Home Inspection

He didn't understand the empty houses. It was hard getting into and out of the car so many times. But he enjoyed running circles in new and unexpected floor plans. From the kitchen to the dining room to the family room, round and round, over and over.

Now he doesn't understand why all these adults are standing around talking when there are sliding glass doors to unlock and fall leaves to collect.

He doesn't understand the man with tools that are not ours to play with. There's a perfectly good screwdriver just sitting there! And he's allowed to play with Grandad's tools all the time! He's too busy squeakily zooming down the hallway in wet shoes to notice the looks that Mommy and Daddy are exchanging, the tense way they squeeze each other's hands.

His eyes aren't filled with dollar signs. His brow isn't furrowed with worry. He doesn't know about old furnaces or cracked skylights or carbon monoxide or asbestos. He can repeat the words "new house," but his heart doesn't race when he utters them.

He just knows that there's a yard.

A yard to play in.

And he doesn't understand why anyone would want to stay inside on a beautiful day like this.

(For him, things are looking up.)

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Back, Out

It's the closest thing I'll ever have to a sports injury.

At least, it feels how I imagine a sports injury feels. And I can picture myself old and gray, leaning on a cane, hand on my hip, grimace on my face, grumbling, "The old football injury's acting up again." Except that I never played football. (I still don't really understand football, and being married to a sports-loathing man, I suspect I never will.) The most athletic event I have ever participated in was my son's birth, and I'm certain that that's where my "sports" injury came from.

Westley was occiput posterior, and didn't turn; he was born facing up, the way monkeys are born (I'm told). My back pain in labor was unbelievably excruciating. I'd never heard of "back labor" or babies being born "sunny-side-up" at the time, but now it's the only thing I can think to point to as the source of the persistent lower back pain I've been dealing with for almost two years.

Generally speaking, the pain is manageable. But this morning, as soon as my feet hit the floor, it was clear that something was wrong. And then I discovered that it hurt to walk. It hurt to move.

Oh my God. It hurts to move. And I have a child to take care of!

Fortunately, I also have a mother and a husband who put their work on hold, stepped in to care for Westley and even track down a number for my doctor on her day off, when all I could do was sit and cry from the pain.

Several hours, a doctor's evaluation, my first acupuncture treatment, and some anti-inflammatory medicine later, I'm feeling slightly better...physically. I'm still a bit of an emotional wreck. "Random muscle spasm" was the verdict, which does not make me hopeful for the future. I have been to more doctor appointments in the past two years than I went to in eight years prior to that! And I'm following all of the recommendations from my health-care professionals, and still--still!--I wake up in the morning and can't move? How am I supposed to feel good about this?

It's all very scary, and it means having to explain to Westley that it's okay, Mommy is crying because her back hurts. And that no, he can't come "up" for a hug, because Mommy can't lift him today.

I'm not trying to be a professional athlete. I don't plan to run a marathon, or even a 5K. Picking up my child when he needs comfort is not an athletic event, but right now, I can't do that. I was worried about getting my body back after childbirth, but now I'd just settle for getting my back back.

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I (Don't) Wanna Hold Your Hand

I saw something recently that made me insanely, painfully envious. A woman was standing in line at the coffee shop, leisurely ordering her drink, counting out exact change, chatting with the barista...all while her son (who I later learned is almost exactly Westley's age) stood calmly beside her.

You know what happens when I put Westley down? He takes off running. It makes no difference how familiar the location is or how close we are to a busy street. When his feet touch the ground, he's off like a shot.

Zoom!

Not only would Westley never in a million years stand quietly beside me while I pay way too much for a latte, he will also never hold my hand. He just flat-out refuses. "Walk! Walk!" he insists, as we get out of the car. When I tell him he has to hold my hand in the parking lot, he says "no-no" (like I've just suggested that he try chewing on broken glass) and whips his hand away faster than I can easily catch it and tries to run. I think he's trying to give me a heart attack.

If I run with my eyes closed, they really can't see me!

Some parenting rules are negotiable. In bed right at 8:00 PM? Well, not always. No cookies for breakfast? When they're healthy, whole-wheat cookies baked lovingly at home by Daddy, it can't be much worse than eating toast with jelly. But "you must hold Mommy's hand in the parking lot"? Not a rule I'm willing to fudge.

No one's going to die if Westley goes to bed at 8:15, or, God forbid, 8:30. But those cars in the parking lot? They literally weigh a ton. But I can't explain this to my toddler. I can just hold him--tightly--by the wrist, and feel like a bully, and breathe deeply through his screams of "Walk! Walk! Walk!" until we reach our destination. Or I can carry him, which I often do. Because it's just easier.

Decaf, with rice milk, please... Now just hold on a second while I move my kid to the other hip so I can get my wallet.

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Girls Who Are Boys

I take Westley to one of our local toy stores often, just to look around. It's a great not-so-little, family-operated place, and it just happens to be on our way to other errands. I find it difficult to resist stopping there when Westley is in the backseat, calling the store by name and asking to play.

Westley always knows exactly what he wants to play with. While he loves the cars and trains (and anything that makes noise when you press a button), his favorite toy in the store is the Calico Critters dollhouse. He would play with it for hours if I let him. Sometimes I'm tempted to let him, because it's just so much fun to see him having fun.

Getting to watch Westley play is one of the best things about spending most of my time with him, but the toy store makes it especially great. The dollhouse Westley loves like crazy is set up on a little table surrounded by the girliest of girly things: princess wands, fairy wings, sparkly plastic jewelry, ruffle-and-lace-clad baby dolls, flower-covered locking diaries, and pretend make-up. And there's my little son, oblivious to all the gender-specificity around him, just having a blast.

Gender neutrality in children's clothing is often difficult to find; gender neutrality in toys seems like it would be easier to come by. But suddenly, looking around most toy stores, it's clear that even blocks and soccer balls and scooters are being produced in both a "boy" color scheme and a "girl" color scheme.

Westley's favorite color at the moment is pink. His heart broke a little when his pink diaper cover moved so far into the "too small" category that it wouldn't fasten at all anymore. Westley picked out my pants yesterday, based (I'm sure) on the color alone. They were pajama pants and it was the middle of the afternoon, but I put them on for him. I was powerless to when he toddled into the kitchen with arm outstretched, clutching the garment tightly and holding it up for me to take. "Wear!" he instructed me (it sounded more like "way-uh"). And then, pointing to the fabric, "Pink!"

Westley likes a number of "girl" things right now. I don't really think about it: toys are toys, as far as I'm concerned. But I do notice that other little boys aren't hauling baby dolls around the grocery store with them.

Watching Westley play with the dollhouse, surrounded by "girl" toys, I wonder how long it will be before color scheme matters to him. Someday he will understand that many people think certain things aren't supposed to interest him...because he's a boy. And that if he continues to like pink, and baby dolls, and tiny French country furniture after learning what he's "supposed to" prefer, those people will take it to mean that he's wrong, or bad, or less of a boy.

I hope Westley can just continue liking whatever he likes, regardless of what other people think, for the rest of his life.

"Dah-house!" he says, bubbling over with excitement, moving rabbits and kittens in and out of the front door, moving the bathtub into the kitchen, carefully inspecting the dresser with its tiny working drawers...all the things I remember doing with my dollhouse. And then I desperately want to buy it for him, tiny furniture and animals and all--for Christmas, for his birthday, for any occasion where I can justify putting a big, big bow it. Because every kid who wants a dollhouse should totally have one!

And when the woman behind the counter who does gift-wrapping asks me if it's for a girl or a boy, I'll tell her, "It's for a boy. And he'd like the pink, floral paper, please."

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Hollow Weaning

The last time I nursed Westley was Thursday, Halloween Eve Eve. It was only for five minutes, and just on one side. I doubt he even got much milk.

I looked at the clock, and then down at my little dude. "It's night-night time," I told him. "Time to go to Daddy."

Westley popped off, looked up at me with a drooly smile. "Mmm!"

I didn't know it was going to be the last time I nursed him. But the next night, Westley was extremely wound up well past bedtime, and I was anxious to get him to bed so I could start my workout. When he demanded to have another book read, I gave him a choice: book and night-night or nurse and night-night. He chose the book. The night after that, Rob and I were gone at bedtime. And the night after that, it seemed silly to nurse him when I hadn't nursed him in two nights.

So I guess this means I'm really weaning him. Or, rather, I have weaned him, since I don't plan to go back to breastfeeding now.

The thing is, the way I'm getting away with not nursing Westley in the evenings is by not being there. As in, not inside the house. I tell Westley goodnight while he and Rob are reading books, and then I go work out in the garage for a little while.

"How'd he do?" I ask when I've had enough of sweating.

"Fine," Rob says. "He cried for mama and milk, but he was fine once I got him his pacifier and his green blanket."

Huh.

I don't really hear anything else inside my head, because I don't know how I feel about this yet.

I really, truly thought I would never have to wean Westley. Which is not to say that I planned to breastfeed him until he was nine. I just hear often about children weaning themselves at nine months, a year, a year-and-a-half... As Westley's first birthday got close, I was prepared for him to let me know that he wasn't going to take his milk lying down any more. He started drinking more milk from sippy cups, but bedtime was still all about my boobs. Earlier this year, Westley was all-but-weaned (and I was anxious to have him weaned-for-real), but it was that once-before-bed token nursing that hung on. I kept hoping that he would forget about it. Or that he'd say, "No milk anymore. I'm good. See you in the morning, Mom!"

Right.

That is impossible for more than a couple of reasons, the most obvious (to me) of which is that Westley friggin' loves to nurse! Hence the sweet smiling and the yummy noises after he does it. Which completely breaks my heart, because it means that I have to be the one to say, "Nope, that's it. We're done."

Except that instead of saying that, I've been sneaking off to the garage. Like the toddler-weaning coward I am.

Last night, when I asked for the Westley report, Rob said, "Fine. He didn't even ask about mama or milk."

Ouch.

So there it is. It's over. After hating (and then loving) nursing, I'm going to miss it. My breasts haven't wised up to the change yet, which makes missing it particularly easy.

I was sure I would want to throw a party when I finally got to the point of not having to flash my living room every night. But now, thinking, I'm not going to nurse Westley any more, I just feel so...sad.

(And not quite empty.)

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This Two Shall Pass

Westley has been practicing being a two-year-old for months now: saying "no" as often as possible, throwing the occasional temper tantrum, insisting on doing things himself, and otherwise showing his independence from Rob and me. But on Halloween, the eve of his 23rd month, he was in rare form.

Nothing either Rob or I did for him was right, and he let us know it. Loudly. He rejected every suggestion of food, clothing, and entertainment. When left to his own devices, he ran maniacally around the living room, shrieking delightedly for a few minutes before collapsing into the couch, completely miserable.

I'm usually pretty good about taking the philosophical stance on crazy-Westley days. I remind myself that everything with him is temporary. And most of the time, it actually helps me gain some perspective on the situation and not lose my cool entirely, no matter how certain I am that this time, I really, truly am going to go insane.

But Halloween was different. We had plans to spend the afternoon with friends, tickets to an evening event, and demands from far-away family members for lots of pictures of Westley in costume. And when Westley refused to eat anything I offered him, and refused to wear his costume, and refused to have his picture taken, I felt like punching someone.

This day is supposed to be fun, I told myself. But I felt angry and anxious, even after Rob kindly took Westley on a guys-only grocery-shopping adventure.

The day eventually redeemed itself, even though we had to cancel some plans on account of our crazy-child-who-also-went-down-for-an-unbelievably-late-nap. Westley got some fresh, less-crazy energy from spending time with my parents. Rob and I got some fresh, less-stressed energy from not having to fight Westley on whether dinner would be eaten.

"What was up with him today?" I wondered, crossing my fingers that everything would be different when we got up in the morning.

Rob shrugged. "He's two."

"Not even!" I started to imagine a whole year of manic-Halloween-devil-Westley.

"Maybe he'll get it out of his system early," Rob hypothesized.

I just hope this really is as temporary as I try to convince myself it is. Because I don't know how much more Halloween I can take.

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Me, Myself and "We"

From the moment I started thinking about Rob in boyfriend terms, I resisted the word "we." The concept of "we" is fantastic: We are going out; We are getting married; We adopted a kitty. That was all fine. I was wary, however, of statements like "We hated that." Because I didn't want to speak for him. It didn't matter if we were talking about movies and not, say, politics. I don't like to assume I know what someone else is thinking, and I find that statements like "We can all agree that..." are almost always untrue. And even if Rob did dislike the movie exactly as much as I did, I reserve the right to change my mind at any time!

When I got pregnant, it suddenly became imperative that Rob and I speak in "we"s. He and I had to be on the same page--about attempting to have a home birth, about my going back to work, about who was going to sleep when--and if someone changed her mind after we'd come to a conclusion, it wasn't practical (or even possible) to agree to disagree.

The move toward plural personal pronouns became even stronger when our baby became a child who needed rules, which we would have to enforce. It does absolutely no good for me to tell Westley, "Daddy doesn't want you to climb on the coffee table"--even if I don't really have a problem with it.

I find myself very tempted to resort to phrases like "We don't..." when guiding Westley's behavior. For example, "We don't hit the kitty." Except, I think as I listen to myself, he clearly does hit the kitty. It's like ending sentences with "okay?" which drives me absolutely batshit insane when I hear it. Because, of course, the clear answer to that non-question is, in most cases, "No! Not okay!" And yet, it's so tempting to say.

I think I have only "okay?"-ed Westley once. And after I heard myself, I corrected, "Do you understand?" (I think that is what's meant by "okay?" at the end of a statement. It's actually there to ask, "do you understand?" or "did you hear me?" and not, "is that all right?") Unfortunately, I find the draw of "we" much harder to resist. But "we" isn't much better than "okay?" In using it, I'm still asking Westley to go along with a plan he doesn't like--and not saying what I really mean:

"No hitting the kitty! Hitting hurts."

I still kind of suck at saying no, despite being in a position where I'm required to say it all the time. "We" is a convenient way of avoiding the potential harshness of "no," but it's wrong for me to rely on it. As much as I like "we" as a concept for our family--We like to dance; We eat a vegan diet; We don't hit--I can't speak for Westley. I can tell him what to do and what not to do, but I can't tell him how to feel about it.

"No! Not okay!"

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