and calm and easily consoled or satisfied almost all the time … until today.

Even yesterday when we were over for dinner with your cousins and grandparents everyone who could remarked on what a calm, good baby you are. We know how lucky we are and how good of a baby you are. Generally, we have it easy and we know it.

But then today. Holy crap today. You woke up crying at 7:30 and didn’t stop until almost one in the afternoon, and even then you only quit when, for every cry-whine-type noise you made I made a similar one. Soon you gave up and fell asleep on me, but my method, the only one that turned out to be effective (I always made sure you were clean, warm, fed, and held), made me feel like a bad person, mostly because you’re so young. I did it anyway so you could sleep since your fussing made you miss some key naps.

You wouldn’t let me put you down or really move much so we napped together for a couple hours until my back couldn’t take it anymore. Then you woke up and have of course been fussing since. As I write this and have been working on our living room rug (of course I made our living room rug) (instructions to come soon) (don’t call me crafty; for some reason I should explore later the term is slightly offensive, like it somehow diminishes or demeans the value of my efforts) you have been fussing in the basement with your father. It’s his turn to listen to your meaningless squawking and hope that tomorrow is a better day.

At the very least, it’ll be a different day. Tomorrow is always a different day.

Love,

Mama

A Lesson

Leo,

Last week we watched a documentary on Netflix (by the time you go to school I will have seen all of the documentaries Netflix has on its streaming service) about the employees of a parking lot behind the University of Virginia. The movie is called, wait for it, “Parking Lot Movie,” and features interviews with the parking lot’s owner and some current and former employees.

You go into the movie expecting it to be a sad hour of people narrating how their lives fell apart and sitting around in the sun behind a prestigious university taking cash from its wealthy trust fund babies is the only work they can get. Instead, within the first few minutes your expectations start to be challenged. The interviewees speak in complex sentences about sophisticated ideas, weaving centuries-dead philosophers into discussions of the politics of parking and small business and modern identity, and never give the impression of being depressed or ruined. In fact, they all seem to love their work and take pride in what they have chosen to do to pay the bills.

Parking Lot Movie

Most, if not all, of the guys (they were all men) who work here are college graduates and have, or are pursuing, advanced degrees. PREACHY LESSON #1: Don’t make assumptions about people based on appearance or employment because a person’s identity is far, far, far more than any single component of who they are or what they do. By the end of the movie you find out that most of these guys have gone on to more professional jobs in their field of choice or are still in school and will do so eventually. Only a few are still at the parking lot, and they love their work.

It’s amazing to watch, though, how the people who never learned this lesson treat these guys. There seem to to be two assumptions among those who treat these guys badly: 1. They (the mean person) are somehow objectively better than the employee and 2. because of this, that employee is less-than, or not worthy of being treated well.

Frequently, these mean, entitled people are there on daddy’s dime and have done precisely nothing to earn (several of the lot’s patrons are known to the employees, so the statement has something to back it other than my own assumptions) the several thousand dollars it costs per semester just for tuition, and let’s not even think about how much the car they’re parking there costs. And because they’ve managed to not screw up badly enough to get cut off and thus have these financial resources, they think they’re better than these men who are earning a living.

No, son. No.

PREACHY LESSON #2: There is never any shame, nor anything to be ridiculed, in the efforts and lives of those who work to earn a legitimate living.

This is why you won’t find out how much we make (not that much, but enough to keep us comfortable-ish) until you’re quite older and why you’ll be paying for college on your own. Too many people I knew in college freely admitted that if they were more financially invested in their education they would be more actually invested in their education, rather than treating it like a four-to-six year drunken orgy. So you will be paying. Get a job now.

In short, keep these lessons in mind OR ELSE, YOUNG MAN and find this movie and watch it. It’s well done and makes its point without being as preachy as me.

Final PREACHY LESSON #3: Most of the guys who take money for parking cars for a living ride bikes to work. If you want a car, you will be paying for it. And pay for it you shall: These guys almost all mention at some point how silly it seems to be that these people are paying a small fortune for a small convenience that requires a small fortune for them to park. Just ride your damn bike. It’s better for your bank account, butt, and the world you will leave to my great-grandchildren.

Love,

Mama

Library!

Leo,

As you know, I’ve been stuck at home with the dog and, eventually, with you as well, since last September. Earlier this week I got out to take you to Story Time, and occasionally I make it to the grocery store or a relative’s home for dinner or an event. But generally, I’m here with you, and as much as I love our house and turning it into the home of our dreams, sometimes I want to get out to where I want to be to serve no one’s purposes but my own.

Yesterday I went to the library without you and got myself a library card.* The block-and-a-half walk to the library and then back, the time at the library talking to the librarians, the time I spent walking through the stacks, and the library card itself felt like freedom. Young man, today I tasted real freedom in a way I have not in several months, and it was because of the library.

I had the same sensation of freedom when the librarian handed me my brand new library card that I remember feeling when I was sixteen and the DOT lady gave me my first driver’s license. Freedom, library card be thy name. At least when you’re an educated, experienced professional whose days are now filled with diapers and spit-up rather than engaging conversations and significant challenges it is.

Anyway, I missed having a library card and reading books that don’t feature Winnie-the-Pooh or rhyme, so off I went after you went down for your morning nap with your dad.

The library down the street is part of a larger county system. It’s in an older, mid-century styled building with lots of windows and plenty of open space inside. Somehow, even with all these windows and open space, it’s dark inside, but still nice. It’s clean and tidy, with neat rows of possibility and opportunity. Walking through the space was a thrill I haven’t experienced since you were born.

My god I’ve gotten lame. Whatever. Mama’s a geek; get over it.

The staff are interesting, informed, and engaging. When I mentioned (as explanation for my out-of-state driver’s license) what school I had attended, one of the librarians talked with me for several minutes about it and its well-known history (which, honestly, is the only thing it really has to hang its hat on). They then told me about the databases and such, probably because I didn’t tell them what I was doing at that school.

And now I’m off to another nap because lately I can’t keep my eyes open. Thank goodness you still sleep most of the day.

Love,

Mama

 

*You won’t get one until you get past the stage where you’re more interested in eating books than reading them. But, you will be getting one because reading is good for you and so is getting out of the house.

Infant StoryTime

Leo,

Yes, there is such a thing. It’s for people ages birth to twenty-four months and it’s offered at the library just down the street from our house.

I signed us up for it a couple weeks ago, but we weren’t able to go last week because I was too tired and you were pitching a fit when it was time to go. This week, though, the skies were clear, if frigid, so I dressed you in layers, put you in your car seat and into the stroller and off we went.

The walk was uneventful, as one-and-a-half block walks through suburban Minnesota should be, and we arrived about five minutes early.

There were two other two-year-olds there with their mothers. You didn’t care. I should say right now that you didn’t care about much of anything that happened there except for the part where everyone got bells and rattles and the parachute, where you got lots of wind in your face.

Anyway, the two-year-olds were cute and it was great for me to get out of the house and spend some time with their mothers, whose names I’ve already forgotten. They looked just like me, which was great. They had loose jeans and t-shirts with their hair pulled back in loose buns and pony tails.

After a while three more toddlers showed up with the grandparents and we all had a good time with the parachute, texture touch-me books, bouncing, and songs.

Soon it was time to go, and we walked home in time for your nap and me to make a tuna melt for lunch.

Also, I finished your new lavender and white knitted jacket yesterday, and with the measurements I took last week, it’s already almost too small. You’re growing so fast!

Love,

Mama