Children’s book review: ‘Why Mommy is a Democrat’

Words fail me.

That doesn’t happen often (ask my husband), but I just don’t even know how to express how appalled I am at this book I just came across. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Why Mommy is a Democrat.

In a nutshell, the book talks about all the good things the Democratic party stands for, and why a Mommy squirrel believes in them. From the sample pages (shown here): “Democrats make sure we are always safe, just like Mommy does.” The illustration? A mother squirrel protecting her young ones from a lumbering elephant. Way subtle, there.

Another sample page: “Democrats make sure we all share our toys, just like Mommy does.” The illustration: happy squirrel children share blocks as the mommy squirrel looks on fondly. In the background, two obviously wealthy people sashay past a homeless guy holding out his hat.

Are you kidding me? Look, it doesn’t matter what party you vote for–this book is an equal-opportunity offender. It does Democrats no favors by so grossly simplifying Democratic talking points that they’re nearly parodies. And Republicans would be justified in being angry at the nasty jabs hurled at them– because when you say something like “Democrats make sure we are always safe”, then you imply that Republicans don’t, and that isn’t fair. And it’s so generalized that it’s hardly debatable. Democrats want to keep us safe from what? Nuclear war? Food poisoning? Ill-tempered possums? It’s just too broad.

I think the real danger in this book is that it doesn’t exactly invite critical thinking. Which may be the point, I suppose–paint the Republicans with a broad brush and make the kiddies hate them, and that’s all that matters. Very Machiavellian.

Is this what we want to teach our kids? Do we really want to pollute their minds with gross caricatures of people who hold different beliefs? Because, yeah, that’s all we need is more partisan hard-liners who can’t empathize or work with those they disagree with. It’s worked so well in our state’s General Assembly.

Discuss: To what extent have you/do you plan to talk about politics with your children? Do you hope to convince your children to be loyal to a particular political party? And please, do me a favor here–can we refrain from turning this into a Republican/Democrat bashing session? Would be so appreciated.

Why toddlers and thunderstorms do not mix

Well, on second thought, they do mix, but what you get is a carefully crafted recipe for disaster. And it’s so simple to make! Why, you don’t even have to know how to boil water.

Simply combine:

• One late night at work
• One almighty big thunderstorm
• One husband who left for work at 6 a.m.
• One three-hour power outage
• One sobbing toddler
• One very ill-advised moment of pity

Stir it all together, and you will get a rare confection that, if done correctly, should taste like moldy socks and despair.

Now, as a general rule, we do not allow the Sprog to sleep in our bed. Probably for his own benefit as well as ours, since my husband has been known to grow as many as seven extra knees and elbows while he sleeps, all for the express purpose of drilling them into my back.

But around 6:30 a.m., a big clap of thunder woke me up, and I realized that a) the power (and consequently the baby monitor) was dead, and b) the Sprog was screaming so hysterically that I could hear him one floor down and all the way across the house.

Sometimes, you can ignore it when a kid wakes up, and hope they’ll go back to sleep on their own–especially when the kid in question usually sleeps in until around 9 a.m. Not this time. You will just have to trust me when I say that, for me to hear the Sprog without the baby monitor, he had to have been screaming loud enough to shatter vases.

So I brought him back to my bed, hoping against hope that he would settle down again in my (hopefully) comforting presence, and we would snuggle together and fall asleep, only to wake up hours and hours later to the gentle patter of rain on the roof. Riiiiiiight.

A sampling of what happened after I took him back to my bed to sleep:

SPROG: Mama, what’s that?
ME: A flashlight. Go to sleep.

SPROG: Mama, where’s PJ?
ME: He’s asleep on his pillow next to the bed. It’s time for everyone to sleep. You should go to sleep too.

[Silence for a while. I began to hope he had nodded off. Then:]

SPROG: Mama, I have to go pee-pee.
ME: You’re kidding me. Do you really want to pee, or do you want to get up and play?
SPROG: I want to play. And pee-pee too.
ME: Okay, we’ll go potty. Then you have to go to sleep.

SPROG: Mama, I want to hold your hand.
ME: If I hold your hand, will you go to sleep?

SPROG: Mama, what that sound? That scare me.
ME: That’s thunder, sweetie, but it’s not going to get you. Go to sleep.
SPROG: What is it? What’s in it?
ME: It’s a sonic shock wave caused by the rapid heating and expansion of the air around a lightning bolt.
SPROG: …
ME: It’s the clouds bumping into each other, baby. Go to sleep.
SPROG: Mama, I have to poop. Right now. I have to go poop a lot. I don’t want to go sleepy. Can we play with Darth Tater?
ME: **weeping and gnashing of teeth**

Discuss: Is it okay to let the kid in bed when there’s a fierce thunderstorm or nightmare? How do you tend to handle this sort of situation?

Fight for your right to give birth the way you want

Did you all know that there’s only one certified nurse midwife in Lexington who’s allowed to deliver babies at a hospital? One. Frankly, that’s absurd, especially given the rising popularity of the midwifery model of pregnancy care. According to awesome mommy blogger Guinever, midwives have applied for positions at local OB/GYN offices, but they’re being told that women in Lexington don’t want midwives.

Oh, really? Because I think it’s pretty presumptuous for doctors to say women won’t hire midwives when women hardly have the opportunity. And midwives, just like obstetricians, differ somewhat in their personal philosophies and methods, so it seems only fair that women should be able to choose from a wider field of CNMs to find the one who best fits their needs. Perhaps, too, if women were more informed about the midwife model of care, CNMs would be a more popular option. You can find more information about midwives at this site and this site, but here’s a brief overview (which is by no means exhaustive, mind you):

CNMs are highly trained professionals who are more than qualified to guide women through pregnancy, birth, and other feminine health issues such as PAP smears, breast exams, and birth control advice. They believe that pregnancy and birth are normal, healthy events in a woman’s life until proven otherwise, and they try not to interfere more than necessary in the body’s natural processes. That said, CNMs are trained to recognize red flags, and they refer a woman with a high-risk pregnancy to an OB/GYN. They are not qualified to do cesarean sections, and their abilities to do certain medical procedures (such as giving episiotomies or prescribing medication) are limited in many states. All CNMs are required to have a bachelor’s degree, and 70% have a master’s degree. About 96% of CNMs deliver babies in hospitals.

Now, I admit that this issue hits close to home for me: When I gave birth to the Sprog, my labor was induced, and I was hooked up to about 14 different straps and monitors at all times. I could hardly move, and I felt like a lab rat. The nurse refused to allow me to drink any fluids, saying I would throw up after I gave birth (which I did anyway). I felt as though I had very little say in what happened to me, and the whole time, my instincts were screaming at me that this was supposed to be a very different experience.

This time around, I was interested in a home birth with a midwife, but my nervous husband asked me to consider a hospital birth. That’s probably for the better anyway, since every surface in my house is covered in dog hair. But anyway. I figured that a good compromise would be a hospital birth with a CNM. However, when I went looking for a CNM with hospital privileges, I only found one, and she’s crazy busy. I ended up finding a wonderful obstetrician who used to work with midwives and is very into that whole vibe. I’m very happy with my OB, but still, it would have been nice to be able to find a CNM with a more open schedule, as I had originally wanted.

If you want Lexington doctors to know that you want more options for the birth of your baby, I encourage you to sign this petition, which will be distributed at local hospitals, OB/GYN practices, and family practices that provide maternity care. The doctors around here seem to be misinformed about what Lexington moms want, and if we don’t speak up and make our voices heard, how can that ever change?

The Parental Walk of Shame

There’s a certain book I want to buy, and though I like to support bricks-and-mortar stores, I just don’t know if I can ever go into Barnes & Noble again with the Sprog. At least not without a bag on my head or something, lest I be recognized and arrested for child abuse.

Last time I went there with my son in tow, I was knocking out some Christmas shopping and thought, “Oh, we’ll only be in there for a few minutes! I’m sure he’ll be fine!” Yes, I really thought that. Because I smoke the special crack. So we went in, and I let the Sprog play in the kids’ area (you know, with the cool train table) for a few minutes. The problem was when I wanted to leave, because, see, the Sprog didn’t.

Wouldn’t, in fact.

I was stuck with an armload of books, all the way across the store from the cash register, and a toddler who was actually lying on the floor kicking and screaming, or alternately running away from me. Folks, this almost never happens with him. Must have been some of that sparkly Christmas spirit or something, but he was being a holy terror.

(Side note: It would have been so nice if they’d had a cash register back there so kids could play while parents buy stuff, but that computer is just for looking stuff up. Right here is where you may imagine my white-hot glare directed at the computer that gave me false hope. It would melt polyester, this glare.)

Anyway, back to the Sprog, who was clearly gunning for a job as the Birth Control poster boy. I could have simply put my books down and taken him out of the store, but I just didn’t have the time to come back later and get them all again. What mom does have that kind of time? So I cajoled. I asked nicely. I begged. I bribed. I threatened. I promised rewards untold if he would just get off the floor and come with me to the registers. I tried to catch the eye of a sales associate, to see if they might carry my books to the register for me so I could, in turn, gently pick up my son and carry him to the front. Nothing doing.

Then, the piece de resistance: I was standing EIGHT FEET away from the child, telling him to come on so we could go home and watch Star Wars and eat peanut butter, please please please?, when he started yelling.

He yelled, “MOMMY HIT ME! MOMMY HIT ME! MOMMY, DON’T HIT MEEEEEEEE!”

In two seconds, I had both hands in the air like a hold-up victim, books dropped forgotten at my feet. If another shopper should happen to look over, I hoped they would see that my son was not, in fact, being beaten. Yet.

Then he stopped yelling and started licking the floor.

I scooped up books under one arm, tucked a kicking, screaming toddler under the other, and grimly made the parental Walk of Shame up to the registers. I gently laid the books on the counter, gently laid the Sprog down on the ground (he wouldn’t stand up), paid for the books, and then gave my son such a baleful look that he wordlessly stood up and followed me out of the store (I have really got to try and perfect that look — it gets results).

I’ve thought about going back in the three months since that incident, but I break out in a cold sweat every time. Like I said, I like to support brick and mortar stores (helps keep business in Lexington and all), but I just don’t know if I have the stomach to venture back in there with a preschooler.

P.S. This just got me to thinking: No wonder online shopping has become so popular. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, there are 5.4 million stay-at-home moms in the United States, and 42 percent of them have children under the age of 3. And women make about 85% of all household purchases — friends, that is trillions of dollars. It seems clear to me that stores stand to make a lot of money when they cater to mothers with young children. I don’t know about you all, but I would gladly shop at a more expensive store that makes me feel welcome as a mother.

And this is not to knock Barnes & Noble; they’re generally a fine place to shop with kids, and I love their Barnes & Noble Jr. section. Not their fault that my son chose to go nuclear that day. But still, a register next to the play area would have been so darn useful in that whole saving-my-sanity business.

DISCUSS: What is the most godawful thing your child has ever done in public?

No ill wind…

Sorry to keep you all waiting so long for a new entry, but Friday was a nightmare. I woke up that morning to the dulcet sounds of my son on the yelling over the baby monitor, rolled out of bed, and my world promptly turned upside down: I began having symptoms that made me think I might be having a miscarriage. Luckily, my husband was home and could take care of the Sprog while I dialed the obstetrician’s office, huddled in bed like a refugee.

The triage nurse listened to my concerns and told me I was probably fine, but she wanted me to come in if the symptoms got worse. So all morning, I sat and waited. I had planned to go to the grocery store, the library and the park, but instead sat on the couch reading books to the Sprog, taut with terror, aware of every wayward twinge in my body. Thinking about the tiny thing I’d seen on the ultrasound monitor the week before, rolling and waving in its small sea like a tiny anemone, just the size of my thumb.

My hands shook as I cut an apple for the Sprog’s snack. I shouldn’t have dyed my hair. I shouldn’t have eaten hotdogs that one time. I should have eaten more vegetables. I should have gotten more sleep. I promise I’ll stop complaining about morning sickness if my baby’s okay. Promise.

And in the end, the baby was okay. The symptoms went away, and I’m starting to climb down off the ceiling. But I don’t know if I’ll be really okay until I see the baby again at the 20 week ultrasound. Probably not til it’s born.

Funny how some of the worst things can end up being kind of helpful, though. Friday was one of the worst days I can ever remember having, but at least I learned something: I am desperately in love with my baby, and I can’t wait until it’s born so I can hold it tight.

See, before today, I felt the symptoms of pregnancy, and I was excited about the whole thing, but I didn’t really feel connected to the baby. I didn’t really love it, and I wondered privately if I’d ever be able to love a second baby as much as I love my son. Well, now I know. And it’s terrifying. I wonder if I’ll ever stop being afraid for it. But I’m not holding my breath on that one, since I still haven’t stopped being afraid for my firstborn.

Kids with guns

First things first: I’m not squeamish about guns in the hands of responsible teens and adults. I used to teach Riflery at 4-H camp, and I have no problem with someone legally shooting a deer or something if a) you intend to eat it, b) don’t take too much of an unfair advantage by using space-age laser sights, burying your hunting clothes in the backyard for a month and sporting deer-butt deodorant to better blend in with the eau de outdoors (which reminds me of this poem), and c) don’t make any humiliating and tacky decorations out of the poor thing’s carcass.

Nevertheless, I’m painfully aware that deer are not the only things people shoot with guns, so I get creeped out when I see my young son pretending to shoot guns. I’ve been told “boys will be boys” and that I just need to get over it, but I still feel … sad … when I see the Sprog, so young and innocent, pretending to blow people away like a cold-blooded killer.

It’s weirder still when he’s holding his gun in one hand and his stuffed dog or a sippy cup of milk in the other. Am I strange for feeling a bit unsettled by this?

At first I wouldn’t let him play guns, and told him that guns hurt people very badly. “Whatever,” said his eyes as he watched Caillou. But he kept on making guns out of found objects, and I just couldn’t keep up with him. As Malcolm said in Jurassic Park, “Nature always finds a way.”

Things The Sprog has turned into/used as a weapon in the past month or so:

• Graham crackers (bitten into an L shape)
• Paper towel/toilet paper tubes
• Train tracks
• Banana (waaay too many Monty Python jokes here. I shall ignore them.)
• His stuffed dog, hippo, and Winnie the Pooh
• His shoes (squeezed to make them light up, for added effect)
• The TV remote
• Superman action figure
• Cuddly, pink-cheeked Fisher-Price dinosaur
• A Nutrigrain bar
• His fingers, cocked into classic Vegas lounge lizard position

You know what, though? I’m still not buying him a toy gun. At the very least, all this stonewalling is at least stimulating his creativity.

What do you think about kids playing with toy guns?

A great new store for Lexington moms

I don’t generally use this blogspace to promote local businesses (at least not to the shameless, drooling depths to which I’m about to plunge), but I’ll make an exception here.

I’ve been hearing about the Mother Nurture store for weeks — from friends, acquaintances I bumped into at Kroger, blogs, message boards, you name it. So last week I decided to go and see what all the fuss was about. I knew I had arrived when I saw a car parked outside with bumper stickers that said, “Midwifery is Catching!” and “I (heart) my doula!”

Mother Nurture is one store in a phalanx of mother- and birth-related establishments that are slowly taking over the space-age building behind the Sunshine Grow Shop on Richmond Road (right next to Lowe’s). The other two are Baby Moon, which offers parenting support, resources and classes, and Family Works Massage which offers therapeutic massage for mamas and babies.

I will be quite honest: I didn’t know quite what to expect from a store whose chief claim to fame is “natural” baby care items. So I was flying blind, but I had the vague hope that they stocked cloth diapers, since my husband and I are debating whether or not we will use them with the next baby. I’d read about the merits of cloth diapering online, but I wanted to see how they worked for myself.

And that is the best thing about Mother Nurture, right there: you can read online reviews of baby products until you go cross-eyed, but nothing beats being able to go into a store and check out the merchandise in person. And, let’s face it, the kind of stuff they sell there would make the average Wal-Mart executive hyperventilate (all that high-quality, mostly American-made merchandise, and none of it disposable, dontcha know), so you’re not likely to find it elsewhere in Lexington.

Moreover, there are several products they stock at Mother Nurture as a direct result of mothers’ requests to the owner, Cerise Bouchard. Go ahead and try that at a chain store.

But the selection doesn’t suffer, for all it’s such a tiny little store. They had a staggering variety in their merchandise: cloth diapers and accessories, baby slings, organic cotton toys and clothing, funky nursing cover-ups, breast pumps and nursing bras, plus plenty of little hand-made items made by work-at-home moms.

It was a very kid-friendly place, too (of course). There are inviting chairs for breast-feeding, and there’s a well-stocked toy area in the back. The Sprog made a beeline for the toys the second we arrived and played with another little boy the whole time I was there; I never had to worry about entertaining him or keeping him away from the merchandise, which is such a nice change from our usual shopping experience.

It’s a good thing the Sprog was kept so busy, because I was immersed in a crash course on cloth diapering with the clerk, a knowledgeable, friendly doula and nursing student named Kendra who was filling in for Cerise.

We left 45 minutes later, armed with new knowledge, a fistful of pamphlets about cloth diapering, and a burning desire for a Hawaiian-print Hooter Hider.

All in all, I was highly impressed with the store: the staff, the atmosphere, the governing philosophy, and above all, the fabulous merchandise. I admit, some of the stuff is kind of high-end, but I’m willing to splurge on well-made baby necessities — that’s one area you do not want to skimp on. Besides, they have gift registry there, so you can spread some of the cottage industry love among your friends, come shower-time. W00t!

UPDATED: Breastfeeding is not sexy

All right. I’ve been mad about this issue for a while, but this article just put me over the edge. What is it, exactly, that is so filthy and freaky about feeding your baby the way your body was designed to do?

Apparently, MySpace is endeavoring to enforce certain standards of public decency and good taste, specifically by militantly deleting photos of Melissa Rock’s breastfeeding baby. All this while leaving up untold scads of pics by Girls Gone Wild wannabes. One of these things is not like the other.

In the E-mail of Infinite Irony, a MySpace moderator told Rock that MySpace can’t allow “nude/sexually suggestive” photos on the site, since it’s an all-ages site. Now, let your eyes travel to the left of that screen capture, and observe the MySpace-approved advertisement of Scarlet Johansson with her cleavage jacked halfway up to her collarbone. The pictures of the breastfeeding baby (which are mostly behind a cut anyway) hardly expose any more chest acreage, so there’s no real nudity. And they certainly aren’t intended to be sexually exciting.

Even Kentucky state law says that breastfeeding is not “an act of public indecency and shall not be considered indecent exposure, sexual conduct, lewd touching, or obscenity.” Most other states have laws with similar wording. So…what gives? How is it that it’s legal to do it, but it’s not okay to take a picture of it?

I’m not trying to be naive; I get it that breasts have a sexual function, and that some people are unable to see beyond that, but looking sexy in a halter top is not the primary biological function of a breast. They’re for feeding babies, plain and simple. So how did we get to a place in our culture where it’s okay for a woman to parade around in an extremely low-cut top, but it’s wrong for that same woman to replace the coverage of, say, a bikini top for a baby’s head?

And it doesn’t even have to be that overt. Most women use a nursing cover-up or a receiving blanket to nurse discreetly, but even then there are some who are incensed at the thought that someone might have an exposed breast underneath the fabric. To which I say: if you have a problem with women walking around — in broad daylight, the hussies! — with breasts under their clothes, then you need to get out of the house more often.

Which is all new mothers are trying to do, at that. They can either stay holed up at home until they start talking to the yellow wallpaper, or they can toss a receiving blanket into the diaper bag and get out into the fresh air with the baby. The kid has to eat, and a mother shouldn’t have to waste precious hours and energy pumping milk, then lugging cooler packs and bottles all over town just to appease a squeamish few, if she’d rather nurse.

And though most women would rather find a private place to nurse, there are very few places available when you’re out on the town. Far too often, the choices are: nurse in public, sit in a changing stall, or balance on the toilet seat in the women’s bathroom. None are comfortable or particularly convenient (though Fayette Mall and Babies R Us both get a gold star for their spacious, appealing nursing areas furnished with easy chairs and changing tables.)

So, again: what is it that’s so dirty and indecent about feeding your baby in public? I’d love to hear about your experiences with this, both positive and negative. And if you know of a place in town that’s particularly accommodating to nursing mothers, I’m sure many of us mothers would love to hear about that, too.

 UPDATE: 

In response to this comment and a few others like it:

I have no issues with moms that WANT to use nursing covers, but in my mind, most people that imply that they NEED to in order to be discreet are implying that there is something that needs to be hidden.

I just wanted to say that I absolutely agree with this. A nursing cover is not necessarily, um, necessary for discretion (and can, in fact, scream “Feeding time!”), but it can be a very useful tool for new moms who don’t have the hang of it yet, or those with really wiggly babies who like to yank shirts up (mine did), or klutzes (again, me) who are certain to bungle around and give everyone a eye-full without the aid of a cover-up.

I got better at it later on, but in the first few months when my milk-fu was not yet strong, a nursing cover-up was a real blessing. For those who have the confidence and skills to nurse without one, I salute you.