What will they think of next??

This handy little product wins for my new favorite, least necessary invention.

The P-Mate now gives women the opportunity to filly evolve by allowing us to pee upright.

Yup. The final frontier of gender inequality has been obliterated by the fine folks at Go Your Way Industries.

Seriously folks. I couldn't make this up.

DC with a Toddler- Part II

Little Man is a perfect little traveler. Really. I'm not exactly sure how we got so lucky. We like to travel and he doesn't seem to mind it.

I was worried about having him for two days, basically all to myself, but things went just fine.

Better than fine, really.

I'm not sure why I was so worried. We had a great time together.


We went to the National Zoo and saw the Pandas.






We saw lots of other things at the zoo, but he was mostly interested in the leaves on the ground and the pigeons.

See-- this is him going after the pigeons now.

We went to see the monuments with my parents, but really he was more interested in the water. After all, the WWII memorial looks suspiciously like the pool he went to all summer.



I'm not sure he was even paying attention to most of the sites-- for Little Man, DC was just one big outdoor playground, complete with things to climb, things to pick up, and lots of vehicles to see.







He was even good at church...mostly.





But in church, who can blame him for wanting to get out.

Especially when there's so much more to see......

DC with a Toddler- Part I

It's really the smell that hits you first. The damp, musty smell of aging leather. And then you realize that the gray heaps you're looking at are shoes--hundreds of shoes that once graced the feet of long-dead people.

The room with the shoes is on the third floor of the Holocaust museum in DC. I visited the museum once before, back in 2001 when J and I were still just dating. In the entire experience of walking through the museum's eerily silent exhibits, it was the room of shoes that made me need to reach out and clutch his hand. I had seen so many films, read so many books, seen so many pictures of the atrocities, that experiencing the train car, the torn fragments of a Torah, even walking under the gates from Auschwitz were too familiar to be truly gut-wrenching. But that room filled with shoes--some stylish, some practical, all made monotone by sixty years of decay--brought home the human aspect of the Holocaust like nothing I'd ever experienced.

This last weekend, we visited the museum again. It was my parents first time back to DC in my lifetime, and my mom wanted to see it. This time, I turned the corner, out of the Auschwitz portion of the exhibits knowing what to expect next, and with a squirming 17 month old in my arms.

Let me just say, that this particular museum is probably no place for a toddler. It's dimly lit and exudes a funeral atmosphere that even the most jocular teen doesn't seem willing to break. I hurried him through each floor, trying not to disturb other visitors, and would wait in the brighter lobbies that waited at the end of each segment. As I sat waiting for my parents to emerge from the previous floor's exhibits, Little Man played with his new stuffed Panda, and periodically cheered for the visitors descending the steps, thinking that grandma and grandpa would appear at any moment.

When you go through the museum, you're not usually thinking about how it is affecting those around you, but having a toddler there made me acutely conscious of it. I watched people exit from the exhibits, tears streaming down their faces. The whole procession was like watching a family make their last viewing at a funeral. I was glad that most seemed relieved rather than irritated to see a jubilant toddler applauding their descent.

Escorting a toddler through the National Holocaust Museum is not something that I would recommend, and yet the experience made the museum something completely new for me. He walked through exhibit after exhibit completely unaware of the emaciated faces gazing down at him from countless photographs. For him, the room of shoes seemed an odd, and somewhat fascinating spectacle disrupted only by an inconvenient railing that kept him from trying them each on. Experiencing the museum with a toddler illustrated just how devastating the entire atrocity was. After the Holocaust, innocence like that of my son doesn't last much past the very early years. There is no way to go back to a place where pictures of piled and burned bodies don't exist. There is no way to recapture the consciousness of a time before the final solution, except perhaps in the very early years of childhood.

I'm sure it won't be my last visit. Maybe in another ten or twelve years or so, we'll take him through it once again. When that time comes, he won't be unaware. When that time comes, the smell of the shoes will stay with him, too.

Solo Parenting

Tomorrow, we leave for DC. J was invited to attend a conference for a grant he won, and Little Man and I will be having some solo fun in the city.

I'm excited, because I love D.C.-- it's my favorite American city, by far. We spent a lot of time there back in 2001 when J was working for AmeriCorp and I was living in State College. Every other weekend or so, I'd drive the 3 hours to visit him, and we'd go out and explore. It always feels, in some strange way, like coming home when we visit. I love everything about the city--except maybe its most famous resident. I love the food, and the national mall, and the low buildings and wide avenues. It reminds me of Europe in a way. New York's towering height can be breathtaking and exhilarating, but I've always felt like D.C. was a city I'd be able to live in and feel at home.

But this weekend will really be my first effort at solo parenting, and I'm a bit terrified. J and I have always shared the Little Man duties about as equally as a couple comprised of two people--only one of which produces milk--could share them. The first summer he was on the outside, I would spend three hours each afternoon along with him, but I've never had to do a 12 hour stint without some sort of back-up.

I'm glad we're going somewhere familiar to me, but the idea of 12 hours without J's tag-team assists makes me nervous. I'm not the most patient person in the world. But I've got a whole bunch of places and activities to go--the zoo, the mall, some fun indoor playground over by the Capital. It should be fun... right?

Wish me luck. I'll post pics and stories when we get back.

Bush for Hillary '08?

Reports have come out that in Bill Sammon's upcoming book, The Evangelical President, Bush predicts that Hillary is a shoe-in for the nomination. I don't want to put too much stock in what our xx leader has to say--he's been wrong before, after all. But the issue of Hillary's viability as a candidate is interesting for me.

You see, I'm not sold. I wish that I were, but I'm not.

My mother-in-law, on the other hand, is absolutely convinced--but not because of Hillary's politics. For my second-wave, march-on-Washington, hold-an-undying-grudge-against-Phyllis- Schafly MIL, Hillary's campaign is the dream of Geraldine Ferraro revived and made real once again. For her, the opportunity for a woman to hold the highest office in the land trumps any voting record or political past. It's the feminist dream of the 1970s come to fruition.

I want to sympathize with that sentiment. I want to see a woman in the White House doing something more than hosting a polite gathering of tea cups. I want to believe that a woman could do an even better job than a man. I want to believe that Sally Fields is right-- "if women ran the world there would be no God damn wars in the first place." But I know that it's too reductive. And as much as I have the impulse to second those sentiments, I know that they actually continue and preserve the stereotypes that keep women making, on average,only 81% of what men make for the same jobs.

I want to like Hillary. I want the vote I cast for her--if it comes to that--to be one I'm excited about making. The problem is, she keeps giving me reasons to doubt. I watched her interview with Tim Russert last Sunday on Meet the Press hoping that she could give me a reason to change my mind. It didn't happen. I keep waiting, but it doesn't happen.

Here's my problem-- I get irritated by one issue voters. I hate that the last election was most likely decided because people were voting pro-choice and anti-gay. I hate that people can actually buy into Bush's rhetoric about a culture of life when he's pro- death penalty and instigated what seems to be a hellish and un-winnable war. It simplifies the issue too much. I think the reason politics have become so dichotomized in recent years is because Americans tend to cling to one-issue campaigns and fail to examine the complexities of each issue. We don't like complexity. We live in the echo-chamber, listening only to the opinions that please us. And that's dangerous, I think, for democracy in general. But still, I can't get over Hillary's vote for going to war, her continued (until recently) support for that war, and her reluctance to admit the mistake of those votes. I don't want to be a one issue voter, but I feel like I am with her.

I want a woman in the White House, but I also want the right person in the White House. We've had the wrong person for seven years now.

I do think it's interesting, though, that Bush himself thinks that she's the one that has a shot. He doesn't predict victory for the Democrats, but, like I said, he's been wrong about stuff before.

The One about Boobs

Certain boobs are at work once again making it a rough couple of weeks for boobs everywhere.

Recently, Facebook decided to remove pictures that women post of themselves nursing. Apparently, it is a breech of their decency policies. Then, a Harvard medical student was denied the ability to take a long enough break during her board examine to pump for her child. And my favorite, Bill Maher has likened breastfeeding to masturbation. There are numerous other blog responses to his apparent idiocy, so I thought I'd put in my two sense.

Basically, Maher says that it's true that breastfeeding is natural, but no more natural than masturbation--and he doesn't do that at Applebee's (although I have my doubts). The whole nursing in public, for Maher, comes down to poor planning, laziness, and a streak of exhibitionism. Women apparently don't plan ahead to feed their babies out of eye-sight, are too lazy to cover up, and want to be recognized and applauded for having a child in the first place, something that Maher says "even a dog can do."

There's a lot to be upset about with Maher's comments, not the least of which is the applause and laughter each witty little quip receives by both his audience and his guests. But I also understand where he's coming from.

When I decided to nurse Little Man, it was one of the easiest and hardest decision I ever made. I read all of the information I could get my hands on, so I knew that breast milk was best for babies. I knew all about the health benefits it could have for him and for me both. It was really only that knowledge and the desire to do everything I could for my new baby, to give him the best start I could, that kept me going. Because any mother out there who's tried it knows that it's not easy--and at first it's downright stressful, hard, and often painful.

I didn't grow up around anyone nursing. Apparently one of my aunts nursed her kids, but she must have been so stealthy, so private that I never realized what was happening. To be honest, the idea of nursing freaked me out. It seemed odd, unnatural. I'd look at the La Leche League website and wonder why people would take pictures of women nursing their children. They seemed too intimate, too provocative to be happily floating around cyberspace. I watched the video about how to latch the baby on at the class I attended and vowed that no nurse was going to help hold my boob up for me. I thought that I would probably just pump and bottle feed. Bottles were all I new of babies; bottles seemed most natural to me.

And then Little Man arrived and all of my grand plans went right out the window. Ten hours after his birth, two nurses and J were all trying to help me get him latched on. I was too worried to be weirded out by it--my baby needed to eat. I learned that there was nothing remotely convenient about pumping. I cringed the first time I saw my Mother-in-law giving a bottle to my baby. Sure, it let me take a little extra nap, but that was my job. It seemed, suddenly, so unnatural to see someone hold that cold piece of plastic up to the little mouth that now knew so instinctively how to search out warm flesh.

It still took awhile for me to nurse in public, though. I would retreat back into my bedroom when people visited, and sit alone while Little Man got his fill. I would nurse in the car, in fitting rooms, in that lovely nursing room at our local mall. And then, when he was about 3 months old, we took a trip down south. Somewhere in Oxford, MS outside of the square that Faulkner immortalized in The Sound and the Fury, he was hungry and it was too hot to sit in any car to feed him. So the first place I ever nursed in public was a small, upscale pizzeria in Oxford, MS. I was as discreet as possible, but I was still worried that people were looking, and judging.

After that, nursing in public and in front of family and friends got easier. I nursed anywhere he needed to eat--at a winery in Ashtabula, in a steakhouse in NY City, in parks, and in malls. If people were offended, they never said anything, and after my initial experience, I stopped caring.

Nursing was something I had to grow into. It wasn't easy. It didn't seem natural. And, it does entail a certain loss of self. You have to give up part of yourself to another human being and you have to give up your original ideas about how you are connected to your body, and how your body is connected to the world.

At some point around the time Little Man was about 5 months old, I knew the transformation was complete, because suddenly I wanted one of those pictures. I wanted to be able to remember someday what it was like to have that bond with my son. I'm not sure that J understood, but he obliged. It's a somewhat blurry image--you can't really see much, because we're silhouetted by the lamp. When Little Man sees it someday, he probably won't even realize what it's a picture of, but I will. And I'm happy to have it.

So I can understand Maher's reluctance to accept nursing as something that is publicly acceptable, but that doesn't really quell my anger. The problem with his logic is that while dogs also give birth, no one sees them as any less valuable for it. No one tells Spanky to go nurse her pups in some dark corner or some dirty bathroom. Heck, Spanky can lick any part of herself, and no one bats an eye. No one expects any less of a dog than to do what's natural--to feed her offspring, but when it comes to humans, the boobs are already owned by others. That's why, as Maher says, the only restaurant boobs belong in is Hooters. They're safe there--happily on display. A luxury rather than a necessity.

Nursing is hard. The decision to do it is often difficult, and the act itself is a challenge every moment of every day. These sorts of decisions, to make it into something offensive or dirty do such a disservice to women, but also to children. Breastmilk is better than formula--that's why all of the formula companies claim that their product is close to approximating it. But our children won't have the opportunity to get it as long as nationally known figures keep condemning nursing as something sexual and dirty.

Maher sees the whole nursing public issue as one indication of how far awry activism has gone in our country. For him, it's pointless and narcissistic activism to be a lactivist. He won't ever realize just how wrong he is. The impulse to lash out against nursing mothers is the same impulse that underlies so many issues that affect women. It's the impulse to tell women how their bodies are allowed to be displayed, to be used, to be controlled.

Maher's right-- nursing is dangerous. It lets women see power within their bodies. It lets women realize their own strength. It de-sexualizes the breast and takes it off the market. It undermines every reason that Hooters exists. Nursing is most certainly a personal decision and it is an intimate act, but that doesn't make it one unfit for the public sphere.

Little Man has long since weaned. It happened quickly, with little fanfare. Now, when I see a mother nursing, my heart leaps a bit, because I remember that bond and because I now realize how fast it all goes. And I also know that the more women make the decision and commitment to nurse, the more irrelevant Maher and his type will be.

Once, when I was sitting at my grandma's kitchen table, talking with her, and nursing, she asked, "It's just special, isn't it?" "Yep," I replied. Because, really, that was the only word for it.

The one about Poo

Yup, that's right. Poo.

Lately Little Man has started recognizing that he poops. I know, everybody poops, but Little Man is not yet 1 1/2. I didn't know kids could start recognizing it that early. It's probably my fault. Since he was born, every time he would stop and stare, and then do a little shake, as though he had the chills, I knew that Papa would have a present just waiting for him. Recently, I started asking him, "Are you poopin'?" when he did it, and apparently, he caught on.

J and I thought that this could only be a good thing. Long gone are the days of dainty little newborn poops that barely smelled. Nope. Now apparently my child has the bowels of a 40 year old man. Getting him to potty train sooner is definitely better than later in our book.

We decided to capitalize on Little Man's new discovery by showing him how to put the "poo-poo" in the "potty." Basically, this consists of us dumping the contents of his diaper into the toilet. He loves it. He loves that it disappears when you flush. He loves that he gets to wash his hands in the sink afterward. Poo-poo in the potty is a good time.

Maybe too much of a good time.

Now, I think he mostly wants the potty to do its magic. Even without producing a poop of any kind, he will take my hand, drag me into the bathroom, and demand that the "poo" go into the "pah." I dutifully take off his diaper to show them that there's nothing there, but that doesn't appease him. He wants me to throw the whole thing in. What a plumbing nitemare that would be-- ultra-absorbent baby diaper clogs local sewer system. I can see the headlines now.

So apparently, I 'm in that part of parenthood. The part where you start saying things like "did you put the poo-poo in the potty?" and then blogging about it later.

Great.