Oh, I do not think so.

What infants and toddlers and preschoolers need is attachment — loving, responsive care from people they know and trust, preferably have known for most or all of their lives but at least with whom they have [...]]]> “A mother shouldn’t leave her child until about the age of three”, declares a father.

Oh, I do not think so.

What infants and toddlers and preschoolers need is attachment — loving, responsive care from people they know and trust, preferably have known for most or all of their lives but at least with whom they have built a relationship. They need to have older people — adults, yes, but also teens, older children — who know them and love them and who they know and love, accessible to them when needed. The placement of that responsibility exclusively on the mother makes it not a joy, a task of life easily fulfilled, but a burden, under which so many of us are breaking.

Something is wrong with a culture that expects a six week old to sleep through the night, that tells a four month old her hunger is inconvenient and needs to be scheduled, that is surprised when a one year old doesn’t want to be left with a stranger. Some of us recognize this, and some have decided the problem must be because women are employed outside the home, have chosen to have lives that do not revolve around our children.

Not that we have moved away from our families of origin.

Not that we have built fences real and psychological between us and our neighbours.

Not that we have tiny families and a dearth of siblings and cousins.

Not that we have segregated adults and children, and alternately marginalize people with fewer years as second class citizens and exalt them as angels on earth (but never simply honor them as perfectly imperfect persons).

Not that we hold ideal a single family home, and define family as up to two parents and 2.5 children.

Not that we have taught half the population to deny and repress any nurturing potential, for fear of being “unmanly”.

No, it is, as always, entirely the fault of women. Of mothers, for daring to stand up for our humanity and our autonomy, for daring to do the work that earns power and prestige and some amount of protection, for daring to say we have needs and wants and goals too, for daring to take even an hour away to nurture ourselves so we have something to give to our children.

How dare we?

What some misguided whistleblowers (on the problem that is our parenting culture) have deemed is the solution — a mother, subsuming her own desires entirely to her offspring for a full three years each, minimum, accessible at all times of day, all days of the week, all weeks of the year — is just as unnatural and damaging as the model it rebels against.

We are not supposed to do this gig — which risks becoming labor and work and mind-breaking, body-destroying toil the less it is shared with loved ones — all by ourselves. We are not. That some can do it and survive, even enjoy it and would pick it first over any other idealized options, speaks far more to the diversity and flexibility of humanity than it does to the failure or unnaturalness of any woman who doesn’t choose or wouldn’t enjoy (possibly wouldn’t survive) 24/7/365 sole caregiving.

Kids don’t need one person, if that person is going to break if she has to clean up one more fecal-smeared surface.

Kids don’t need one person, if that person is snapping and yelling and cannot catch her breath alone.

Kids don’t need one person, if that person’s back is breaking from twelve hour shifts of bending and lifting and carrying and holding.

Kids don’t need one person, if that person has lost herself and her center and has no core around which her child can revolve, no life from which her child can learn.

Kids need people, people they know and love and trust, people who are with them and responsive to them day after day, who know their rhythms and their personalities and their needs and their wants, who have done the work of endless toiletings and feedings, who have assisted nap times and play times, who have tickled and carried, who have been there through laugh fests and crying jags. Kids need as many of those people as possible. Blood relation entirely optional.

One? Is a bare minimum. The kid might survive, even thrive (because humans are fantastically adaptable); and the parent might as well (ditto): but it comes at a high risk of burning out the carer, torching the relationship, scorching the child. And if that happens, there is no one for the child to turn to.

Two is better.

Three or four are better still.

Half a dozen is getting closer to ideal.

Half a dozen? Sure: a parent or two, a grandparent or two, a parent’s sibling or two, a couple teens or older kids: it’s not a big family, as primate evolution (or human tribal history) goes. But good luck growing it in this society.

(My infant only wants me. She’ll have nothing to do with her dad!

Has her dad been there? Does he know her? Does she know him? Did she hear his voice in the womb? Did she breathe in his smell within hours of birth? Did he carry or wear her her first day out of the womb? And the second? And the third? Does she sleep with his breath on her face, his heat keeping her warm, his body keeping her safe? Does he respond to her attempts at communication about her hunger and elimination? Does he help keep her clean? Does she know him?)

Kids — the younger they are the truer this is — need to be with people they know, and trust, and love (who among us doesn’t, really?). They need attachment; this is immutable biological fact. They’ll make do with almost whatever we give them, but the more the better. It is only our messed up society — or the very rare, very exacting child — that says that this means all-mom all-the-time.

(Oh, the breasts. The sweet, sweet breasts. Yes, infants need near-immediate access to milk at basically all times; known and trusted lactating breasts are biologically expected to be on call 24/7. Only humans — and only some humans — would translate this as mother’s-breasts-only, and even fewer as mother-as-primary-minder-at-every-moment. But a ten, a twenty, a thirty month old gets ever less in need of such omnipresent access, even as their need for it sometimes, and their need for constant nearby presence of trusted caregiver(s), might remain unabated.)

Do you, caring mother, have to leave your less-than-three? Of course not. (If there’s no one around we trust our children to trust, why would we want to? If we have enough people to share the load with that it is still a joy and not a toil — however many that is for us, zero or a dozen — why would we want to?) But you could. If you wanted. If your child wanted. If there are other people your child knows will care for them.

And I promise — it wouldn’t destroy them.

* You know what one of the risk factors for atherosclerosis1 is? Burning proteins and lipids for energy. You know one of [...]]]> * Knitting as a method of self-soothing and to avoid the temptation to slap one’s classmates and/or teacher sort of backfires when one finds oneself contemplating the garotte potential of circular knitting needles. Ahem.

* You know what one of the risk factors for atherosclerosis¹ is? Burning proteins and lipids for energy. You know one of the times that happens? When your body is starving. Such as, I dunno, from severe calorie restriction in the hopes of losing weight? AKA dieting? But teh death fatz is bad for you! So you better start dieting!! …right.

* Listening to people go on and on and on about how much life must SUXORZ if you have diabetes or Crohn’s disease or hypothyroidism makes me go all stabby. Or garottey. At least in my imagination.

* Everything can be blamed on obesity, apparently.

* If you’re unhealthy in any way whatsoever, it’s because you’re making bad food choices. (And, of course, you have ultimate control over what you eat. Even if you don’t actually have a farmer’s market, grocery store, produce stand, or farm anywhere within walking or busing distance of you. Or the money to shop at such. Or the time, skills, energy, or spoons to do anything with said foodstuffs.)

* The United States of America doesn’t have an official national language, but if you want to be a licensed massage therapist in the state of Oregon, you fucking better be literate in English. Right in the Statute regulating the profession of massage in Oregon, it reads: “the examination shall be administered in the English language”. Not just “yeah, we’re gonna give it in English because we’re Anglocentric and don’t care enough about brown people and immigrants to bother offering it any other language”, no, it’s in the fucking law. And yeah, massage therapists need to be able to communicate with their clientèle in some fashion, but y’know what? That means that monolingual I cannot be a good LMT for a large portion of the population. Because I am only fluent in English. But heaven forbid we allow people who are monolingual in any other language (or multilingual in a whole variety of languages none of which happen to be English) to become LMTs! Who knows what they’d gossip about when they know we can’t understand them?? Or something.

* One may be disallowed from practicing massage in the state of Oregon if one “Has a physical or mental condition that makes the licensee unable to conduct safely the practice of massage.” If you can’t safely do massage, you can’t safely do massage, and I don’t have a problem with the Board doing its job and protecting the public from that. But that “has a physical or mental condition” clause scares the shit out of me, given the culture I live in and what stereotypes some people actually believe about things like bipolar disorder (that’d be me!), schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, and so on. Why “has a condition”? Why not “is unable to conduct safely the practice of massage”? My answer? One word, starts with “able” and rhymes with “ism”. Bet you can’t guess it.

* I have knitting skilz. Not just in the refraining-from-murder-with-craft-supplies department, but I can, while simultaneously taking notes, participating in discussion, fighting fatphobia, (and refraining from murder), provisionally cast on 40 stitches in the round (without making a mobius), make a picot edged drawstring casing (which is harder than it sounds), flawlessly pick up the provisional stitches using a second 60″ circular needle, and (three inches of mind-numbingly boring stockinette stitch later) kitchener stitch the bottom closed. Without a pattern. Or reference to stitch guides or tutorials. Because I rock like that.

So what did you learn this week?

But.

And.

So.

How we talk about our [...]]]> I have no desire or intention to police others’ bodies. We can talk about the social pressures that lead to high rates of cosmetic surgery, dieting, body hatred — but to confuse a need for systemic critique with a right to criticize individuals is one of the worst uses of feminism.

But.

And.

So.

How we talk about our bodies — our own bodies — matters. It affects how other people feel about theirs, and that matters. When we say “I’m too fat to wear a bikini”, we’re saying fat is bad, and those as fat or fatter than us also shouldn’t expose themselves. When we say “I can’t get away with going without a bra”, we’re saying to flop is not a subjective choice but an objective assessment. When we say “My hair’s an ugly mess unless I straighten it”, we’re saying everyone’s hair that’s curly like ours is ugly too.

Does that mean we have to pretend to a false enlightenment, never let a negative word slip our mouths? Does that mean we have to suppress our own truths and desires for the sake of others (always, for women, are we supposed live for the sake of others)? I cannot accept that either. We must be able to tell our truths, to take the dark things inside us out so they can be seen, to exert our rightful autonomy over our own bodies, to do as we choose with them.

How do we resolve this? Is it resolvable?

I propose this:

We start with I.

I feel. I fear. I want.

We reject kyriarchical assignments of some bodies, some ways of being, as wholly bad, or inherently good; we know better than to rely on what “everybody knows” about fat, and flop, and tresses. Instead, we get deeper: what are we afraid of? What are we reaching toward?

I feel better in a one-piece. I’m afraid people will stare at me if I don’t wear a bra. I want my hair to be straight.

Can we talk about where our senses of style come from? About male gaze and comfort in public? About the ramifications of hair choices? Absolutely. But we don’t have to. We don’t have to analyze every single choice at every single opportunity; we don’t have to let those analyses dictate our choices for fear of “giving in” to kyriarchy and all its bullshit. We can, we are allowed to, simply say “Fuck it, this is what I want right now.”

How radical is that? How much could we change the world by doing something just because we want to? What would happen if we reject the “need” for excuses, for justifications? Not “I’m too fat to wear that”, not “I ran a mile earlier, so this brownie is ok”. Just — I want to wear this. I want to eat that.  I want. Sometimes, that can be enough.

(bonus douchebaggery points for making [...]]]> How to lose my business in one easy step (today’s lesson thanks to Vistaprint)

It’s ridiculously easy, really. All you have to do is have a required drop down menu on your sign up form, with no opt out or Other or fill-in-the-blank option, with these three and only these three options:

• Mr.
• Mrs.
• Miss

(bonus douchebaggery points for making Mr. the default)

Congratulations! You’ve just lost my business. Way to go, Vistaprint!

This isn’t a Mrs-or-Ms fight, because I have no desire to police what other women choose for themselves, but about respect for the diversity of being. And the lack of said respect.

I haven’t been a Miss since I turned 18. I will never be a Mrs. And a tiny part of me still dreams of one day being a Dr, like my mother before me (though not an MD, sorry mom). I am, therefore, completely left out of those options. And I am only one relatively uncomplicated woman.

Think of all the other people left out of those options: People with nonbinary genders. Doctors, of all stripes. Clergy-people. Those from cultures who don’t do salutations, or don’t do those salutations. And probably many, many more that I am not thinking of at the moment.

And it’s not hard to do it right, either. (It’s as simple as anything to do it better; just have more options.) At the urging of many, I went to MOO, designed my business cards there, and then went to save them, just like I did at Vistaprint. And guess what? They didn’t even ask for a salutation! Email, yes. Name, yup. Password, of course. Salutation? Nope! No drop down menu = no problem. MOO can have my business, even if it’s going to cost me way more money than I was planning on.

I’ve seen drop down menus that worked pretty well, too, with dozens of options (I believe they included military titles, among others). Or, you could have a simple fill-in-the-blank. Even just an option to opt-out of having any title, even if you don’ t offer mine, will still, grudgingly, earn you my business.

But Mr./Mrs./Miss? My monies — and my recommendation — go elsewhere.

***********

Breastfeeding on business cards? You betcha!

And why order business cards at all?, I hear my inquisitive readers wonder. Why, to hand out (or, probably, mostly not hand out because I’m huddled in a corner trying to not panic) at BlogHer, of course. And what will be on these cards? The usual: my blog name, tag line, name, email, etc.

Oh, and this:

Because I freaking love this photo

Why? Mostly, as the caption says, because I freaking love this photo. I don’t love a lot of pictures of myself, but this one I very much do. And it’s one of the few pictures I have that I like, and are high quality, and show my face, and would work as a business card (that is, do not have my messy house as a backdrop).

Also because it’s the picture I use on here (the face), on Twitter (the breast and the kid’s head), and on Facebook (the whole thing).

But also because it is — not in spite of it being — a breastfeeding picture. A toddler breastfeeding picture, over which I get harassed on Twitter regularly (about every couple months, on average).

The Boychick is weaned. And while I feel ambivalent about that, one thing I miss being able to do is nurse in public. Not because I got my kicks out of it (far from it), or like pissing people off (I’m actually rather anti-confrontational), but because I view it as a public service. Every time we nurse in public, unapologetically, we normalize breastfeeding; we support women who may just be starting out or who aren’t certain about continuing; we make it easier for the next woman who comes through.

While I can’t do that directly anymore, I can still do it pictorially thanks to digital photography and ‘net avatars. And business cards.

And if that offends someone? Well, they probably didn’t want my card anyway.

…Which will be ordered through a company that doesn’t make me pick between three titles, none of which represent me.

***********

This week is the first-ever Carnival of Nursing in Public, and I encourage you to read and support the participating blogs. We’re also in the last few days of voting for the BlogLuxe Awards: I’m nominated in Most Provocative, Most Inspiring, AND Blog You’ve Learned The Most From. Go drop me a vote or three. You can vote once a day through July 12th. Thank you as always for your support!

Here’s why I hate it:

It assumes there’s such a thing [...]]]> I hate this question. I really, really hate this question. And as a massage therapy student, I get it fairly regularly, even among my “progressive”/”crunchy” friend set. I also hear from prospective massage students that this is a question they get bombarded with from skeptical people.

Here’s why I hate it:

It assumes there’s such a thing as a “gross” person, or a “gross” body.

I will admit that an unwashed body¹ can be pretty… off-putting. But relatively clean bodies? There’s no such thing as an inherently gross body or gross person.

I mean this in all seriousness: every body I have ever seen on my table is beautiful. I am continually awed by the variety and beauty of the human form that I get to experience every time I give a massage. All the things that society says are gross or disgusting in the body are nothing more than disgusting prejudices — bodies that are “too fat” or “too thin” or “misshapen” or the “wrong color” or “too hairy” or whatever else kyriarchy has dictated is to be hated today — they are not what I see when I look at the bodies on my table. I see people — of all shapes, and sizes, and abilities, and colors, and hairiness — and they all floor me, always, with how similar they are, and simultaneously how different. How beautiful they all are, whether they’re in pain or fit or adequately functional or however else they may be.

I don’t know that all massage therapists feel this way² but it’s the way I feel, and it is both cause and effect of my training and career path. I won’t say I haven’t encountered any prejudice in the classroom, but there have been abundant messages of body acceptance and positivity.

And that is how it should be: massage, at its best, is one place where we can relax completely — both our muscles and the walls we erect to protect ourselves. I hate this question because it violates that sanctity, and promotes the very prejudices I work so hard to keep my space free of.

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama. This month our participants have waxed poetic about how their parenting has inspired others, or how others have inspired them. Please read to the end [...]]]> Welcome to the May Carnival of Natural Parenting: Role model

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama. This month our participants have waxed poetic about how their parenting has inspired others, or how others have inspired them. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

***
Women, generally, have a hard time saying good things about ourselves.

There’s an excellent reason for this: when we do, we are, invariably, attacked. We are women, and although we are apparently supposed to do all the work that runs the world (except make any of the decisions outside of the house or the market), we are not supposed to be proud. We are always, always supposed to make ourselves smaller (belittling means “to make little”!). We are always supposed to demure. We are always supposed to put ourselves down, beat ourselves up, and point out our shortcomings. We can never be allowed to say something unqualifiedly good about ourselves.

And I know this. I know this, I know this is a function of kyriarchy, I know this is a product of sexism, I know that the crazy in my brain latches on to this social injunction and yells that there’s something wrong with me if I ever so much as hint that I’m good at something without a shrug or an excuse or a “but”.

But I am a woman, and my brain is even more messed up than most women’s, and I find it really hard to say good things about myself. Not because I don’t rock — I do, and I know it — but because saying something good opens me up to accusations of pride (starting with my own damned brain!), to being belittled, to getting knocked down a peg.

So this month’s Carnival of Natural Parenting topic? Is really hard. I want to write about how I’m not all that. I want to write about how I fail so often. I want to write about all the people who have inspired me. At best, I wanted to say “Aw shucks, I can’t do that” and open the thread for y’all to fawn over me and tell me how great I am and how I’ve changed your lives and get you to write my post for me. (Because women are allowed to do that, we’re allowed to blush and say “Aw shucks” and giggle appreciatively when other people say good things about us, but heaven forbid we do it ourselves.)

But y’know what? I am good at what I do. And part of what I do is inspire people.

I figure out what teachers, textbooks, “experts” are saying, and I turn around and help others understand it. I write in language that is engaging, and illuminating, and sometimes heartbreakingly, breathtakingly beautiful. I portray the nuance of life, and this parenting gig, in ways that resonate with people, that show pain without wallowing, that illuminate ideals without shaming, that are, y’know, inspiring.

Y’all sometimes tell me that I’ve touched you. That I’ve made you feel less alone, or I’ve shown you a new way of looking at something, or I’ve helped you understand something that never made sense before. I’ve helped some of you yell less, breastfeed longer, let go of guilt, defy gender dictates, have more fun with your kids, and feel better about yourselves as parents.

And I’ve done it by doing this: sitting here, typing about the crazy in my head and the ideas I’ve gotten from other people, and the ways I’ve failed, and the ways I’ve tried to hate myself less when I’ve failed.

I wish I could come up with a beautiful, specific story of how I inspired someone to nurse in public, or convinced someone not to circumcise their kid, or taught someone to recognize their baby’s elimination signals, or gotten their kid comfortable in a back carry for the first time. And I’m even pretty sure I’ve done most of those things. But I’ve done it by being me, and doing this: I live my life, I parent my kid, and I blog about it. Sometimes people tell me how that’s affected them, but mostly, they don’t. And that’s ok, I’m not in this for the accolades¹.

So here’s your homework², dear readers:

• One, tell me something good about yourself. No “pretty goods”, no “buts”, no “other than”, no “comparatively”, no qualifiers of any kind³. Tell me something that you do well. Parenting, business, school, personal, whatever. It all counts here, even if our culture tells us only some achievements matter.
• Two, tell someone else how they’ve inspired you. No, not me — I already know I’m the bee’s knees. If there’s someone out there who has inspired you by being themselves, by parenting the way they do, or by writing about it — tell them. Tell them in real specific detail, with quantifiers and adjectives and dates and numbers, so that they have a great story to tell that makes them look and feel as good as they are. So they don’t just think they’ve done some good in the world, they know, and next time someone asks them to tell a story of when they inspired someone else, they’ll find it that much easier to just do it and skip all the “aw shucks” and “but I’m not that greats”. You know they rock; tell them.

Go forth. Proclaim your badassery. Proclaim others’ badassery. Change the world.

***

Visit Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

• Woman Seeking Inspiration — Seeking Mother’s struggles and joys to find her own path in motherhood have inspired others — to her surprise! (@seekingmother )
• Paving the Way — Jessica at This is Worthwhile makes a conscious effort every day to be a role model. (@tisworthwhile )
• No Rules Without Reason — The Recovering Procrastinator wants to inspire her husband to discipline their children gently. (@jenwestpfahl)
• Creating a Culture of Positive Parenting Role Models — Michelle at The Parent Vortex shows parents at the playground how to do a front wrap cross carry and tells nurses about her successful home births, as a way of modeling natural parenting in public. (@TheParentVortex)
• Making A Difference for Mamas — Shana at Tales of Minor Interest took an embarrassing pumping incident at work and turned it into an opportunity for all the employees who breastfeed.
• Inspiring Snowflakes — Joni Rae at Tales of Kitchen Witch Momma is a role model for the most important people: her children. (@kitchenwitch)
• Paying it Forward — Amber at Strocel.com inspires new (and often scared) mamas with these simple words: “It will be OK.” (@AmberStrocel)
• A SAHD’s View on Parenting Role Models — Chris at Stay At Home Dad in Lansing doesn’t have many role models as a SAHD — but hopes to be one to his daughter. (@tessasdad)
• Am I a Role Model? A Review — Deb at Science@home brings attachment parenting out of the baby age and shows how it applies (with science fun!) to parenting through all of childhood. (@ScienceMum)
• Say Something Good — Arwyn at Raising My Boychick reminds women that it is within our right to be proud of ourselves without apology. (@RaisingBoychick)
• Try, Try Again — Thomasin at Propson Palingenesis wants to inspire like the Little Engine that Could.
• I’m a Parenting Inspiration, Who Knew? — Sarah at OneStarryNight has received several beautiful comments about just what an inspiration she has been, if not in real life then definitely online. (@starrymom)
• That Little Thing — NavelgazingBajan at Navelgazing demonstrates the ripple effect, one status update at a time. (@BlkWmnDoBF)
• How Has Your Day Been? — mrs green @ littlegreenblog inspired her friend to be an active listener for her children. (@myzerowaste)
• No, Thank You! — If you are reading Maman A Droit’s post, you’ve probably inspired her. (@MamanADroit)
• My Top 3 Natural Parenting Principles — Deb Chitwood at Living Montessori Now describes how her family’s natural and Montessori principles inspired others. (@DebChitwood)
• My Hope for a Better Life — Mandy at Living Peacefully With Children hopes her choices inspire her children toward a better life.
• Natural Parenting Felt Natural — Sheryl at Little Snowflakes didn’t plan on natural parenting — but her son led her there. (@sheryljesin)
• Rest. Is it even possible? — Janet at where birth and feminism intersect has found that even role models need rest — and that there are ways to fit it into everyday parenting life. (@feministbirther)
• May Carnival of Natural Parenting: Role model — Lauren at Hobo Mama was the fortunate recipient of a seed of inspiration, and has been privileged to plant some of those seeds herself, though she didn’t know it at the time. (@Hobo_Mama)
• crunchspiration — the grumbles at grumbles and grunts wants to inspire others to parent from their heart. (@thegrumbles)
• No Extra Inspiration Required — Zoey at Good Goog doesn’t think she inspires anyone and wasn’t inspired by anyone in return — except by her daughter. (@zoeyspeak)
• Upstream Parenting — Luschka at Diary of a First Child blogs for that one mother in one hundred who will find her words helpful. (@diaryfirstchild)
• Parenting Advice for the Girl from Outer Space — If Mommy Soup at Cream of Mommy Soup could give one piece of inspirational advice to new parents, it would be to parent with kindness. (@MommySoup)
• Natural Parenting Carnival — Role Model — Sarah at Consider Eden feels the pressure at trying — and failing — to live up to her role models. (@ConsiderEden)
• May Carnival of Natural Parenting: Role Model — Dionna at Code Name: Mama encourages natural parenting mamas to take joy in the fact that they are touching lives and making a difference to children every day. (@CodeNameMama)
• Inspiration Goes Both Ways — Melodie at Breastfeeding Moms Unite! is flustered that people consider her a breastfeeding role model — but the lovely comments she’s received prove it’s so. (@bfmom)
• My Seven — Danielle at born.in.japan has identified seven role models in her life who brought her to natural parenting. Who are your seven? (@borninjp)
• A Quiet Example — Alison at BluebirdMama was one of the first parents in her group of friends — and has come to see almost all those friends follow in her natural birthing footsteps, whether intentionally or not.
• Gentle Discipline Warrior — Paige at Baby Dust Diaries has inspired a gentle discipline movement — join her! (@babydust)
• Change The World… One Parent At A Time — Mamapoekie is more comfortable inspiring parents online than she is in real life. (@mamapoekie)
• Inspirational Parenting — pchanner at A Mom’s Fresh Start has intentionally tried to be a role model but was unprepared for how soon someone would take notice. (@pchanner)
• My Inspiration — Erin at A Beatnik’s Beat on Life has written thank-you letters to everyone who’s inspired her to become the lactivist and natural parenting advocate she is today. (@babybeatnik)

But here’s what I did last Friday:

The Boychick fell asleep [...]]]> I’m having lots of thoughts on houses¹, on gentrification, on neighbourliness and introversion, on white privilege and class privilege, on schools and lead paint and… all sorts of things. But those are all still swirling around, and I don’t have the clarity to discuss them yet.

But here’s what I did last Friday:

The Boychick fell asleep in the car, on the way home. Not being able to transfer him inside anymore without waking him up, we stayed in the car. The weather had taken its cue from a tourist guide: sunny, warm but not hot, breeze just enough to bring fresh air without bringing chill. He napped, I enjoyed the sun and breeze on my leg, stuck out the car’s rolled down window.

He woke just as our neighbours came home from their after-work walk, their one year old happily worn on his mother’s chest. He watched them walk up the hill, eyes bleary and unfocused. After they left his sight, he started talking — about them, about the baby, about wanting to go talk to them.

We got out of the car (I rolled down the leg of my jeans, rolled up the car’s window), and he talked about wanting to go see them. I checked the mail (equally divided between bills and junk, as usual), and he talked about wanting to play with them. I told him they’d gone inside (tossed the junk in the recycling, tucked the bills in my bag), and he talked about asking them to come outside. I told him they were probably busy (rolled up the other windows, got our jackets out of the back), and he talked about me calling them. I told him I didn’t have their number on my phone (I did), and he talked about how I could find it.

I hemmed, I hawed (I stalled), and he persevered.

“Well…” I said (thinking about everything I’d ever written in favor of community and real relationships and practical, tangible support, and trying to remember whether the father’s name was Brian or Ryan), “I guess we can go knock on their door and ask if they want to come out.”

“They will!” he said, and talked about what they’d do outside. “They might not,” I warned, wanting to avoid a heartbroken child (wanting my heart to stop trying to beat out of my chest). “They will!” he said, as we climbed the lawn separating our driveways.

We got there. He knocked and asked the closed door “Do you want to come outside?” (I said he should wait to ask until they answered.)

She answered the door, and was lovely, and listened to him talk about his balloon-glove. The one year old was walking (how had I not known he was walking now?), and decided for us that the plan of the day was to come outside with a ball.

My child talked, and tossed the ball downhill and retrieved it and tossed it and so on, and talked. (I tried not to tell him not to talk so much.) She talked and played with him, and we chatted. (I tried not to hyperventilate.) The Man came home, and opened the door to the garage to put his bike away. (I tried not to cringe at the catastrophically messy state it’s in.) The one year old walked out of his pants, and she said she wished she could go around without pants too. (I tried not to say anything embarrassing, and so I said nothing.)

We decided it was time to go in, and made our goodbyes; she and the baby up the hill to their house, we and our no-longer-baby up the stairs to ours.

We go inside, and I think: Is this what it is to be neighbours? Is this what it is to be in community? How do I pass on what I never learned? My kid wants to play, so I teach him how to knock on doors, though it’s the last thing I want to do; my kid wants to talk, so I teach him it’s ok to approach people, even if I’m not sure it it? Is it wrong to be so proud of this one, small (twelve-month-old-like wide-legged wobbly) step toward not being That Neighbour, Who Doesn’t Talk To Anyone? How many times am I going to fall down on my butt before this becomes second nature? And will people smile and find it cute, or will they not see how hard this is for me, how new?

We make dinner. We stay inside the rest of the night. I look at houses online and think about community.

[A] US professor of philosophy… a single mother, has been accepted to participate in a month-long European seminar this summer, but her acceptance was made conditional on her demonstrating to the satisfaction of the directors of [...]]]> Laurie (knitmeapony) shared the following post a couple days ago on Twitter, Today in existing while woman, about this case:

[A] US professor of philosophy… a single mother, has been accepted to participate in a month-long European seminar this summer, but her acceptance was made conditional on her demonstrating to the satisfaction of the directors of the host Institute that she has full-time childcare arrangements in place. She was given 12 hours to provide this satisfactory proof, or her acceptance would be withdrawn.

The age of the professor’s child was quoted as being 13 years old in the post (I heard from a second source that he is 12, and in 6th grade); the following is based on the assumption that the quoted age is accurate.

I wholeheartedly agree with the analysis of the linked post on the misogyny inherent in the institute’s demand, but there is another angle worthy of pointing out: since when do 13 year olds automatically require “full-time childcare”? What happened to 13 year olds doing childcare?

Now, not all 13 year olds are up to being by themselves 40 hours a week; most people, frankly, would find that boring, and a 13 year old in most places would have a limited set of options for self-amusement (in the United States, for instance, many malls disallow anyone “of school age” entrance by themselves during school hours; still other places disapprove of unaccompanied minors entering at all, ever). And to be sure, there are many 13 year olds with whom I would not entrust the Boychick — but there are equally small numbers of 23 year olds, 33 year olds, and so on, whom I would find responsible enough!

But I find there’s something very, very wrong with a society that treats teenagers — “even” young teenagers — the same as they do infants and toddlers, who most certainly do still have need for high levels of supervision. “Adolescents” — persons who have (usually) entered puberty and matured sexually — are, basically, adults. (Robert Epstein calls teens “apprentice adults”.) The only absolute categorical difference between teens and adults is years — not wisdom, not maturity, not even experience, but years¹. Those years usually mean that adults have had more opportunities to exercise judgment, to make — and with luck, learn from — mistakes, to gain experience in a wider variety of situations, true; but not necessarily. Before going off on how many teens have “bad judgment” and make “bad choices”, I ask you to think of all the adults you know; are they, to a one, paragons of wisdom and virtue? I guarantee the answer is no. Then why do we expect any more from teens? Why are their mistakes used as justification for a categorical condemnation of their entire cohort? By that measure, adults — of any age — should surely not be allowed to drive or vote or run businesses.

All children are people, and deserve respect and autonomy appropriate to their development; honoring the personhood of teens requires that we recognize that they are not rebels, not enemies, not delinquents, not signs of the eventual downfall of society, not good-for-nothing loafers and thrill-seekers concerned only with their own pleasure: and to the extent that they are, or act that way, consider that this is a natural response of any person to having their self-determination thwarted, their autonomy disrespected, their personhood and very humanity belittled (as when we say about teens that they are “wild animals” or “hormones on legs” — as though adults aren’t!).

If teens are irresponsible, it is because they are categorically denied any opportunities for responsibility; if they are self-centered (as though adults are universally not!), it is because they are not given chances to serve; if they rebel, it is because they are told they must stop acting like children, but are not yet treated like real people, and because they are told to get out now, so they can move on to “settle down” into “real life” later. They are told, and usually have been told their whole lives, that they are not trustworthy or capable or responsible; is it any wonder should they give in, and believe it of themselves, and act to fulfill those predictions?

Not to sound too much like the proverbial story of “I walked to school in the snow! up hill! both ways!”, but by thirteen I had been menstruating for three years. I was 5′9″. I was just starting high school, I’d been biking myself to school for half a decade, I’d been babysitting friends for a couple years, and I’d laugh if you told me I needed “full-time childcare”. My mom took me along to conferences (sometimes a few days, sometimes a full week), and generally I kicked around the hotel by myself for most of the day (and this was before the days of everyone having cell phones, although my mom had one and knew I could reach her should I need to). By sixteen, I’d found and started a relationship with the person who was to be my lifemate.

I’m not saying that I expect all 13 year olds to “be like me” — but I do expect them to be like them, and some, perhaps most, could have the ability to be responsible and “mature” (and non-destructively self-entertaining!) if we let them. Teens — “even” young teens — tend to be a lot more competent and able and responsible than adults give them credit for.

Of course it would be ridiculous to one day simply dump responsibilities and duties and finances and the expectation of full independence on a 13 year old; but it’s equally ridiculous to do the same to an 18 year old. More sensible than either would be the gradual transfer of independence and responsibilities, and always, at any age, respect and trust in the abilities an individual shows (remembering that one needs opportunities for capability to be demonstrated!). And yes, arbitrary age limits attached to the transfer of certain rights (like voting), to some extent, are practical and perhaps even necessary. But let’s try to make those ages reasonable; culturally, let’s make sure that as many persons as possible reach those ages well able to handle those responsibilities because they’ve had the chance to prove to themselves their competence well before then.

Maybe this particular 13 year old needs someone watching him at all times (I don’t know and no one except he and his mother can know); certainly, for a month-long trip, ensuring (or helping him to ensure for himself!) that he has something to do during that time, for at least part of it, seems reasonable. But how about putting him to work, should he wish, in the childcare? The average 13 year old is far more likely to be suited for that, if with supervision — or better yet, mentorship — than for being on the other side.

Welcome to the April Carnival of Natural Parenting: Parenting advice!

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama. This month we’re writing letters to ask our readers for help with a current parenting issue. Please read to the end to find a list [...]]]>

Welcome to the April Carnival of Natural Parenting: Parenting advice!

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama. This month we’re writing letters to ask our readers for help with a current parenting issue. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

***

Dear readers,

Perhaps you can help me. I don’t know the answers. I don’t know that there are any answers.

Let me tell you a story:

Three years ago, a child was born. His parents were so happy to see him, and from the very beginning they tried to honor his personhood and respect his wishes: they welcomed him into the world at home, in warm water, in a dim room; they warmed him against themselves; they brought him to bed with them, so he would never be alone; they helped him to eliminate his wastes away from his body when he indicated he needed it; they let him suckle sweet milk whenever he wanted. He was weighed in a sling, measured while lying in his mother’s arms, had his heel pricked while asleep in bliss at his mother’s breast. They left his perfect body whole, exactly as it was designed to be.

They fell in love with him, in an instant, in every instant they were with him, which was every instant from his birth. They were entranced with his perfection — smooshy nose (which straightened in a couple days) and bruised head and predilection for copious spit up and all. He was perfect. Simply, completely perfect.

Swimming in oxytocin, floating in joy, at one week out, they got a call.

Screening results positive: congenital hypothyroidism. Need a recheck. No, today. Now. What do you mean you don’t have a pediatrician picked out already?

Something… wrong? With their perfect child? Panic. Fear. Grief. They went through all this, and more.

Eventually, they realized it wasn’t the end of the world. Eventually, they realized their child was still perfect. Eventually, they got used to the new rhythm: pill crushed and delivered with breast milk every day, blood draws to test levels every month — then two months, then three months. The child grew up, and the pill part got even easier, with him asking for it and chewing it down plain every morning. Fears of his development being stunted proved false; confidence in the ok-ness of the diagnosis got easier. They clung to the hope — promised by everyone they talked to — that the blood draw ordeal would get easier too.

But it didn’t.

It got worse.

He learned to anticipate. He learned what it was “blood draw” meant, learned that it was the little room in which the trauma happened, learned it was when the people in the white lab coats called his name that it all started.

His parents learned hell. Learned that no amount of play-acting beforehand, no amount of promise of bribes afterward, no amount of distraction during would prevent his terror. They learned what it was like to hold a screaming, straining, snot-smeared child against their chest, legs locked around his to prevent him kicking the techs, while he pleads “Mama, dada, help me! Help me! Let me go, please! Please, help me!”

It had to be done — somehow, the blood had to be extracted, the tests done, the levels monitored, the meds adjusted. But what lessons were they teaching him, this child whose autonomy and bodily integrity they held sacred since before he was born? When the first step in raising a not-rapist is not violating his own body, when the first step in raising a sane person is not traumatizing his own psyche, how could they justify this traumatic violation? Repeatedly, regularly?

Of course, how could they not, either, when thyroid is vital for brain development? They could and did offer the child so many choices — when (a little), and in whose lap, and what color smiley face drawn on the bandage tape, and what toys to buy afterward, and where to go to lunch to celebrate surviving — but they could not, would not, offer the choice to not do it at all.

Here’s the question:

How does one do this? How do we get the necessary medical tests for our child without traumatizing him? How do we traumatize him and teach him to hold others’ bodily autonomy supreme? Endless suggestions for EMLA cream aside (and sending dismissals of his own right to autonomy directly to hell), how do we simultaneously respect his personhood and protect his health?

This isn’t a theoretical question. Third-person-distancing aside, this is a real dilemma, and we’ve six months at most before it comes around again. And it’s never going away, not for the rest of his life. He might outgrow the screaming, but he’ll never outgrow the testing.

Help us. Help him.

***

Visit Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

(This list will be updated by the end of the day April 13 with all the carnival links.)

• Replace hitting with…? — Acacia at Be Present Mama is at a loss on how to handle her three year old’s hitting.
• Two Questions — Alexandra at Breastfeeding Momma would like some ideas on how to strengthen her bond with her 8-month-old daughter; she’s also looking for input on an emotional topic: vaccines.
• Balancing Needs When Baby Trumps Mama — Alison at BluebirdMama wonders how her child’s need for noise and energy balances out against her need for quiet and space. (@childbearing )
• The McDilemma — Annie at PhD in Parenting is on the arches of a McDilemma. (@phdinparenting)
• Where is the mutually agreeable solution? When parenting calls for blood draws — Arwyn at Raising My Boychick has a child who needs regular blood tests that are torment for him. How does a parent honor a child when his health is on the line? (@RaisingBoychick)
• When To Wait To Nurse — Cave Mother wonders what age toddlers can be asked to wait to nurse.
• I don’t love you Mama! — CurlyMonkey wonders what to do with her daughter’s intense feelings. (@curlymonkey_)
• Help a Mama Out — Danielle at Born.in.Japan isn’t getting much sleep with her cosleeping, night nursing, cranky little guy and hopes you can help with some suggestions for shuteye. (@borninjp)
• Dear Abby: My daughter really misses her Daddy — Darcel at The Mahogany Way needs to know how to help her daddy’s girl get the connection with her father she needs — and not feel left out in the process. (@MahoganyWayMama)
• What’s Going on at School? — Deb at Science@home is in a quandary: how can she find out what really goes on at school without stepping on the teacher’s toes? (@ScienceMum)
• April Carnival of Natural Parenting: Parenting Advice — Dionna at Code Name: Mama wants to find volunteer work that includes her toddler. (@CodeNameMama)
• How do you deal? — Erin at Beatnik Momma does not want to engage in “mommy wars.” She’d like your input on how (and how much) to discuss her natural parenting choices with curious friends and family who parent differently. (@babybeatnik)
• Dear Abby — The Grumbles at Grumbles and Grunts gave her son a banana…and no solid food since. What’s the next step in baby-led weaning? (@thegrumbles)
• Excuse me, I have a poop question — Jessica at This is Worthwhile has a question for you about toddler tinkling. (@tisworthwhile)
• The Half Empty Nest Syndrome: What to do when Momma gets replaced by a cow? — Joni Rae at Kitchen Witch Momma is suffering from “half-empty nest syndrome”: what do you do when your babies start growing up? (@kitchenwitch)
• Peer Pressure — Kate at Momopoly worries what message her daughter’s new friend is sending — but how to break up such an infatuation? (@Momopoly)
• When I Fall Down — Katherine at Momioso.com needs your wisdom on how to be more gentle and at peace with herself. (@naturalparent)
• A question of sleep and sanity — KeepingMumSane needs your toddler cosleeping advice in order to, well, keep mum sane! (@keepingmumsane)

• April Carnival of Natural Parenting: Parenting advice — Lauren at Hobo Mama needs a chiropractor … or help getting her 36 lb toddler to walk up the stairs. (@Hobo_Mama)
• Driver’s Ed for Mommies — Maman A Droit is a self-confessed terrible driver and is scared to drive with her baby in the car.
• Solo Parenting — Mammapie at Downside Up and Outside In needs tips for being a single working mother while her partner’s away. (@mammapie)
• Itsy Bitsy Biter — Mamapoekie at Authentic Parenting needs your advice about her daughter, otherwise known as the pitbull.
• How Can I Avoid Beauty Obsession? — Melodie at Breastfeeding Moms Unite! is at a loss ever since her tomboys turned into wannabe princesses. (@bfmom)
• Seeking Stability in Chaos — Michelle at Seeking Mother is in a heart-wrenching position. She needs your input on how to make a toddler feel secure during a time of transition, the illness of a parent, and multiple (new) caregivers. (@Seekingmother)
• Mama, That’s Too, Too Boring! — Michelle at The Parent Vortex started out asking how to encourage her preschooler to get dressed — and four days later, she began to without prompting! (@TheParentVortex)
• Dear Lovey Hart, I am Desperate. — Mommy Soup from Cream of Mommy Soup has several questions for you, from how you play favorites when no one’s your favorite to how to tell off strangers curious about the ample size of your family. (@mommysoup)
• Diaper Duty Dilemma — Paige at Baby Dust Diaries has a simple request: talk to her about cloth! (@babydust)
• What Do You Need My Son — pchanner at A Mom’s Fresh Start wishes her calm four-month-old hadn’t turned into an inquisitive and dramatic six-month-old. How do you handle changes in baby’s personality? (@pchanner)
• Dear Natural Parenting Community — Sarah at OneStarryNight wants to know how to respond to criticism from family and friends over breastfeeding. (@starrymom)
• Natural Parenting Carnival — Help — Sarah at Consider Eden feels like either her to-do list or her parenting is suffering, because she can’t do both! (@considereden)
• To potty learn or not to potty learn — that is the question — Sheryl at Little Snowflakes wants to know whether it’s time to start potty training. (@sheryljesin)
• Seeking Patience — Starr at Earth Mama looks to the collective tribal wisdom of this community to learn how to teach patience to children.
• A Dirty Girl Comes Clean — Tashmica at Mother Flippin’ is struggling. How do parents deal with their inability to keep their children protected from danger? (@Mother_Flippin)
• Uli and the Pussy Cats — Thomasin at Propson Palingenesis has a toddler who likes to put kitties in headlocks and ride them like horsies. How best to separate the little beasties?
• Perceptions of Discipline — Zoey at Good Goog doesn’t use conventional discipline with her child — and doesn’t know how to respond around people who do. (@zoeyspeak)