Your People Will Be My People of Walmart

Today I resigned from my job of almost eight years.  It took me at least five attempts to do it.  I kept chickening out, not because I feared a bad reaction, but mostly just because it was a huge thing to do…  And it’s just one of the many huge things I have to do in the next four weeks. 

We are moving to Illinois.

Why?  We are moving to advance my husband’s career.  We are moving for a more affordable cost of living.  We are moving because we are disillusioned with California.  We are moving because there’s not a lot keeping us here.  We are moving because we are responding to God’s will.  We are moving to raise our daughter elsewhere.  We are moving to get a control-alt-delete on our lives.

Four weeks from now I’ll be somewhere between here and there.  With my husband, my daughter, two cats, and everything we own.  On my way to a place I’ve never been before where I know nobody.  My new home. 

I’m no stranger to being a stranger.  I’ve moved a lot.  I ain’t skerred. 

I’m trading In-n-Out for an abomination called a horseshoe sandwich which is covered in French fries and cheese sauce.  I’m trading beautiful weather for humidity and snow.  I’m trading beaches and mountains for flat, land-locked fields.  I’m trading Los Angeles for Lincoln.  But I’m also trading my job for the ability to stay at home with my baby.

A few weeks ago I framed this print for my daughter’s nursery.  Her name is Ruth so it seemed fitting.  Now it’s speaking to my heart.  I am leaving my home, where I grew up, my family.  I am going to the land of my husband (the Midwest).  His people will be my people…  Even as he describes them fondly as “People of Walmart.”

Doing huge things means taking risks.  Like leaving what is comfortable.  Challenging yourself to be a mom full-time even though it scares you.  Leaving everything behind, even Mexican food.  Jumping blind.  I’m trusting there’s reward for the risk. 

Happy half birthday, Roo

My Ruthie-girl,

You are half a year old now.  I knew nothing about you for the nine months I carried you around inside, except that you hiccup a lot.  But I’ve learned a lot about you in the six months you’ve been in the world…

You are very alert.  We hear it all the time.  Even your pediatrician comments about how you look around with interest at everything and seem to listen when people talk.  You are not content when you cannot see the world around you.  I hope you don’t lose that sense of curiosity.

You are petite.  Having been a chunky baby I didn’t expect to have such a small girl.  You’re in the 8^th percentile right now and haven’t quite doubled your birth weight.  People guess you are much younger than you are because of your size, but I love that you’re tiny right now.

You are so happy.  We love your smiles and giggles and how easily you share them with everyone.

You are not very cuddly.  You are a sweet girl but you don’t like to snuggle much.  When we hold you, you arch away from us.  This was hard for me at first because I wanted some affection but you will show your love differently as you get older.

Things you love: the clownfish on your exersaucer, your stuffed Roo, Mommy’s milk, bathtime, being naked on the changing table, flying through the air, spending time with your grandparents, car rides, lights, and blowing raspberries.

When I was pregnant with you, and I thought about you, everything was a possibility.  You could be a boy or a girl.  You could be big or little.  You could have red hair or blonde or none at all.  You could like being swaddled, rocked, bounced, sung to, or none of the above.  But now that I know you, I can’t imagine you being any different than exactly who you are.

You are Ruth, a sweet little girl with a curl in the middle of your forehead and a red stork bite birthmark on the back of your neck.  You are part Keller, part Taylor.  You are our daughter and God’s.  You are small but strong.  You are an IU fan (according to Dad).  You are blue-eyed and beautiful.  You are everything to us.

We are so excited to see you grow up and find out what else you are.  Maybe you’re an athlete.  Maybe you’re an artist.  Maybe you’re a Democrat.  Maybe.  We’ll have lots of adventures and find out together.  So much is still possible.

In the words of Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, “You are my darling daughter and I love you.”

XOXO

Mom

Babies Don’t Keep

I came across this poem and it perfectly expresses how I feel about being a working mom.  My standards for the house have dropped, and I’m fine with that.  Something has to give.  So here’s a sweet poem, by a Ruth, dedicated from me to my Ruth.

Mother, O’ Mother, come shake out your cloth,

Empty the dustpan, poison the moth.

Hang out the washing, make up the bed,

Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?

She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,

Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due,

Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek – peekaboo.

The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew,

And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo.

But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.

Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?

Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow,

But children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!

I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

~ Ruth Hulbert Hamilton

My Roo

 

roo’s debut

Insomnia.  It’s my new thing.  It’s not my 10-week-old daughter keeping me up (she’s, thankfully, mostly doing what mommy message boards call STTN – sleeping through the night).  Tonight, my sleeplessness is prompting me to record Ruth’s birth story. I love reading and hearing birth stories. I truly believe that birth matters, that is, that how babies come into the world, is important.  This is how my Ruthie-Roo joined us.

I was due June 17. Knowing that Father’s Day was June 16, I bought Curtis two cards: an expectant dad card and a first Father’s Day card.  I hid them away until I knew which one would be applicable.

A few notes: As I discussed before, we had planned a natural, unmedicated, intervention-free birth outside of a hospital, attended by a midwife.  The baby’s gender was unknown. Fair warning: I’ll spare the gorier TMI details (mucous plug, tearing, etc) but this is a birth story so words like cervix will be used.

I started getting Braxton Hicks contractions on Wednesday, June 12, then Thursday they became painful and frequent, but still random. Friday the contractions really picked up and I started timing.  We went to a movie (we saw “This is the End” and indeed, the end was near). Contractions got to about ten minutes apart and were really strong, then they just stopped.  Completely.  Then Saturday they started again.  It took forever for them to speed up so I was breathing through them all day.  Right after midnight, I was in bed, awake with a contraction and my waters broke.  Luckily, I had invested in a waterproof liner for the bed, just in case.  My instructions were to call my midwives if my waters broke or if my contractions were five minutes apart.  At that point, they were about eight.  So we called, and the midwife on call, BJ, said to call her back when we hit a five minute interval but that she’d see us soon.  I labored at home awhile, sleeping a few minutes at a time between contractions. At about 4:30 we called her back and we were on our way in, finally.  I was super exhausted already from the lack of sleep that comes with having contractions for two days but it was time for Baby to come.

We got to the birth center and BJ pulled up right behind us and we got settled in, and her doula, Mitte came in.  For some reason, the car ride in and all the activity seemed to stall my contractions, so they spaced out again.  When BJ checked me I was only at four centimeters.  We did everything possible to get the contractions coming closer together and stronger.  Mitte had me in every possible position.  Some things worked better than others.  They made me walk the stairs over and over, I bounced on the ball, I got on all fours, I stood and rocked.  Hours and hours later, my contractions were still sporadic, and when I got checked I was only at five cm.  So we weren’t making much progress, even though Ruthie had dropped significantly.  I got in the tub for only a short while because it slowed my contractions down.  Bummer because it felt so nice. Apparently my body just didn’t know how to really work itself up to delivery.  It was doing stuff, but not progressing.  Luckily, my temperature, blood pressure, and the baby’s heartbeat all were stable, so there was no reason to be worried.

I was getting frustrated at this point, because I had been contracting for days and I was so, so tired.  My abdomen was incredibly sore from the extensive workout it had been getting (my contractions were all in my lower belly).  I sipped my Laborade (coconut water + pineapple juice) and soldiered on.  At this point, BJ said she wanted to try a homeopathic treatment to try to get things going.  So every 15 minutes Mitte was dumping little herbal capsules under my tongue.  It did help, but I was still not progressing enough.  I stalled at six cm.

BJ said she wanted to try a procedure.  She would have me wait for a strong contraction, she’d have me push, and she’d try to manually open my cervix.  This sounds like it’s not a walk in the park, and it was not.   We had to do about five or six contractions’ worth.  It was so weird pushing before it was actually time to push.  She was able to get me from six to nine.  An hour and a half later it was time to push for real.

I pushed her down to where she was almost crowning.  I worried I didn’t have it in me to finish.  BJ said I’m an efficient pusher (must have been the gallons of Red Raspberry Leaf Tea I drank in that last trimester) and it would go quickly if I did my best work.  I pushed.  Then I freaked out.  It was a cycle:  I got my head in the game to push, then when that contraction was over, I got a little hysterical.  I cried, I hyperventilated, then I calmed myself down and did it all over again.  I was never so hot in my entire life.  Curtis was handing me washcloths soaked in ice water.  Her head came half way out, and then I felt it pull back in and turn.  I lost it.  I was yelling, “What was that? What happened?”  And BJ reminded me sometimes babies take two steps forward and one step back and that it was fine.  It just was not okay with me after all that work that she’d be going backwards.  But then I got her whole head out with the next push and they commented about her hair.  I was thinking I still had at least a half hour of pushing ahead, but with my next pushes at 7:07 pm, BJ said, “Reach down and get your baby,” and my mom was in tears and I looked down and there she was, and I caught her myself.  And she was a girl.  And she was just the most beautiful thing ever.

The first picture

My dad and stepmom were there in the waiting room for most of the day and I found out later they could listen to us on a baby monitor so they heard a lot of her being born.  Another thing I found out later is that BJ had called her backup OB and told him she’d probably be transferring me over.  So I probably would’ve ended up in surgery.  But all the prayer paid off and I did finally progress enough, with a lot of herbs and BJ’s magic torture procedure, we did it.

I wasn’t allowed to leave until I peed and I ate.  My stepmom made an In-n-Out run.  I hadn’t eaten more than half a handful of trail mix in two days (I was allowed to eat but I had absolutely no appetite during labor) so that hamburger was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Ruth had her first meal too, then weighed in at 7 pounds, 4.5 oz.  Apgar of nine. Stork bite on the back of her neck. Really big feet. Rosy and sweet. We were home less than four hours after she was born.

 It was the most incredible experience, and even though my labor was long and somewhat difficult, I would never choose to have a baby any other way, with any drugs or interventions.  I felt everything and I did it all myself, with lots of prayer and through God giving me strength.  It’s just so empowering and so life-changing to know what you’re capable of and to know you did something the very hard way because it was best for someone else.  I really believe conception, pregnancy, labor and delivery were all designed perfectly and the less we mess with those processes, the better we are.  Even going through it unmedicated, and it lasting so long, I wouldn’t rate the pain as a 10 on a scale of 1-10.  It’s not the most painful thing I’ve ever done, but it is the best thing.

I threw away the “expectant dad card” and Curtis got the “first Father’s Day” card that night, the day his daughter was born, on Father’s Day.

Dad, and his still swollen and somewhat bloody newborn daughter, in love

Child’s play

I used to work in a toy store.  Two actually.  When one closed, I got a job as a manager at another.  I knew all the latest video games.  Beanie babies and Pokemon were all the rage.  Little boys were all about Tech Deck finger skateboards.  We had boutique items like Madame Alexander dolls and Lionel trains. All the classics sold well: Barbie, board games, Nerf.  Matchbox car collectors (yes they exist) knew when our shipments came in and lined up to go through our boxes.  It sounds like a fun job but it makes you feel like all kids are monsters.  It also gave me very specific ideas about toys for my future children.  I did not want to spend $30 on a nickel worth of plastic.  I did not want to go on epic quests to find the last piece in a “collect them all” set.  I did not want to be constantly tripping over cheap Chinese junk.

Ruth and Dolly

And here I am.  A new mom.  My daughter is just now at the age (10 weeks) when toys have started to interest her.  She stares, follows with her eyes, and makes attempts to bat at them.  I have a tendency to over think a lot of things and sometimes get political when there’s no need to, and the topic of toys is no exception.  So here is my manifesto.

TOYS SHOULD…

• Encourage imaginative play.  I like toys that give kids an opportunity to make believe.  Imagination seems to me to be like a muscle.  Many people never develop theirs, or they let it atrophy at some point.  It’s a shame because the ability to pretend and to think creatively and abstractly is such an important thing.   Examples of toys in this category: dress up clothes, food and kitchen sets, occupation sets (doctor, tool kits), puppets and dolls.
• Be mostly gender-neutral.  As I’ve stated before, I’m very against the “princess culture” that is so popular right now.  I also have huge issues with Barbies and Bratz.  I don’t like how many toy stores are divided in half into boys’ and girls’ departments. Boys can and should play with dolls and girls can and should play with cars.  I don’t want my daughter to have a room full of pink plastic.
• Foster creativity.  Arts and crafts are important.  Making things with your hands.  Getting messy.  Feeling textures.  I plan to always have PlayDoh, crayons, glue, string, glitter, fabric, popsicle sticks, and unlimited paper around.
• Teach music.  Making noise is a big part of being a kid.  Almost everyone had a Fisher Price xylophone when they were little, and maybe a tambourine and a little drum.  I like those kinds of toys (and you can remind me I said this when I have a migraine and my daughter is pounding on a toy piano).
• Get kids active.  I was never athletic or interested in sports (still true) but certain things were fun to me, like chinese jumprope and tetherball.  I’d like to see my kids be more active than I was, and learn things like teamwork and coordination through sports.  Our garage will be full of balls, pads, helmets, nets, gloves, and bikes.
• Teach construction.  My favorite toys for kids are things like blocks and Legos.  Whether they follow complex instruction sheets or construct their own creation, building toys are great for teaching kids things like attention to detail, following a process, and design.
• Be non-violent.  I don’t like toy guns or action figures that are used to simulate fighting.
• Teach kids how to play.  While the kind of play that kids invent as they go along is great too, things like board games show kids how to work under established rules, how to strategize, how to take turns, how to win and how to lose.

One common observation of kids is that they can occupy themselves with a tube sock or a wooden spoon for hours.  Or that they’d rather play with the box the toy came in than the toy.  Kids are great that way.  Everything is a toy.  Everyday things are fun, like making cookies with Mom or helping Dad pull weeds.

I know my daughter will end up with Barbie dolls, just like she ended up with princess bibs, despite my feelings.  I had Barbies as a kid and suffer no harm for it.  However, I do have control over what my own toy dollars buy.  So I plan to purchase art supplies, musical instruments, building blocks, games, sporting equipment, and lots and lots and lots of books.

learning not to cry over (spilt) milk

Our baby girl is here.  Someday I’ll type out her birth story but it’s long  so I’ll save it for later.  I’ll just say God blessed me with the unmedicated, intervention-free birth that I wanted.  That sounds like torture to a lot of people, but for me, the bigger struggle has been breastfeeding.  Ruthie was born healthy, all pink and screaming.  Things quickly changed by day three when she lost a lot of weight (all babies lose weight after birth but she lost more than 12% which was a concern), her diapers were clean and dry and she was so lethargic that we couldn’t wake her.  First-time parent panic set in and we saw our pediatrician and made a trip to after-hours urgent care.  Finally we made an emergency appointment late on a Sunday night with a lactation consultant.  We discovered that Ruth was not getting milk when she nursed.  When she was weighed before and after nursing, there was only one tenth of an ounce difference.  We were ordered to give her formula while we figured out the problem.  That absolutely broke my heart.  I broke down in tears when we got home.  I felt like a failure.  I had carried her safely for nine months, eating healthfully, carefully taking my vitamins, doing my exercises, all to give her the best start in life that I could.  I had given birth the hard way, and it had taken days, and I did it for her.  Now, I couldn’t feed her.  I had done everything I could to prepare for breastfeeding: classes, books, LLL meetings.  But my body was betraying me.  It wasn’t working.  And my baby was “too weak” to suck.  I was told to take her to an Occupational Therapist to see “what is wrong with her.”

I put this pressure on myself.  I know a lot of babies grow up healthy and strong on formula.  I know a lot of women give up on breastfeeding because it can be very hard.  I know that I should be grateful that I was able to get pregnant, and that I delivered a healthy baby (and I am so, so thankful for that).  With some perspective I can admit it’s not the end of the world if I have to bottle-feed my daughter.  It wasn’t the plan but parenting requires us to be flexible and act in the best interests of our children.  But I wasn’t going to give up easily.  So we jumped through a lot of hoops.  I tortured myself with pumping around the clock, never sleeping for more than 90 minutes at a time (if I was lucky).  We tried devices that were seemed totally silly in hopes that something would click.  We spent a lot of money on advice and herbs and equipment.  I prayed a lot.  I was sore, tired, frustrated, sad and maybe a little angry.

Bottle-feeding. Not part of the plan.

One night as I sat pumping in the rocking chair I had bought to nurse my child in, I thought about the Hanukkah story, and how a tiny bit of oil had sustained the Jews, through a miracle of God.  My milk seemed to be a never-ending resource too.  I’d pump only drops, but somehow, there was enough.  Ruth got very little formula and then gradually, I was producing more milk.  I knew this was something I had to trust in God about.  So I relaxed and let Him provide.

And He has.  He gave us people who could help.  He gave us patience.  He gave Ruth strength.  My body started working.  Ruthie and I both got better at nursing.  And now, feeding my girl are the most special times of my day.  The sweetest sight is her finishing up and looking up at me with “Milk Face.”  I love how I can instantly comfort her when she’s fussy.  I’m grateful we didn’t give up. I’m thankful for how God designed my body to provide something for my child that keeps her healthy and helps her grow up strong, makes her smarter, prevents allergies, provides immunity.  It’s all perfectly created, and I’m glad I kept my faith in that and trusted God to bless our nursing relationship.  I pray we are able to continue for a year, through challenges like me going back to work.

Eatin like a champ

My grandma’s advice was when you go to nurse, have a graham cracker and a glass of milk.  I think that kind of folksy advice is why breastfeeding worked better in her day.  No nipple shields.  No double electric pumps.  No pressure about baby’s weight.  No alarm over the number of daily dirty diapers.  Just relax and give it time.  Find your groove.  There is no normal, no expected… every woman and every baby is different.  It works and it’s important.  It’s worth fighting for.

 

Feathering the Nest

Last Friday was my last day of work before my  maternity leave started.  I have four months of state-paid time off to prepare for, recover from, and bond with little Baby TBD.  The first week has been glorious.  I’ve spent most of my time a cliche, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.  I’ve discovered the joy of a midmorning weekday grocery run (no crowds, friendly cashiers!).  I’ve taken a nap for the first time in months.  My bellybutton popped out (little turkey’s almost done!). Lest I forget the peacefulness and productivity of this short time of my life before a precious and wailing newborn intrudes, I’m documenting my adventures in nesting.

Saturday

We took a day trip up to Cherry Valley for the Colonial Faire.  Curtis had planned on camping with his reenacting group but, as my 18th century clothes do not fit and there are not modern bathrooms, I wasn’t excited about that idea.  Everyone hiked down to a Colonial tavern for lunch (I hitched a ride) and we had pot pies in the sunshine.  (Yes, that is one random Red Coat – they let him hang out with us unshackled for some reason).

Sunday

Church.  Picnic by the lake.  Curtis fished unsuccessfully.  It was a beautiful, quiet day.  It was also my in-laws’ 40th wedding anniversary, so we Skyped with them in Indiana.  Skyping with Luddites is always fun.  I get the giggles because my mother-in-law is only half on screen and yelling at the microphone, and my father-in-law is really close and we’re seeing right up his nostrils.

Monday

Memorial Day.  Our very best friends were in from out of town at their time share so we hung out with them by the pool and grilled some lunch and watched their kids play in the water.

Tuesday

The first official day I should’ve been at work but wasn’t.  Slept in a little.  Cleaned refrigerator and pantry.  Shopped for and put away groceries (which is no small feat in itself when you’re 8.5 months pregnant and you live upstairs and it’s hot and your garage is across the street. Waaah.).  Made a chocolate cream pie just because.

Wednesday

Reorganized kitchen cabinets, cleaned countertops and floor.  David Sedaris once said something like, “You can have a clean floor…. or you can use a mop,” and agreeing with that, I scrubbed the floor like Cinderella.  Basically, if I had to deliver this baby at home, I’d run for the kitchen because it’s spotless and sterile.  Dinner out with the girls from our old Bible study.  Nice to have some chit chat.

Photobomb: Dickens chowin down

Thursday

Appointment with my midwife.  Baby’s heartbeat is still in the 130s, it’s still head-down, my blood pressure is still good.  No news is good news.  Ran errands (Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Joann’s Fabrics).  Organized and dusted den.  Did five loads of laundry, including all bed linens.  Took a two hour nap with my favorite kitty.  Curtis came home and cleaned the bathrooms while I made dinner.

Friday (today)

I plan to organize and clean living room and dining room.  Finally go down to the library and get my library card (we’ve only lived here 18 months).  Maybe do some sewing.

This weekend we’ll wash windows and hardwood floors.  Curtis needs to tackle Mount Babylympus, the pile of baby gear that needs to be assembled and installed (car seat, co-sleeper, swing, humidifier, Rock-n-Play).

Next week, my mom arrives.  I plan to put her to work making freezer meals.

Maternity Leave Scorecard (thus far)

Rooms clean: 3.5

Cups of Raspberry Leaf Tea consumed: at least 20

Episodes of Arrested Development, Season 4 watched: 11 (I don’t normally binge on TV but I make a special exception for AD)

Bags of trash taken out: 6 (I’m in total purge mode)

Times I’ve thought about work: 0

Why My (Possibly Hypothetical) Little Girl is Not a Princess

As I’ve blogged before, we don’t know if this little gremlin in my ute is a boy or girl yet.  It’s kind of nice to not know, I think, because we aren’t projecting a lot of stereotypes, personality traits, or expectations onto the baby.  We are prepared for every possibility because we really know so little about our child. I think it’s more of a discover-as-you-go experience this way than if you know your baby’s gender, because it’s human nature to let your mind fill in blanks and create an idea of what the baby will look like and what their personality might be.  That is not to say I don’t have hopes and aspirations for this kid.  I really want a child who loves to read.  If it’s a boy I would love to see him be an Eagle Scout like his grandpa.  I see him or her golfing with Dad.  I want to encourage creativity.  But in the end, I know my job is to support my child in whatever their natural abilities and talents are, even if that’s something foreign or unappealing to me, like fencing or dub step.

One thing I know for sure.  If we have a daughter, she will not be called “Princess.”  Every other piece of clothing for little girls has pink sparkly tiaras on it.  Little girls now go to church in Disney princess costumes.  Every birthday party is princess-themed.  Our country is obsessed with the pretty, young Duchess who might one day be Queen.  Bibs say, “Daddy’s Little Princess.”  It’s infectious.  It’s not my taste, in the first place, but I also think it’s a dangerous message for little girls.

The title of Princess implies a perfection and a superiority.  If you don’t agree, consider this definition of Princess:  “A woman regarded as pre-eminent in a particular sphere or group.”  It’s a title that puts you above others.  That goes against everything I have come to believe in as a Christian.  I want my daughter to know humility and to put others before herself, to treat others with respect and kindness, and to live humbly.

I think the reason Princess culture appeals to little girls is the same reason Harry Potter captured the imaginations of millions of children.  It’s the idea that you could possibly be chosen.  Maybe you’re not ordinary.  Maybe you’re incredibly special.  Maybe you’ll ascend a throne or get whisked off to Hogwarts by a house elf.  I feel like it gives your kids false hope to imply that it’s their destiny to be great.  Of course, they can be great working at Target and they are special because God made them that way.  But the “If you can dream it, you can do it,” message we love to promote in America is untrue.  As Julia Ormond’s character said in Mad Men,

Not every little girl gets to do what they want. The world could not support that many ballerinas.

Another definition of Princess is “a spoiled or arrogant young woman.”  I think it’s obvious why this is negative.  It has the same obnoxious quality about it as Diva, another favorite of girls’ clothing manufacturers.

In storybook culture, the goal of every princess seems to be to find a prince, or be rescued by one.  I’m not an extreme feminist, maybe a middling one, but this whole idea is pretty repugnant to me.  Fairy tale princesses are not in control of their own fates. They are at the mercy of magic and “true love.”  Fact: the stories we tell our kids influence them.  I prefer my kids to understand that things like discipline, hard work, and a good attitude are what get you where you want to go.  So maybe I’ll have more of an Aesop house than a Disney house.

Princesses are without exception beautiful.  I think most people mean it as a compliment when they call a little girl a Princess.  However, I don’t want my daughter thinking her value is in her appearance.  I plan to praise my girl for being smart, for being tough, for being generous, for being funny.  I want her to feel confident about her looks, but to feel that the rest of her is so much more important.

Ask yourself this.  Fast forward 15 years.  That sweet five year old is now 20 and wearing sweatpants with Princess written down the leg – or across her butt – in rhinestones.  Still cute? What associations do you have with a woman who has a Princess decal in the back window of her car?  Is she a confident, empowered, successful woman, or is she an indulged, annoying, materialistic little girl?  The same term that is endearing on a Kindergartner appears unattractive and immature on a grown woman.

I know the argument by some parents might be, “I’m not teaching my daughter that she’s better than anyone else.  She’s a princess in the eyes of God like every other little girl!”  Well, ok.  But if every girl is a princess, then none are.  Just like when every kid on every tee ball team gets a trophy, no matter how they performed.  It’s meaningless at best.

My little girl will have lots of titles in her lifetime.  Daughter, Friend, Child of God… maybe Sister, Wife, Mother, Doctor, or Councilwoman one day.  But never Princess.  Not on my watch.

What will it bee?

The two questions you get most when you’re expecting:  “When are you due?” and “Is it a boy or a girl?”  No one asks if you know if it’s a boy or a girl, they just ask which it is.  At first I’d answer, “I don’t know!” but that always led to, “When do you find out?!” So now I say, “I don’t know, it’s a surprise!” and wait for the puzzled look.  I guess I get it.  I always assumed I would find out when the time came.  Until my husband, around 12 weeks into our pregnancy, asked me, “Do you want to find out the gender?”  At that point, I actually paused to think about it.  I would’ve been fine either way, but I left it up to him in the end and he wanted to wait until the baby was born.  I’m glad now.  It’s fun waiting for that big surprise.  I know that moment, when we finally discover if we have a son or daughter, will be the most exciting moment of our lives.

The totally adorable diaper cake at my shower.

There are definite benefits to not knowing the sex of the baby.

1. The gifts we’ve received from all our generous loved ones have all been essentials.  We don’t have bags full of pink ruffled tutus and blue onesies with trains on them.  But we do have diapers, our car seats and stroller, swing, bassinet, bath gear, nursing gear, humidifier, all the practical stuff.  No one likes shopping for gender-neutral clothes.  I don’t blame them.  It’s all green or yellow and features either monkeys, turtles or ducks.  Yawn.
2. We have saved a TON of money.  It’s not tempting to buy cute little things for a baby when you don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.  Most of those cute little things would’ve been unnecessary anyway.  I’ve bought a few toys and a few pieces of clothing, but that’s about it.  If I knew one way or the other what the sex was, I’d have spent a lot more money.
3. Since we’re pursuing a “natural” birth, I think not knowing will give me more motivation.
4. It gives my husband a big, fun part of the birth.  He gets to be the one to announce “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!” I am so excited for him to be able to share the big news.  That’s a lot more fun than cutting a cord.
5. Everything we have is neutral, so it can be reused if we have a second baby.
6. I read something a labor and delivery nurse wrote that said that the births where gender was unknown were, in her experience, the most joyous.  Similarly, I’ve never talked to anyone who waited to find out who regretted it.
7. Plus it’s kind of fun to torture friends and family with the suspense.

So how about drawbacks?  I’ve heard a lot, but none of them applied to us.

1. You can’t bond as well with the baby.  False.  People forget that even just 30 years ago it was uncommon, and sometimes impossible to find out the gender of an unborn baby.  That didn’t mean moms of babies born before gender prediction ultrasounds were widely available weren’t bonding with their children.  Frankly, I love this baby just as much without knowing what kind of genitals it has.  I think this argument is totally silly.
2. How can you decorate?  First of all, no problem.  There are a lot of really cute ways to decorate a nursery without it being princesses or dinosaurs.  Second, we aren’t decorating.  For right now, our bedroom is baby’s bedroom.  In our case, we wouldn’t have had a nursery anyway, and even if we did, I’m not really the type to go all theme-y.
3. What do you call the baby?  We call it Baby mostly.  As for pronouns, we say he/she/it interchangeably, whatever comes out.  It’s not a big deal.  I’ve heard people say they just couldn’t call their baby “it.”  Give me a break.
4. What about names?! Well, we picked one of each.  It was a little more work, but a lot of people have two names picked out before they have their ultrasound anyway.  I didn’t find it was really that difficult to put the extra thought and effort into picking another set of names.
5. How do you buy clothes?!  We kind of don’t.  We have some plain onesies and footie pajamas and sleep sacks.  That’s all any baby needs for the first few weeks.  We can shop later.  As for the infamous “coming home” outfit, that doesn’t apply to us either.  We go home four hours after the baby is born.  The last thing on my mind will be if the baby has a cute outfit on.

The speculation is kind of fun too.  I like hearing everyone’s guesses and their reasoning.  A cashier at the drugstore told me with complete confidence she thinks it’s a girl.  A week later another stranger would swear on his mother’s grave, just by looking at me, that it’s a boy.  The predictions are pretty evenly split between girl and boy.  Just for fun, we’ve done a lot of the Old Wives’ Tales and gender prediction tests.  The luck of all these is that they’re true 50% of the time.  We put no trust in any of these methods, which is good because our results are really mixed.

• Less morning sickness means a boy.  I had none.  BOY
• Carrying high means girl, low means boy.  I can’t tell which I am.  INCONCLUSIVE
• A watermelon-shaped belly means girl, basketball means boy.  My bump is definitely more the former.  GIRL
• The ring test (Put your wedding ring on a string and dangle it over the belly.  If it moves in a circle, girl.  If it moves back and forth, boy).  Circles.  GIRL
• Craving sweet stuff, girl.  Craving salty stuff, boy.  I haven’t had a lot of cravings.  INCONCLUSIVE
• Baking soda test (pee in a cup with baking soda, if it fizzes, it’s a boy).  Didn’t do it.  I think it’s a cruel trick that a woman who can’t see anything below her bellybutton has to pee in a tiny cup at every prenatal appointment.  I’m not doing it at home for funsies.  INCONCLUSIVE
• The Mayan Method.  If your age at conception and the year of conception are both even or odd, girl.  If not, boy.  I was 32 in 2012.  GIRL
• Chinese Gender Prediction Chart.  It depends on which one I use online.  Some say girl, some say boy.  INCONCLUSIVE
• My usually terrible skin has cleared up completely during pregnancy. BOY

We’ll know for sure in about 44 days.  Just please, don’t wager any money on it.

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Note:  I know there is controversy in this modern world about the use of the words “gender” vs “sex.”  I understand why some feel there is a difference, but I use the terms interchangeably.

my daddy and my baby-daddy

I stumbled across this Facebook page today: Becoming Dad.  I cried all morning, looking at the photos of dads and their babies.  I could blame hormones, but that’s too easy.  There are two reasons it made me emotional.

First, today happens to be my dad’s birthday.  He joined the Navy when I was a year old, so there were long stretches of time when he was away from home, and his job meant our family moved around, but I can’t imagine having a dad who managed a grocery store or did taxes for a living.  I can’t think of the ocean without connecting it to my dad, the sailor and the surfer.  He was a good model of hard work -on Saturdays, I remember him being up early, washing windows and pulling weeds.   I think I got my love of musical theater from him too; he introduced me to Jesus Christ Superstar and Evita.  Also, he instilled in me a love of the Beach Boys, macadamia nuts, and Married…With Children (somehow, a staple in our house in the early 90s for which I still have great, inappropriate fondness).  When I was little, I had a little toy stove and I “made” my dad “coffee.”  I insisted it was Maxwell House (marketing is infectious at that age, I guess).  I also had a made-up word that I’d whisper to him, “tadidas.”  It means nothing.

Here’s my favorite story about my dad:  I was in first grade.  My class had a bunny.  Each weekend, the kids took turns taking the bunny home to feed it and take care of it and then return it to the classroom on Monday mornings.  It was my turn.   My dad had been doing yardwork, shirtless, when the bunny escaped.  The bunny managed to wiggle under the fence into the neighbor’s yard, so my dad had to go around the block to their house and ask to get into their yard to retrieve him.  I was panicking, thinking I couldn’t go to school bunny-less.  My dad returned 20 minutes later, his chest bleeding from bunny scratches, with the rabbit dangling by the scruff of his neck.  It was a horrific scene that has burned into my memory:  my bloody dad, panting, holding a squirming rabbit.  But I guess that’s what you do when you’re a dad. (Note: no bunny was harmed in this scenario)

My husband, getting some practice with a friend’s cute kiddo.

Second, I got emotional because I can’t help but think of my husband and what kind of father he will be.  Our baby is due the day after Father’s Day, so it’s exciting to see if he’ll officially be a father by then or not.  It’s been fun to see him react to all the changes of impending parenthood, it’s something that really reinforces the bond we already had.  Although he has no experience with babies, he has a lot of traits that will make him a natural – he is gentle, patient, and affectionate.   We had our second of ten childbirth class sessions last night, and he’s a total champ, helping with exercises and encouragement.

I can’t wait to see these men as father and grandfather.  Maybe the baby will have my dad’s red hair and freckles.  Maybe she will shame me by liking country music like her dad.  Maybe he’ll golf like my husband, maybe he’ll surf like my dad.  I just know that my child will have two great men who love him or her very much.

Tadidas and Happy Birthday to my dad.