the birthologist

Questions I Would Ask my Three-Year-Old if She Were Capable of Answering Honestly.

Why must your refuse any offer of help when you are attempting to complete a clearly impossible task? Why must everything you do be your idea? Why must everything I do be your idea? Why do request my "help" every time you go to the bathroom, then demand that I do nothing but stand in the doorway and not watch? Is that really helping you? Why do you refuse to eat breakfast most mornings, even though you are demonstrating the frightening behavior of a starving child? Why don't you eat snack at school? Why are you slowly deciding that you like fewer and fewer foods?

What is SO HARD about keeping your eyes CLOSED while I rinse your hair in the bath? Don't you get cold when you wear nothing but a leotard and snow boots to school in January? Why won't you let me do your hair? How can I convince you to get ready and leave the house on-time (besides giving you candy)? Why do you act so despicable toward me when Daddy is not around, then beg and cry for me when I am gone, and you are home with Daddy?

Why do you still wake up in the middle of the night, every night? Why do you throw tantrums when the friends you have been begging to play with are finally here to play with you? What exactly is it about Go Fish that makes you want to play it dozens of times in a row? Why do you copy only the most inappropriate and rude behaviors of your sisters? How do you manage to always appear so very cute even at your worst moments?

How is it, after three children, that all of these questions remain unanswered?

How to Identify a Resolutionist.

I LOATHE the gym in January. Really, I try to avoid it until mid-March, but sometimes, I need to workout and just cannot do it at home or outside. But the trauma of visiting the gym during the first few weeks of the year almost cancels out the high of a good workout. The misery begins the moment you arrive on the gym's property! Finding parking is nearly impossible; you have to be patient enough to drive around for 10 min, wait for someone to exit the gym right as you pass the door, then slowly and stalkerishly follow them to their car, wait for them to buckle their kids in, put their cell phone headset on, get out their post-workout energy bar, and reverse out of their blessed spot. 

The worst, though, even lousier that the parking fiasco, waits for you when you finally get inside. It is all the new people crowding your gym, your safe place, the place you can always count on to help raise your endorphins so you feel great. I call these interlopers Resolutionists. How can you tell a Resolutionist from a gym regular (besides the fact that you do not recognize them)? Here is my handy guide to help you determine who to glare at while spending a large percentage of your alloted 90-minute workout waiting in line for a treadmill. 

[I refer to the Resolutionists in the feminine because in my experience, most of them are women, and choosing a gender makes the writing process simpler. I do, of course, recognize that the following traits apply to both men and women.]

1. When on the treadmill/elliptical, the Resolutionist takes breaks from her ultra-low-intensity workout at least every five minutes to complete such critical tasks as adjusting her shirt to make sure it covers her midriff adequately, take a sip from her water bottle, change play-lists on her iPod, or take inexplicable, just-less-than-two-minute walks to other areas of the gym with her machine on pause. 

2. Resolutionists often appear at the gym in pairs, and when using two adjacent machines, will talk to each other at a volume that makes it impossible NOT to hear about how proud they are for cutting back to only two glasses of wine per day, how their mother-in-law "totally does not understand" them or that their kids are already tired of their Christmas presents. You may blow-out your eardrums trying NOT to listen to their semi-mobile social hour, but you will not succeed.

3. The most exasperating characteristic of a Resolutionist is on display in the stretching area of the gym. She will place her mat just close enough to the next person to not allow for anyone to squeeze between, but far enough away to take up the maximum amount of room possible. The Resolutionist will spend most of the time just lying down on the mat, possibly talking on her cell phone. If it is the Resolutionist pair, as described above, well, you might as well find something else to do (or just stretch at home), because it will be a while before these completely sweat-free babblers get up.  

4. If your gym has a track, don't bother to attempt to run on it until the Resolutionists have stopped coming. They walk in the lane they are supposed to run in, and let their kids play tag in the lane they are supposed to be walking in. The track is basically turned into an indoor playground.

5. When attempting to use the weight machines, Resolutionists tend to stand around the machine, apparently waiting for it to speak to them, or give them usage directions. They will sit on it, try to use it a couple of times, shake out their shoulders as though they actually just strained their muscles, and walk away.

There you have it, my fool-proof guide to recognizing the fitness dabbler, the casual constituent, the annual, month-long participant. Sometime in the next few weeks, the excuses will win and their visits to the gym will dwindle until the only time we see them is on Saturday mornings for their kids' indoor soccer games. The Resolutionist duos will move their bi-weekly social hours to the coffee shop or their living room, where they belong. We gym regulars will have our parking spots, our treadmills, our weights machines, and our stretching space back.

I recognize that not all newbies are Resolutionists. A few of them will beat the odds, actually stick with their resolutions, and become permanent fixtures at the gym. They will learn proper gym etiquette, use their free personal training meeting to learn how to use the machines, and continue to workout on a regular basis for an extended period. They will earn the right NOT to be called a Resolutionist. [I also know that not every newcomer to the gym is a newcomer to exercise, and some have just changed gyms, or joined  to add variety to their already rich exercise regime.]

Ice, dirt and dog poop.

Apparently I am not fully recovered from the cabin fever I was inflicted with after six days stuck at home with three kids and a giant dog, because I made the totally awesome decision to go for a run outside this morning. The 8+ inches of snow we got has substantially melted, and it was beautiful and cold and sunny outside, so it seemed like a good idea to my impaired brain.

What I did not factor for was that the extreme melt that took place over the last two-to-three days left little rivers running down all the streets and sidewalks, and cold this morning turned all of those rivers into ice. The snow-plow-created mounds on the sides of the road were crumbly and dirty and covered in a layer of ice, forming a new substance that I am going to call "snice"-- part snow, part ice. The piece de resistance were piles of dog poop that occupied inappropriate places on the sidewalk, the street, and basically anywhere I might want to put my foot down (anyone with dogs knows that when snow is on the ground, the poor creatures don't know where the right place to poop is, so they just go anywhere they want, and some owners consider the snow to be a "get out of dog-poop-pick-up free" pass).

Having not considered any of the possible drawbacks, and being blinded by the blissful sunshine and long-awaited solitude, off I went, out onto the frosty, icy, snicey streets. Although I started to slip almost immediately, I was already drunk on sunshine, and was therefore easily able to convince myself that "it will get better." After walking the first slick half-mile uphill, I found some clear sidewalk, and was able to run for a bit. My route choice was based solely on road conditions, but even so, I was really only able to run for about a mile before I had no choice but to walk again. 

When I say walk, I mean "Carefully weave around the sidewalks, grass and gutters to avoid spots of ice, snice, or dog poop." In other words, I traveled at about the pace of an osteoporosis-stricken, walker-dependent senior citizen. For the first time, well... ever, gravel was my friend, because gravel= traction.

Did I mention that I run "barefoot," in those crazy looking five-fingered running shoes that have only a thin rubber sole to protect my feet from being impaled by sharp objects? They are really great running shoes, and I will defend their peculiar looks and the running style they require to the DEATH, but when it comes to the conditions I was traversing this morning, I honestly think I might have been better off sitting down and sliding home on my butt.

About 20 minutes in, it hit me that I probably should have chosen alternate methods for both exercising and enjoying the sunshine. My "run" turned into "get home as fast as possible without making a fool of myself."

The highlight of my adventure, the part I must record on the eternal internet so I can never, ever forget about it, was when, after multiple slips and slides, I finally fell on the snow. I suppose it was inevitable. I did not fall on my backwards, which, I suppose, is good news for my rear-end, but very bad news for anyone driving behind me, because when I fell, I bent over forwards and landed on my hands. The view of anyone behind me was my spandex-clad bottom in the air. This all went down on a very busy arterial street, and although I was averting my eyes as much as possible for fear that someone might recognize me, I could see in my peripheral vision that all nearby drivers were looking at me. And I am pretty sure they were laughing and pointing, too. 

By the time I walked up my driveway, I was not even sweaty anymore. I had gone a whopping 2.25 miles in 36 minutes, according to my GPS, which I suppose, is better than nothing. Normally, after a crappy run, I am in a bad mood pretty much until my next run, but this morning was an exception. All that blessed sunshine gave me my much needed Vitamin D fix, and trying not to break any bones/humiliate myself (more than once) was apparently enough of an adrenaline rush to raise my endorphins and improve my mood. 

Proof once again that in Seattle, sunshine during any month besides August always has a catch. 

That's right, I breastfed for THAT long. And yes, we can afford "real food."

I calculated recently that I breastfed for a total of 7.5 years. Did I just blow your mind? I was the one doing it, and I nearly spit out my Skinnygirl Margarita when I figured that out. When I stopped nursing Isadora last November, Bryce and I had been together for just 16 years, and married for 11. That means I was breastfeeding one of our children for over half of our marriage (68%, to be precise). When I told Bryce, he said, "I guess I am really good at sharing." 

Some of you have furrowed your brow by now and thought,"Wait, she only has three kids. How did she breastfeed for 7.5 years?" Here is the detailed breakdown: I weaned Sydney when she was 15 months old (against both of our wills, because I wanted to get pregnant again. It was a traumatizing experience for our whole family). Ivy weaned on her own three months before she turned 3 (the same month she potty-trained), and I just weaned Isadora at 3.5. Don't think about it too much, or you might feel uncomfortable next time we see each other in person.

But wait!! Why would you feel uncomfortable just because I breastfed my children for what our country considers to be an "extended" period? And why would I worry that you would feel uncomfortable? At first I did not want to admit that I had these concerns, and once I accepted them, I was perplexed by them for months. I wanted to write this essay right after Isadora weaned, but I felt... strange about it. Do I really want the whole world to know that I am one of "those" moms? 

When I was pregnant for the first time, I thought I would breastfeed Sydney for six months, tops. When I had Ivy, I knew I would let her initiate weaning, but assumed that would happen LONG before she turned two. I assumed Isadora would initiate weaning like Ivy did, between two and three. Just like every other aspect of parenting, my expectations were totally OFF! And I had many strange preconceived notions of women who breastfed toddlers and preschoolers-- that they were hippies, super cheap, crazy religious, and just plain weird. I was a big, fat, ignorant JUDGER. My nine-plus years of parenting, and seven years of teaching, have softened me considerably, and I find myself accepting of pretty much any lifestyle that makes a family functional and happy. My years of judging and stereotyping are over. But when I unexpectedly found myself in a "category" of parents that I once found bizarre, I worried a lot that I would be judged.

I learned to nurse discreetly- but not secretly- when Sydney was only a few months old. Not to toot my own horn, but I am a PRO at public nursing (obviously, I have a few years of practice). Nonetheless, I stopped nursing Isadora in public right around 18 months-- when she started looking and acting more like a toddler than a baby. I stopped nursing her in front on anyone but my own kids and husband shortly after she turned two. I had mixed feelings about this-- I was not ashamed of what I was doing; I knew it was a healthy and universal experience, and in the best interest of myself/my baby/my family, but I realized that I just did not want to publicize my choice. Breastfeeding a toddler is neither fashionable nor understood, and I did not want to have to defend myself against uneducated, haughty people who disagreed with my choice, and somehow felt that it personally affected them.

Ivy is my only child who weaned herself. She just stopped asking, and it was wonderful and organic and satisfying and peaceful. I was really hoping Isadora would do the same thing, but she was what our pediatrician calls an "avid nurser." I call her a boobaholic. Even after weaning, she still puts her hand down my shirt for comfort. I can't really blame her, it is warm and soft down there. Our breastfeeding relationship was full of emotional ups and downs, as she wanted to do it ALL THE TIME, and I DIDN"T. Bryce and I made the decision to wean her when I decided I was ready to be totally done, and could not tolerate the idea of continuing indefinitely. That aspect of our relationship needed to change.

Weaning Isadora was not easy, but it was not horrible, either. She continued to ask for "momo" (her code-word for nursing) for at least a month after we were done, but since she was so old, she could be reasoned and negotiated with, so it was relatively painless. Considering how attached she was, I think the whole process went pretty smoothly. I am content with the course we took with all three girls, but until now, I felt strangely awkward discussing it with anyone but my closest friends, and other women I know who have made similar choices. 

I don't want to feel awkward. If breastfeeding is ever going to become accepted for babies of all ages, "regular" folks like me need to talk about it. We need to NOT be afraid to share our experience. I am most comfortable writing about it here, and being more open about it with other friends, in context. Extreme enthusiasm about the cause seems unsuitable, because I think it will scare people away. So here I am. Sharing with you that I am not a vegan (but I do use vegan butter), nor do I make my own clothes (because I am The Anti-Crafter), live on a farm or in Africa, buy only organic cotton, drive a hybrid car (although I would like one), let my children call me by my first name, or any of the other stereotypes associated with "crunchy granola" parents. But I believe that long-term breastfeeding is a healthy, appropriate option that I am no longer afraid to share that we chose.

If it makes people squeamish, oh well. Raw oysters make me squeamish, but if you really love them, go ahead and eat up.