Kid Amnesiac

When Simon was about six weeks old, he went to the Whitworths for Thanksgiving. Friends of theirs, upon seeing Simon for the first time, looked at me and declared, “He’s all boy, you know.”

I smiled in agreement, even though my baby was only six weeks old and had a wardrobe that was mostly gender neutral. (I could write volumes on how horrified I am by the ubiquitous stereotyping of gender roles as evidenced by baby clothes, but that’s a different blog entry/rant.) Why, I wondered, does my infant look boyish to me? And what are the long-term ramifications of my identifying him as a boy at such an early age?

A vast body of literature argues for and against inborn biological differences between boys and girls beyond obvious sexual differences relating to strength, size, and reproductive roles. Are boys more physically adventurous than girls because of the Y chromosome or because of how their parents play with them and expect them to act? Are girls more cooperative by nature because they are XX, or because such behavior wins them the most praise? Science has a hard time researching questions like this; after all, you cannot do a double-blind study on gender attitudes and identity.

In this nature vs. nurture debate, I come down firmly in the squishy middle. It seems obvious to me that not all gender differences can be chalked up to environmental conditioning. Whether it’s the difference in language acquisition between boys and girls or the effects of testosterone on behavior, I believe that some cultural assumptions about gender and behavior have a biological basis. And yet…

And yet how great would these differences be–how much equalization would occur–if our expectations and treatment of both genders were the same? Boys tend to develop language skills slower than girls, but they eventually catch up. Girls develop spacial reasoning later than boys and tend to not catch up. Is that because we don’t give our girls building toys? Or is this an example of an inborn difference in ability? The debate roars on.

Biological differences aside, I am convinced that a huge amount of gender identity comes from modeling. Given that, I can honestly say that I don’t want Simon to be “all boy” in the common American sense. It’s fine if he’s physical and rambunctious. I’ll encourage him if he’s into building toys and sports. But I’d also like him to have a sensitive and artistic side. I want him to be nurturing and thoughtful. I want him to have good language skills. It’s great if he’s strong, but I also hope he’ll have a measure of grace.

Much of this, of course, is up to Simon himself. My job isn’t to make Simon who I want him to be (tempting though that might be); it is to work with his instincts and affinities to guide him towards his best self. Still, it seems that Matt and I do have the responsibility to model more moderate and flexible gender typing, and I wonder how well we can deliver on this?

We may consider ourselves pretty enlightened, but we fall into pretty predictable gender patterns ourselves. I enjoy cooking and knitting. I do most of the laundry and cleaning. I work part-time to give myself more time with Simon. I am a clothes horse. I listen to a lot of female country, folk, and bluegrass singers. Matt, on the other hand, enjoys bass playing and dickering on his computer. He’s a disaster in the kitchen and avoids cleaning whenever possible. He works full time and is the family’s primary bread-winner. He hates shopping. He listens to a lot of punked out rock and pop.

So where do we intersect or defy expectations? After quite a bit of thinking, I have come up with the following: We are both unathletic, and we both read too much.

That’s it. Together we offer a gender-neutral portrait of nerd-dom. Not exactly what I had in mind. Poor Simon.

Last night I had a dream that was so disturbing that after I had it, I went back to sleep and dreamed about talking it over with others to find out what it meant. Very meta.

The dream came sometime after Simon’s 4:30 a.m. feeding. (I think he’s having a small growth spurt and so is feeding often these days.) Matt and I lived in our current house, only it was located back in our old San Francisco neighborhood. We were getting ready to move and were in the house packing up our last things. It was to be our final night sleeping in the house.

I put Simon alone in the middle of a double bed in our guest bedroom. Then I shut the door behind me and went on to finishing packing. I was clearly trying to get Simon out of the way–great parenting! After a few hours, I heard crying and went to check on him.

And there they were. About six or seven little Simons sitting up on the bed. Two had different hair than Simon does, but about five babies were identical to him in every way. Dream Jessica had no idea if they were clones or hallucinations. But whatever they were, they all seemed equally real, and they scared the bejeezus out of me. Worst of all, I had no idea which baby was my actual son.

Finally, one of the Simons cried louder than the others and tried to crawl over the heap of other babies to get to me. I decided he must be the real one, picked him up, and left the room. A while later, I returned to see if the other Simons were still around and was relieved to discover they had vanished. Relieved not only because the extra babies disturbed me, but also because their disappearance confirmed that I was holding the right one.

Several hours later, I had my second dream. In this dream I had friends over for brunch and asked them to interpret the dream for me. And wouldn’t you know it, they started to answer me just as I woke up.

All very strange and unsettling. By Simon’s 10:30 feeding I could make a joke out of it. He started to cry and I told him if he didn’t perk up I’d trade him in for one of the extra Simons in the room across the hall!

About four weeks ago, Simon had two fussy days. He cried a fair bit and wanted to nurse all the time. It was textbook growth spurt behavior, and it didn’t shake me. I figured at the time it would last a day or two, and then I’d get my sunnier guy back for a week before tacking my next fussy day.

Then something unexpected happened. He didn’t have another fussy day. Fussy moments? Sure. Fussy nights? A couple. But all-out dawn-to-dusk hissy fits? Not a one. I started counting my good days. Then, before I knew it, I was counting my good weeks. Now I realize that Simon’s last bad day was four weeks ago today.

Wow. What an absolute amazing difference a month makes. I used to be on edge when Simon was awake, because I knew he might flip out at any moment. I rarely made it to the end of a book. Tummy-time was a literal flop. A stretch of good days was regularly punctuated by a bad one.

These days, Simon loves Bear Snores On, he likes just hanging out in bed with me and Matt at night and in the early morning, he enjoys his firefly toy, and he even supported himself during tummy-time a few days ago. He laughs a lot. He smiles like mad. I love playing with him, and I’m rarely on edge. If he gets crabby, I can almost always fix things by feeding him, holding him, changing him, or getting him down for a nap.

The only down-side to Sunny Simon is that I was just getting good at my five S‘s when he stopped needing them. When Simon was hysterical, I could Swaddle him, lay him on his Side, Shush him, give him a pacifier to Suck, and Swing him from side to side at the same time.

Now I have something in common with Java programmers, desktop publishers, and steel workers: I possess a highly specialized skill for which there is no local demand. I’ve been made redundant in my own home. Anyone have a hysterical newborn I can calm down?

Our little guy is clearly a Tarheel. For any of you who have been to North Carolina, you know that the greeting of choice is the three-syllable “hey”. It comes out something like “hay-e-ay”. Live there for a while and you’ll find yourself saying it no matter how much you promise you won’t.

Well, Simon is just dying to talk to us, and this is one of his favorite “words” at the moment. We first heard it Monday night. I was settled into bed when Matt summoned me into the nursery with a “I think Mom needs to get in here.” So Mom reluctantly got out of the warm bed to see what Ole Stinkpot was up to. And there he was, smiling on his changing table and saying “hey” over and over again while Matt repeated it to him. He’d smile a huge, gummy smile after each “hey”, and Matt praised him effusively. I looked on and melted.

Last night we were treated to a command performance. This time Simon didn’t get out as many “hey”s, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. While Matt would look at Simon and say “hey”, Simon would study his face intently and repeat back something like “ha”, “hu”, or “ay”. At one point, Simon sucked in so much air from trying to make a “h” sound that he gave himself the hiccups. It was adorable. Until the hiccups arrived, he was all smiles during this talking session, too.

Moments like this are fascinating and a joy. Who knew babies could be so interesting?

Two weeks ago, I purchased a Bebe au Lait nursing cover-up. I like to call it the nursing burkha, and I can’t believe it’s come to this.

If you have been pregnant or know anyone who has been pregnant in the past decade or so, I’m sure you are aware that right now breastfeeding is hot. “Breast is best” is the message clearly provided by books, OBGYNs, pediatricians, magazine articles, obnoxious billboards if you live in New York City, and random strangers if you live in Berkeley.

What complicates this, however, is the lack of a widespread acceptance of women nursing in public. You’ve probably read about women being kicked off planes, cited for indecency on beaches, or just being leered and jeered in public places if they nurse. The general rule in my part of the country is that nursing is mostly OK so long as you are discrete. “Discrete” in this usage means covering yourself so that no part of the breast is visible at any time and usually entails placing a shawl over yourself.

This shawl bit is much trickier than it looks, especially if you have a young baby who needs help or handling while nursing. I have yet to figure out how I can rearrange my clothing, adjust my nursing bra, hold my baby, get him latched on and keep a shawl in place all at once. I can’t do it. To make matters even more complicated, I have a baby that interrupts his nursing once or twice per session to spit up all over himself.

I bought nursing camisoles thinking they would solve my problem. If you double them with a cardigan, nursing is quite discrete. There’s no conspicuous shirt lifting, and other than the few seconds it takes to get baby latched, nothing can be seen at any time. Perfect, right?

Wrong. I tried this approach in front of my brothers and they both froze in terror and discomfort. I felt like Medusa. These are grown men. They are married. They are fathers. They have seen rated R movies. However, the possibility that they might see part of their sister’s breast for a nanosecond was so terrifying to them that they stammered like adolescents on a first date, kept their eyes firmly over my head, and backed out of any room I was in. They are not alone in their reaction.

So, it seems I had several choices. For one, I could accommodate people’s sensitivities and go into a separate room every time Simon needed to eat. I call this nursing purdah. It’s an approach I used early on that got old and lonely in a hurry. At the other extreme, I could simply nurse in front of whomever and let them leave the room if they became uncomfortable. This in-your-face approach is kinda tempting, but not very kind. Frankly, it’s an approach that plays better in San Francisco or Berkeley than Louisville Kentucky. It’s also an approach that only works if other people’s embarrassment won’t make you feel self conscious yourself. So not for me.

Enter the Bebe au Lait. It ties around your neck like an apron, fans across the baby and your lap like a shawl, and has a curved rigid neckline that stands away from your body and allows you to see and position your baby.

It’s perfect. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfectly ridiculous and ridiculously perfect. For about $35, it has allowed me to stay in the room during several family meals without turning anyone into stone. No doubt money well spent. And more than anything else I can think of, it captures the zeitgeist of motherhood in early twenty-first century America.

Simon is now fourteen weeks old, and I have not been away from him for longer than a single feeding, a maximum of around 2 1/2 hours, since we brought him home on October 20.

For many mothers, especially those who bottle-fed babies or went back to work right away, this schedule appears to be restrictive. I’ve heard my current situation be referred to as being “tied down”, or even “tethered.”

And of course I am tied down. And while I know bottles will be sanity savers later on and am getting Simon used to them, I’m not too excited about this development. Truth be told, I’m enjoying being tethered. It’s a primal, intimate connection that I’ve never shared with a human being before and may never again.

Part of the reason I enjoy being tethered is that it keeps my anxiety at bay. I know that the more I nurse, the more I can ensure a good milk supply. Supply hasn’t been a problem for me, but I still worry about it. Especially now that Simon has dropped a feeding, I keep thinking that my milk will dry up, I’ll have to go to formula, and the formula will make his reflux worse. And yes, I do understand that this is catastrophic thinking. (But it could happen, right? You can’t deny the possibility.)

There are, thankfully, happier and more mentally healthy reasons I enjoy being tethered as well. Part of what I like is the hormone release that occurs while nursing that makes you feel warm and happy. That’s certainly nice–a safe, legal, and non-addictive substitute for opiates.

Another part of it–odd as this may sound–is my feeling of kinship with all the other mothers on the planet, be they people or animals. This past spring we had house wrens nest in a hanging fern on our front porch, and I checked on those eggs and chicks with an interest I had never had before. In fact, when I realized that going out the front door made mother wren fly away, I started going out the back. I really identified with this little bird! After a lifetime of trying to somehow stand out from the crowd, it’s a pleasure to start focusing on commonality.

But I think what I enjoy the most is the physical and mental tether itself. If you nurse every 2-3 hours, you really can’t do much big planning. Or, to be honest, big thinking. Days pass by in short segments that are all anchored by nursing, and the nursing itself takes about 30 minutes at each go–time you are forced to sit down with, hold, look at, and take care of your baby.

I’m a restless person. I fidget when I sit. I don’t sleep much. I’m terrible at just hanging out. I get bored and distracted easily. Nursing has introduced a new and welcome sense of stillness to my life. As this stillness has suited me so well and is so fleeting, I am reluctant to let it go even for just a few hours. I have my whole life minus one year to be untethered, for the next six months or so I plan to relish the tie that binds.

There’s a scene in the Princess Bride in which Vizzini (Wallace Shawn) declares something that has happened “inconceivable”, and Inigo Montoya (Mandy Patinkin) replies: “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

It’s a funny line from a funny movie. And I feel this way myself now when I hear the expression “to sleep like a baby.” Who came up with that one?!

I always thought the expression “to sleep like a baby” meant to sleep soundly and peacefully for a long duration. If I’m correct, this is simile gone awry, as Simon does none of these things–at least not without a fair bit of intervention.

In the first place, he can’t fall asleep on his own yet. He has to be held, rocked, sung to, etc. Secondly, he needs to be swaddled to sleep. If not, his arms flail about, he hits himself in the face, and he wakes himself up. Thirdly, he has to have white noise to drown out other distracting sounds while he sleeps or he has trouble settling. Fourthly, babies go through sleep cycles faster than adults do and are prone to waking at 20-minute intervals. This sleep pattern is likely a survival mechanism that keeps babies from sleeping when they are somehow vulnerable. And last but not least, until they are four months old or so, babies wake at least once during the night to be fed.

So do I want to sleep like Simon does? No way! Now a cat–that’s an animal I wouldn’t mind sleeping like…

Most nights, sometime between around 7:30 or so and about 11:00, Simon flips out. His face turns bright red or purple, a vein on his skull sticks out, he balls up his fists, and he screams bloody murder. We call this “fighting mad”, and the hour (or two or three) during which it occurs is fondly called “the witchng hour.”

When Simon has a good day, he still usually has a witching hour. We just figure that that time doesn’t count. It’s a scratch, you could say. It’s not real time or the real Simon. It’s just the witching hour, a phenomenon that has nothing to do with his true self.
In recent weeks, as Simon has been doing better all round, his witching hour has also lessened. When it comes, he’s less hysterical and the whole thing is over faster.

Then there is last night. Last night Simon skipped the witching hour altogether. We fed him around 6 or so, and he stayed up until we fed him again at around 8:30. During that time we sang to him, read to him, and put him in his bumbo seat. He was happy throughout. Then, after the 8:30 feeding, we played with him some more and gave him his bath. Still happy.

Finally, at 11:00 we gave him supper and put him down for the night. He fell asleep quickly and stayed asleep until 7:00 this morning. Happy Baby! Good Baby!

Check out happy Simon pics here and in the album.