Fine Young Fauves

1) “Mellow out!”

2) “I’m a thirsty lady!”

3) “You’re dying, Mama!!”

4) “I need something FROSTY in my mouth.”

5) “A T-rex chomped my penis.”

Since about Isaac’s second birthday (seven months ago) I’ve been trying in various ways to wean him. The thing is, I have been reluctant to make it into a full-blown confrontation. I’ve read a lot about it, talked with a wide range of nursing mothers, and also delved into my own conflicted heart. What I wanted to have happen, and which DOES happen to so many lucky people, was for Isaac to come to it peaceably. To simply move on in life to the next phase and to feel that this aspect of our relationship has run its course. I wanted him, in effect, to wean himself. But it hasn’t happened that way. Well– in some ways we’ve made great progress. He used to nurse 50 times a day, bearing a close resemblance to many infant marsupials, and now I can count them on one hand. But my weaning timeframe is different from his, and at this point I’m feeling that I need to press the issue.

The thing that’s really getting to me is the all-night room service aspect of it. Isaac wakes up, calls to me, I come and nurse him, and he goes back to sleep. We got back into this bad habit, after having banned it pretty well, when he was so sick in March in NYC. In a strange location and battling a horrible flu (especially since he refused to eat or drink much else for days on end) I let him nurse whenever he wanted, bar none. We brought this habit home with us, and it tends to self perpetuate. Getting up every two or three hours exhausts me, and in my state of exhaustion I am loath to do anything but the fastest route back to sleep– i.e., nurse for five easy minutes. However, the other night, something shifted in me. I just felt a new resolve and a new desire to enter the battle, come what may.

I think I was emboldened by a conversation I had a week or so ago with one of the most skilled and experienced mothers I’ve ever met. She’s my age, but has spent over 17 years pregnant, nursing, or both. She tended to nurse her children until they were 3 or 4, and by then she’d have a new baby and start nursing that one. Five (home schooled with great success) children later, she looks fabulous and exudes confidence and calm. Anyway, she and I were talking about the weaning situation and she in effect encouraged me to take a stand. She said, “So many babies don’t get any nursing, or just get a few months. He’s had two and a half years, and it’s not as if you’re taking away all your physical affection or anything like that.” Then I also remembered the remark of a friend who weaned her little girl at about three and a half. She said, “His timeframe may not mesh with yours and that’s all there is to it. At some point, you may have to do it by force.” Or words to that effect. She said this to me a few months ago, and it stuck with me.

I’ve tried explaining things rationally to Isaac. I’ve tried saying, “You know, someday you will be all done nursing. You will just drink milk from a cup and water and juice…” I name various of his friends who no longer nurse. But as I say this I get the feeling that what he’s hearing is something like, “Someday the sun will die, the world will grow dark and cold and we’ll enter a new ice age.” Like all this is just too massive and abstract and terrible to really absorb.

We’ve made a lot of headway on the random daytime nursing events. He does still ask, but when he asks he has a wry smile on his face, a look that shows that he knows this is a very silly question. we’ve gotten it down to basically wake-up time in the morning, before or after a nap (which is getting phased out along with the nap itself), and bedtime… AND those irritating little interludes at night, which also come and go as he sleeps longer stints. He could go several nights in a row without waking up at all (and thus without nursing at all). But lately, for some reason, he’s been on this 1 a.m., 3 a.m., 5 a.m. schedule that is purely awful.

So– I think it was Monday night that I bit the bullet. I just said no– no nursing until the sun comes up, and Daddy gets up and grind the beans (all this happens at 6 a.m. or so– beans being coffee beans). the result was horrible HORRIBLE screaming that went on and on. I don’t really know how long, but it was to the extent that he was near vomitting a couple times and also looked a lot like what was going on was more of an exorcism than a simple phase in the weaning process. I thought, “Hmm… maybe this is why I didn’t want to really do this in the past– it’s HELL.” Also he used every strategy he could think of– ranging from violent physical rage to heart-breaking pleas, (“Mama, mama, I need you!” etc.) I held my steely resolve through all that, somehow. I felt strangely calm, at the eye of the storm. Finally I got him back to sleep. I stayed with him and he clung to me like a drowning person in his sleep. Then of course a few hours later the ordeal repeated. And then again.

Last night, when I was putting him to sleep I told him very clearly that when we were done with nursing at bedtime, we would be all done nursing until morning. He seemed to understand and to be okay with it. Until… 1 a.m. rolled around and I refused to nurse him once again. Again I was dealing with ear splitting screams of agony that went on and on for a full hour (it seemed even longer than that). I tried offering water, rocking in the rocking chair, telling stories, etc., etc., etc. Little worked until after an hour or so he just faded out due to exhaustion. I did not give in! but then– he woke up again, and later again around 5. Is it getting any easier yet? I guess the screaming episodes are getting a little shorter, maybe?

In many ways he’s in this phase of demanding limits all over the place. He’s pushing it all the time, throwing tantrums at a daily or semi-daily clip. Yesterday I had to cart him out of a gift store, screaming, and all the way through a series of loud echoing barn-type spaces (we were at this sort of petting zoo complex), screaming, and all the way to the car WITHOUT seeing the trains. (He had already seen the toy train set up they had, but he wanted to see it some more.) His crime: screaming hideously and throwing a toy across the room in the store– the toy being one we had not bought and would not buy, that being the source of the dispute. He’s taken to throwing lots of things… not good things… like, say, shovels. I gave him a time out today because while I was in the thick of cleaning out the fridge, he walked right up and pushed the garbage can over 100% on purpose.

So I guess in a way this nursing dispute is part of the whole picture. He’s pushing, and I have to push back. I have to say, this much and no more. Tonight, just now, I put him to sleep. I told him again about the no nursing until morning thing and he said okay. What he was focused on at that moment, plainly, was nursing NOW. Anything was okay with him as long as the bottom line was nursing now– yes.

Coming up to night three of the policy.

Wish me luck.

Isaac told me this fact this morning, just out of the blue. It’s good to know, in case I ever get back to Spain.

Today Isaac told me that he loves me. He said, “I love you, Mama,” clear as a bell. This would have been a very special and tender moment if it had not so happened that, a scant 30 seconds later, he added, “I love my potty.” As we walked by the potty in question he gestured to it and shook his head. “That thing is great!” he gushed.

My new (old) life is up and running now. I got past some irritating issues with insurance (I needed insane converage in case someone comes to visit me and breaks their neck), and computers (bottom line, I had to buy an external FLOPPY drive in order to back up my antique iMac). Ben helped me move in a two weekends ago– we brought in a computer stand, a very decrepid chair (which I really need to get a new one) and the computer itself. Then… that was it. There’s a desk in there already and the rest of the room is just many square feet of emptiness. Next door I have some overly zealous environmental activists, my only disappointment with the place. I do like it that they are cleaning up my air and water, but I wish they could do it a little more quietly. The walls are tissue thin. But, whatever. They are not talking to me or wanting anything from me and so I can tune them out. I knew that all those years of working in a cube would come in handy, somehow!

So, I’ve been writing. I go there, I sit down, I write. I look up and four hours have passed in a twinkling. My shoulders are sore and I walk back home. It’s very like being reunited with an old friend– someone with whom years ago there was a falling out of some kind, and then time went by and now no one can even remember what it all the fuss was about. It’s like no time has passed at all, seamless. I’m just back where I belong, doing what I belong to be doing. It’s like a huge missing chunk of my life has been restored to me. I came to Cleveland almost ten years ago, believing I would be able to write here. It turned out to be a lot more complicated than I had imagined. But now I have it, and it’s wonderful.

I don’t have internet access there, which is probably for the best. But it means that I will likely be blogging a lot less. My writing energy is going to its rightful place now and my non-writing time is very toddler filled.

Isaac’s almost a “preschooler” now– can you believe it?

Are you as happy as I am about the discovery of a living Ivory-billed woodpecker in an Arkansan swamp? On Thursday I was walking into Pilates class, talking on my cell phone, when my mom told me the news. It was a “where were you when” moment. They found it! Hurray! A spectacular bird, last officially seen in the 1930s, long thought to be extinct. Called the “Lord God Bird” because that’s what you say when you see it. People have been out in swamps sleuthing for it for several years, following unconfirmed yeti-like reports, and now there’s real evidence that it lives. It’s wonderful! The Nature Conservancy needs our kudos and our donations for buying up its habitat and helping to fund the search. Visit their site and read about it at:

http://www.nature.org/

also some good coverage at NPR, including a report a couple years ago with one of those guys out in the swamp looking for it:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4624325

also the scientific report itself, in downloadable PDF, published online yesterday, at:
http://www.sciencemag.org/cgi/rapidpdf/1114103v1

In the NY Times today (Sat.) there’s an editorial about it.

Check it out– it’s really exciting news, and not just for birders.

Maybe Isaac has a brilliant future as a theatrical or film director. He’s been setting up brief skits for us to perform, and then making us carry them out according to his rigid expectations. If we are not evocative enough, or don’t do it with enough gusto, he’s quick to correct. We have to stand in certain places and he’ll reposition us as needed. Each one requires hundreds of takes. Here’s a sampling:

“Runaway Boy”
Daddy stands near the sandbox beside our house, neither too far nor too near to the yard. Isaac runs off around the corner. Daddy yells, “Wait! wait!” Isaac keeps running. If Daddy loses interest, Isaac will come back and admonish him, saying, “Yell ‘wait, wait!'” and try again. Isaac stays gone a few minutes. During that time, Daddy must “be sad.” He must weep and wail. If he’s not sad enough, Isaac will peek his head around the corner and say, “No, no Daddy. Be SAD. Be SAD.” (Sometimes Daddy pretends that he misunderstood and instead acts out, “Be glad.” or “Be mad.” This irritates Isaac no end.) Once the sadness is adequate, Isaac makes his triumphant return, running around the corner and with a tad-dah look on his face to general applause and adoration.

“Lost boy”
Mama sits on the toilet seat in the guest bath. Isaac hides in the (glass, transparent) shower stall. Mama must weep and wail over the lost boy. Isaac will occasionally peek his head out with tips: “Say, ‘Where’s my little boy?'” and then hide again. Mama cries, “My little boy! Where has he gone?? Where’s my little boy? I’m so worried!” etc. Then Isaac sneaks out of the shower with a sheepish grin. Mama hugs him and kisses him and says, “Oh! He came back! I’m so happy!” etc.

(Similar scenarios are played out in closets, under napkins, etc., throughout the house and grounds.)

“Catch the beetle”
While bathing, Isaac takes a wash cloth and swishes it in the bathtub. He says it’s a beetle and very fast. Mama must try to catch it, but always fails.

“Where’s the red car?”
Isaac hides a little red car in his plastic Fisher-Price parking ramp (from the toy library and sadly/happily to be returned soon). He always hides it behind a certain garage door. Mama looks in the elevator, no it’s not there. Under the ramp? No… Inside here? No… etc. until all possibilities are more than exhausted. Then Isaac reveals the car behind its little garage door. Mama is stunned.

“I want to nurse!” Part 1
Isaac picks up a doll and brings it to Mama. “That’s Mama,” he says, to clarify. Mama holds the doll while Isaac gets a little boy doll. He bring the little boy doll up to the Mama doll rather confrontationally. The little boy doll says, “I want to nurse!” Then the Mama doll says, “It’s not nursing time!” The little boy doll says, “It IS nursing time!” and a dispute continues.

“I want to nurse!” part 2
Isaac positions himself at one end of a playground communication system (something like a pipe between two speaking holes, a little ways apart), and Mama at the other. A brief conversation ensues, along the lines of “How are you today? Do you want to be my friend?” etc. Then Isaac yells (an interesting effect, coming through the pipe) “I need to nurse!” Mama yells back “It’s not nursing time!” A dispute continues, long distance.

Yesterday the New York Times ran an obituary for author Frank Conroy, who died this week at 69. He wrote the wonderful memoir Stop-Time that has been such an important book to generations of writers and headed up the powerful Iowa Writers Workshop. I can’t post a link to the obit because you need to log on to nytimes.com and create a user ID to read it. But it’s easily done if you’re interested.

Readers of my blog will recall that Frank Conroy indirectly touched my life a few months ago, when I met Frank McCourt (author of Angela’s Ashes) at the airport. If you haven’t read this entry and are looking for a good laugh, please copy this link into your browser. A writer frind of mine called it “excruciatingly entertaining.” High praise…

The agony and the ecstacy of meeting Frank McCourt, Oct. 29, 2004

http://dev.freeverse.com/blogs/catherine/archives/000766.html

Today I am hobbling around on a dislocated toe– an old “football injury” from my crazy college days– that I reinjured yesterday and still have not been able to repair. Also it’s raining in that cold and dreary way, all the more dismal because yesterday by contrast it was high summer. I paid bills and went to the bank and the grocery store. Indeed, all the hallmarks of a rather drudgery-filled ordinary day, tinged with wincing toe pain and horizontal precip. And yet– today is a wonderful special day. A calendar-marking day. April 7, 2005: I got an office.

You will understand the significance of this… it’s a giant leap towards writing again.

It’s funny because I had no idea that I really WANTED an office outside of the house. It wasn’t a thought I had formed. Then about a month ago Ben and I were out to breakfast with our friends Pippa and Steve, who just moved into our neighborhood with their stunning little 18-month-old Nola Rose. Between the serious blueberry-for-strawberry negotiations of the toddlers at the table, Steve mentioned in an off-handed way that he has this office, in a building very near to us both, maybe five blocks away, that has lovely views and is only $90 a month. As this shocking news sunk in, I began to feel like a– not a drowning person, which is too extreme– but a person who has been swimming a long, long time, and suddenly a boat pulls up. And it has happy people and cocktails and a stack of warm fluffy towels. I wanted to get into that boat very badly.

It took a few weeks for various reasons, but last week, despite being rather exhausted from my surgery, I set up a time to go and see this office and check the whole situation out. It was just as I expected– sort of dingy little place, with a window and desk. But workable and indeed with a lovely view. The building is a former bank and has some of that old grandeur– marble floors and hallways. But it’s been several decades since its heyday and not well-cared-for since. We decided to go in an entourage down to the building managers and have them show me what was actually for rent at the moment. To my surprise, the lady walked me into the most lovely office in the world!! Much more beautiful than I had ever imagined. Two huge windows looking out over the skyline and the lake beyond (on the 8th floor, with nothing tall anywhere nearby). A room-width window seat. Cupboards, cabinets, everything you could want and much more. Dazzling! I had specifically mentioned that my price range was $90. She didn’t know the exact price. She said that her boss would call me back next week, which was this week.

As it turned out, though, the room of glory was in fact $185. Pippa pointed out that it’s dead space to them, seeing as no one wants it, and whatever offer I made would be more than what they are getting for it now. So I told the building guy that I couldn’t go over $110 or $120, and hoped he would let me have the space for that much, seeing as I’m a bird in hand. I said I would pay a chunk up front, etc., to try to sweeten the deal. Negotiations were on-going yesterday, and today I went over to look at his counter-offer. A lesser office a few doors down from it that he would give me for $120.

Okay, it’s not as nice. It’s a little glum. It’s longer and skinnier than the room of glory, more tunnel-like. It only has one window instead of two and no window seat. It has a depressing old desk in it and a crusty radiator. I walked back and forth between the two of them probably about 50 times, thinking about the $60 between them. Thinking about what I really need, and how distorted my mind has become with greed already– not only did I suddenly need an office, any office, now it had to be an extra nice one??? (This would be hard to explain to Ben.) Thinking about budgetary constraints that are so ever-present, and the borderline pointlessness of paying good money to potentially sit there and day dream. I can’t guarantee that I will write anything, and certainly not something that actually earns money back. I’m trading out Pilates classes to pay for it, which is how I pitched the plan to Ben, pretty much an even exchange. But the $180 one would put the plan into the red and we’d have to find that extra money someplace and — yada, yada, yada.

I decided finally that the lesser of the two, had I seen it first, is really what I had pictured. And that with a coat of paint and a little rug shampoo (which the guy says he’ll attend to soon), it really will be just fine. The view is the same, the big bridge over to downtown, far away buildings, a little of the lake and lots of sky. I think the actual square feet is the same– and I put this here to send my friends in NYC into agony– it’s about 250 square feet. And the point of course is not so much the space itself, its comfort, but the solitude, the quiet, the time. It’s a sanctuary. It can be spartan.

So in a couple weeks I’ll set up one of our many elderly iMacs over there, hook up a printer, and go there, whenever I have childcare and time, and see what happens. Maybe I’ll just READ books for a while, sentence after sentence, page after page, without interruptions. I’ll go to a junk store and buy an old easy chair. Maybe I’ll practice my flute, or do some drawing or something else entirely. I’m not going to sit myself down in front of a blank screen, type “CHAPTER ONE,” and throw myself into acute writer’s block for the next six months. I’m just going to go there, and then go there, and then go there again. Basically I’m creating a space in my life into which writing can enter if it wants to.

More on this as it develops.

A&D Diaper Ointment makes a great hair gel. Just apply generously and sculpt. As an added benefit, it’s difficult to wash out, so your new look lasts through bath after bath.