Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Just Sayin'
Zak's teething, and my store is taking up much of my blogging time, but I just had this on my mind. Some health care opponents say that we can't afford to cover everyone, we'll go broke. I'm wondering, do they think they're getting a great deal now, covering the often completely avoidable ER visits of the uninsured with their own hospital bills and premiums?
Monday, November 2, 2009
On the merits of library paste.
The doctor wasn't surprised that Zak is still breastfed- to the contrary, she was rather pleased. That was a change from the last doc, who was simply flabbergasted that I was breastfeeding Zak two months ago. The formula feeding norm in this country is so strong, I'm always worried that I'll come across a doc who is keen on formula. That's not to say that this doc and I saw eye to eye on all feeding issues- hence the reference to library paste in the title.
I'm sure that rice cereal for babies is good for something, but I'm also sure that such a function would be more like a non-toxic cement or glue, not a foodstuff. I'd happily use rice cereal if Zak had diarrhea or we had to hang wallpaper. But as the first non-medicinal substance to cross Zak's lips that isn't my milk? I can think of much better first foods.
I will probably start Zak on grains soon- but whole grains, not ones stripped of all their soul and substance. I'm hoping to try oatmeal and banana for those brisk winter morns.
I finally got started on the Cozy Cardigan for Zak. The colorway is lovely, the knitting a bit boring, at least until I reach the sleeves. This will be my first shot at buttonholes, so wish me luck. And I got about $50 in knitting store gift certs for my birthday. Yay.
I'm sure that rice cereal for babies is good for something, but I'm also sure that such a function would be more like a non-toxic cement or glue, not a foodstuff. I'd happily use rice cereal if Zak had diarrhea or we had to hang wallpaper. But as the first non-medicinal substance to cross Zak's lips that isn't my milk? I can think of much better first foods.
I will probably start Zak on grains soon- but whole grains, not ones stripped of all their soul and substance. I'm hoping to try oatmeal and banana for those brisk winter morns.
I finally got started on the Cozy Cardigan for Zak. The colorway is lovely, the knitting a bit boring, at least until I reach the sleeves. This will be my first shot at buttonholes, so wish me luck. And I got about $50 in knitting store gift certs for my birthday. Yay.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Grand opening!
I'm quite excited- it's been a very full week. Turning thirty, sleep issues with the Milk Monster, and opening my online shop have all left me feeling wrung out.
Perhaps Zak was reacting to the excitement of me churning out all sorts of salves and potions, but he's had a hard time sleeping at night lately. He 's not had this much trouble since those early days, but I'm sure we'll pull through. In the meantime, I've been logging some good time on the treadmill because of this. At least he's still able to get to sleep by being in the Moby wrap or Bjorn while I walk about. But I'm burying the lead: Zak has now been "introduced" to solids.
We skipped over that nasty rice cereal stuff and went for roasted sweet potato. Zak wasn't terribly thrilled with it, and I'm hoping that avocado or apple goes better. I figure that if I were that young again, I'd want some flavor, some sweetness, and maybe even some texture- none of which can be found in your box of rice cereal. So it's fruits and veggies to start with.
In the meantime, Zak is still almost exclusively breastfed, if you count the 2 tablespoons of sweet potato he's had in the past week. This may shock the doctor we're scheduled to see- anyone know what to do when the doctor faints?
At long last, the store is open. I've got a great salve for everything from diaper rash to dry lips, a rich hand and body cream, a brown sugar scrub, and an oatmeal soap that's ugly but my favorite so far. Take a look at:
http://www.etsy.com/shop/ummzak .
Someone's next set of teeth may be coming in, so I've got soothing to do. Be well.
Perhaps Zak was reacting to the excitement of me churning out all sorts of salves and potions, but he's had a hard time sleeping at night lately. He 's not had this much trouble since those early days, but I'm sure we'll pull through. In the meantime, I've been logging some good time on the treadmill because of this. At least he's still able to get to sleep by being in the Moby wrap or Bjorn while I walk about. But I'm burying the lead: Zak has now been "introduced" to solids.
We skipped over that nasty rice cereal stuff and went for roasted sweet potato. Zak wasn't terribly thrilled with it, and I'm hoping that avocado or apple goes better. I figure that if I were that young again, I'd want some flavor, some sweetness, and maybe even some texture- none of which can be found in your box of rice cereal. So it's fruits and veggies to start with.
In the meantime, Zak is still almost exclusively breastfed, if you count the 2 tablespoons of sweet potato he's had in the past week. This may shock the doctor we're scheduled to see- anyone know what to do when the doctor faints?
At long last, the store is open. I've got a great salve for everything from diaper rash to dry lips, a rich hand and body cream, a brown sugar scrub, and an oatmeal soap that's ugly but my favorite so far. Take a look at:
http://www.etsy.com/shop/ummzak .
Someone's next set of teeth may be coming in, so I've got soothing to do. Be well.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The right to be saddled.
I've grown used to political "astroturfing", with groups donning names like Freedomworks pretending not to be the creations of corporations. They claim to be groups of just regular folk working for their rights, but are merely beards for corporate interests. Fighting for a corporation's right to decide what rights you have isn't limited to issues like the environment or health care- it's extended to the formula vs. milk debate.
To me, the debate seems settled: human milk is the best food for human babies, and instead of trying to make a pale imitation of such universally available, public health and welfare efforts ought to be focused on getting the Real McCoy to as many babies as possible. Formula's great for the moms who need it, but that's a much smaller group than the number of moms who buy and use formula- the rest are of moms who are pressed into formula feeding by work policies and/or cultural superstitions that make breastfeeding or pumping difficult.
Formula companies have decided to jump on the astroturfing bandwagon and make sure that those policies and superstitions that make breastfeeding and pumping difficult never go away. Websites like "Moms Feeding Freedom" have sprung up looking for moms that want to "fight" for their "right" to be targeted by aggressive marketing campaigns. The site also features bugaboo stories about breastfeeding and tutorials on preparing formula, all while claiming to promote freedom of choice for mothers of infants. Yeah. The freedom to choose the brand of formula that will boost their market shares, most likely.
They've also targeted general parenting sites like Babble, with the same sort of rubbish. I can respect the desire to make lots of money- it's the American way, after all. But instead of being content with filling the need that is out there, they created a need where none existed, and sought to eliminate any competition, not by having a better product, but by making any other choice either impossible or unthinkable. Instead of healthy competition, you have a group of people who profit off of the sickness and death of children. And because they are wealthy, it's OK.
I may have the right to be saddled and ridden by corporate interests, but I'd rather not be taken for that sort of ride. And neither should any of you.
To me, the debate seems settled: human milk is the best food for human babies, and instead of trying to make a pale imitation of such universally available, public health and welfare efforts ought to be focused on getting the Real McCoy to as many babies as possible. Formula's great for the moms who need it, but that's a much smaller group than the number of moms who buy and use formula- the rest are of moms who are pressed into formula feeding by work policies and/or cultural superstitions that make breastfeeding or pumping difficult.
Formula companies have decided to jump on the astroturfing bandwagon and make sure that those policies and superstitions that make breastfeeding and pumping difficult never go away. Websites like "Moms Feeding Freedom" have sprung up looking for moms that want to "fight" for their "right" to be targeted by aggressive marketing campaigns. The site also features bugaboo stories about breastfeeding and tutorials on preparing formula, all while claiming to promote freedom of choice for mothers of infants. Yeah. The freedom to choose the brand of formula that will boost their market shares, most likely.
They've also targeted general parenting sites like Babble, with the same sort of rubbish. I can respect the desire to make lots of money- it's the American way, after all. But instead of being content with filling the need that is out there, they created a need where none existed, and sought to eliminate any competition, not by having a better product, but by making any other choice either impossible or unthinkable. Instead of healthy competition, you have a group of people who profit off of the sickness and death of children. And because they are wealthy, it's OK.
I may have the right to be saddled and ridden by corporate interests, but I'd rather not be taken for that sort of ride. And neither should any of you.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
So classy....
A few lowlights from my trip- still in progress:
1. Being told it was my fault that my marriage ended- even though my abusive, unfaithful ex booted me out.
2. Being called a prostitute because I went sightseeing with my infant son.
3. My ex grabbing my nursing cover to try to look at my breast.
4. Being accused of being a layabout because I work from home, care for my son, and help my relatives with housekeeping.
5. Having a relative call my son the "n" word. Yes, that "n" word.
It was enough to make me consider returning to my ex for a hot minute, before I slapped myself back to reality.
1. Being told it was my fault that my marriage ended- even though my abusive, unfaithful ex booted me out.
2. Being called a prostitute because I went sightseeing with my infant son.
3. My ex grabbing my nursing cover to try to look at my breast.
4. Being accused of being a layabout because I work from home, care for my son, and help my relatives with housekeeping.
5. Having a relative call my son the "n" word. Yes, that "n" word.
It was enough to make me consider returning to my ex for a hot minute, before I slapped myself back to reality.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Thought for the day.
It's a crime for someone to demand your money or your life. Why is it, then, that when you're sick, to make that demand is considered simply business as usual? To profit from another's suffering used to be morally repugnant. Now, it's "the American way".
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Just a thought.
Why is cow's milk the cultural norm for milk? Why does every sort of milk get a specifying prefix- goat's milk, breastmilk, etc.? Humanity is the cultural default for food- we don't say "people food" for the food that adult humans consume. It's also the cultural norm for clothing, hair, grooming products, etc. So why isn't human milk just milk, and the milk of other species must be specified?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Gone platinum?
I'm prepping for a visit with my family, and I'd wondered what I could whip up for my mother and grandmother, who both have lovely silver hair- not that they know it, unfortunately. And they don't know this because the public perception of grey hair is that it is something to be covered up at the earliest sign.
I confess- I've concealed a grey hair or three in my day. But as I'm just shy of thirty, it didn't seem right for me to have grey just yet. To me, grey hair goes with wearing Chanel No. 5, well-tailored clothing, and a certain confident elegance that isn't devoid of sex appeal, but certainly doesn't suit the adolescent awkwardness that I still possess in great amounts. I'm quite looking forward to a silver cloud of curls at say, forty-five, but not just yet.
My mother and grandmother, however, have gone quite platinum, and I've been looking for something to complement grey hair. My research turns up loads of ways to prevent or conceal greys of varying credibility, but few to make the best of what you've earned. I may just do a general hair oil that boosts shine and encourages growth, but really, is it too much to ask for suggestions on making silver tresses glow without chemical interventions? Oh well.
I've also finished my first pair of hand-knit socks for Zak, and for now, I'm a three-needle bind off girl in terms of finishing. Perhaps I'll keep working on grafting - a.k.a. Kitchener stitch, but my bind off looks better than my grafting, so that's what I'll stick with. For those who are familiar with hand-knit socks, you can skip the next sentences.
These socks fit beautifully. Zak is a baby clothing escape artist, with socks being a specialty of his. I won't say he can't wriggle out of these, but it's at least a bigger challenge for him. They were fun to knit, as there was the excitement of the heel between the predictability of the leg and foot. They may be my new favorite thing to knit, as the happiness-yarn ratio is excellent.
Next: a pair of toe-up socks, as I'm hoping to start knitting for Socks for Soldiers, a charity that provides hand-knit socks to military servicemembers on deployment. Any flaw in a sock would be felt acutely, so I want to have the techniques down before I cast on for someone relying so heavily on my skills.
And Eid has arrived, with its fond farewell to Ramadan and delightful gifts for Zak. I prayed Eid prayer at home, presented Zak with his gifts, and opened my brand new.... electric kettle! It was a gift from a friend of mine. It's wonderful, and I think I must have used it a half dozen times already. I just hope the gifts I whipped up and sent out were enjoyed half as much as my new kettle. Either way, I am humbled to reflect on how blessed I am.
I confess- I've concealed a grey hair or three in my day. But as I'm just shy of thirty, it didn't seem right for me to have grey just yet. To me, grey hair goes with wearing Chanel No. 5, well-tailored clothing, and a certain confident elegance that isn't devoid of sex appeal, but certainly doesn't suit the adolescent awkwardness that I still possess in great amounts. I'm quite looking forward to a silver cloud of curls at say, forty-five, but not just yet.
My mother and grandmother, however, have gone quite platinum, and I've been looking for something to complement grey hair. My research turns up loads of ways to prevent or conceal greys of varying credibility, but few to make the best of what you've earned. I may just do a general hair oil that boosts shine and encourages growth, but really, is it too much to ask for suggestions on making silver tresses glow without chemical interventions? Oh well.
I've also finished my first pair of hand-knit socks for Zak, and for now, I'm a three-needle bind off girl in terms of finishing. Perhaps I'll keep working on grafting - a.k.a. Kitchener stitch, but my bind off looks better than my grafting, so that's what I'll stick with. For those who are familiar with hand-knit socks, you can skip the next sentences.
These socks fit beautifully. Zak is a baby clothing escape artist, with socks being a specialty of his. I won't say he can't wriggle out of these, but it's at least a bigger challenge for him. They were fun to knit, as there was the excitement of the heel between the predictability of the leg and foot. They may be my new favorite thing to knit, as the happiness-yarn ratio is excellent.
Next: a pair of toe-up socks, as I'm hoping to start knitting for Socks for Soldiers, a charity that provides hand-knit socks to military servicemembers on deployment. Any flaw in a sock would be felt acutely, so I want to have the techniques down before I cast on for someone relying so heavily on my skills.
And Eid has arrived, with its fond farewell to Ramadan and delightful gifts for Zak. I prayed Eid prayer at home, presented Zak with his gifts, and opened my brand new.... electric kettle! It was a gift from a friend of mine. It's wonderful, and I think I must have used it a half dozen times already. I just hope the gifts I whipped up and sent out were enjoyed half as much as my new kettle. Either way, I am humbled to reflect on how blessed I am.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Oh let him be- my teddy bear.
So, I've discovered the joys- or at least the conveniences- of bed sharing with Zak.
I hadn't planned on bed sharing at all while pregnant, but like so many things that I didn't plan, it happened anyway. From day one, Zak has slept best and longest the closer he was to me. In the hospital, the devices they had around my ankles made getting out of bed next to impossible, so Zak's first nights were spent nestled against me so that I could nurse him. Since then, he'd been spending a portion of the night with me, and the rest in a Moses basket next to my bed. But circumstances are calling for a slight change.
Traveling with an infant is not easy, not by a long shot. Figuring out where the Milk Monster will sleep was one of the bigger challenges. I'd thought of a travel crib, but that would require enough floor space for me to roll out a sleeping bag next to the travel crib. Houses of the urban Eastern Seaboard being what they are, i.e. cramped and moldy, that wasn't an option. I'd no idea how Zak would take to a travel crib anyway, as he'll do anything in a crib but sleep.
The best solutions are often the simplest ones. Zak is used to spending a portion of the night in my bed- he gets two "midnight snacks" and some comfort sucking during the night. I'm used to securing Zak in my bed so that he won't roll off, and I've grown used to sleeping without pillows or blankets. *sigh* He'll be in a new place, meeting all sorts of new faces, one of which makes his mom rather nervous. Being by my side as much as possible will be convenient and comforting. Why, again, do I have a crib?
I hadn't planned on bed sharing at all while pregnant, but like so many things that I didn't plan, it happened anyway. From day one, Zak has slept best and longest the closer he was to me. In the hospital, the devices they had around my ankles made getting out of bed next to impossible, so Zak's first nights were spent nestled against me so that I could nurse him. Since then, he'd been spending a portion of the night with me, and the rest in a Moses basket next to my bed. But circumstances are calling for a slight change.
Traveling with an infant is not easy, not by a long shot. Figuring out where the Milk Monster will sleep was one of the bigger challenges. I'd thought of a travel crib, but that would require enough floor space for me to roll out a sleeping bag next to the travel crib. Houses of the urban Eastern Seaboard being what they are, i.e. cramped and moldy, that wasn't an option. I'd no idea how Zak would take to a travel crib anyway, as he'll do anything in a crib but sleep.
The best solutions are often the simplest ones. Zak is used to spending a portion of the night in my bed- he gets two "midnight snacks" and some comfort sucking during the night. I'm used to securing Zak in my bed so that he won't roll off, and I've grown used to sleeping without pillows or blankets. *sigh* He'll be in a new place, meeting all sorts of new faces, one of which makes his mom rather nervous. Being by my side as much as possible will be convenient and comforting. Why, again, do I have a crib?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Mea culpa.
It's one thing to vent, but it seems lately that I've been complaining about one person or another nearly constantly. My ex is a jerk, my family are a bunch of control freaks, yada, yada, yada. While it's true that my ex won't be earning any Father of the Year awards, and my relatives have more issues than Harpers' Weekly, it's time to accentuate the positive.
My ex could be worse. He's actually provided for Zak. Not as much as I'd like, but he does do something. He seems to want to be a decent father, even if he's improvising. That should not be taken for a sign that I ought to crawl back to him like he wants, but a sign that I have more than some, and ought to be grateful. It was my hope that this man, who grew up in a broken home, would beat the odds and be an admired husband and devoted father. Maybe he can be that to someone else one day.
My family took me in during one of the darkest moments of my life and never asked for a penny. They are in danger for harboring a woman escaping an abusive relationship, but seldom made me feel as though I was a burden or unwanted. Even those who want me to move in with them so that I may be under their control (I'm talking about you, Grandma), are acting out of concern. My Grandma thinks she can protect me better than the strapping young men around here. I wouldn't mess with the lady for love or money, but I also wouldn't put her in harm's way with a crazy fool whose illusions have shattered.
While I'm expressing gratitude, I have to thank God for those who've reached out and helped me during this time. I cried out for support and advice when I was pregnant, frightened, and facing divorce. What I got was an honorary uncle and Jewish godmother for my son, a chance to get to know family members that I hadn't seen in years, and the strength I need to keep going on this uncertain path.
I am blessed far more than I deserve.
My ex could be worse. He's actually provided for Zak. Not as much as I'd like, but he does do something. He seems to want to be a decent father, even if he's improvising. That should not be taken for a sign that I ought to crawl back to him like he wants, but a sign that I have more than some, and ought to be grateful. It was my hope that this man, who grew up in a broken home, would beat the odds and be an admired husband and devoted father. Maybe he can be that to someone else one day.
My family took me in during one of the darkest moments of my life and never asked for a penny. They are in danger for harboring a woman escaping an abusive relationship, but seldom made me feel as though I was a burden or unwanted. Even those who want me to move in with them so that I may be under their control (I'm talking about you, Grandma), are acting out of concern. My Grandma thinks she can protect me better than the strapping young men around here. I wouldn't mess with the lady for love or money, but I also wouldn't put her in harm's way with a crazy fool whose illusions have shattered.
While I'm expressing gratitude, I have to thank God for those who've reached out and helped me during this time. I cried out for support and advice when I was pregnant, frightened, and facing divorce. What I got was an honorary uncle and Jewish godmother for my son, a chance to get to know family members that I hadn't seen in years, and the strength I need to keep going on this uncertain path.
I am blessed far more than I deserve.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Rather handy, aren't we?
I've decided on another bath mitt for my travel knitting. It will be easy, useful, and can be done on a circular needle, minimizing risk of losing a needle mid-project. I've rolled a ball of yarn from a massive skein of Sugar and Cream cotton yarn, cast onto a circular needle, and knit a few rows. This way, I can pack the project into a carry on with enough work not to simply slide off the needle and unravel, and I'm all set for hours of mindless knitting- if the Milk Monster lets me.
I am also obsessed with the idea of mittens for him. Probably thumbless and preferably in a yarn that provides some color interest, as this bath mitt is a dye-free but boring cream color. The other project on my needles, his other sock, is in a charming yellow-green, but I'm looking for something, well, not green or yellow. And the fact that I tire of those two colors is all my fault.
Zak's sex was a surprise because I planned it that way. I wanted a bit of the mystery, the speculation, and the freedom from what would have been an all-blue wardrobe for him had it been known that he was a boy. At least he's now got three colors dominating his wardrobe: green, yellow, and blue. But for a knitter who glories in a variety of color, it's not enough- not nearly enough. I'd like to work in rich browns, somber greys, and deep, clear burgundies. In short, I want to work in non-baby colors for my baby.
I've got an easy baby mitten pattern set aside, and it calls for sock yarn doubled. Maybe I'll strand together deep blue and beige, or burgundy and apricot. I may do a hand-painted yarn- I've got to do something to relieve the monochrome blues.
I am also obsessed with the idea of mittens for him. Probably thumbless and preferably in a yarn that provides some color interest, as this bath mitt is a dye-free but boring cream color. The other project on my needles, his other sock, is in a charming yellow-green, but I'm looking for something, well, not green or yellow. And the fact that I tire of those two colors is all my fault.
Zak's sex was a surprise because I planned it that way. I wanted a bit of the mystery, the speculation, and the freedom from what would have been an all-blue wardrobe for him had it been known that he was a boy. At least he's now got three colors dominating his wardrobe: green, yellow, and blue. But for a knitter who glories in a variety of color, it's not enough- not nearly enough. I'd like to work in rich browns, somber greys, and deep, clear burgundies. In short, I want to work in non-baby colors for my baby.
I've got an easy baby mitten pattern set aside, and it calls for sock yarn doubled. Maybe I'll strand together deep blue and beige, or burgundy and apricot. I may do a hand-painted yarn- I've got to do something to relieve the monochrome blues.
No way out but through.
I just saw Tyler Perry's "I Can Do Bad All By Myself". Say what you like about him, but it struck a nerve. Every character seemed haunted by unspeakable horrors, and every joy was snatched from the jaws of suffering. My life doesn't warrant a big-screen treatment, not because it's too weird, but because it's distressingly common.
I'm about to travel to introduce my son to a man who nearly ended his life before it began. The Milk Monster will face the man who tried to force me to abort him, swore to never have anything to do with him, and when that didn't make me want to get an abortion, offered my unborn child to one of his girlfriends. After I fled, he tried to deny paternity, a particularly weak charge when I was so isolated I barely left the house. And my son will have to call this man father.
Sometimes, I wonder if it was fair to go through with my pregnancy, knowing that my child has this man for his father. But I realized before I gave birth, as the movie tried to pummel one over the head with, that it's not what you start off with, nor what happens to you. It's what you do with it that matters. My son does not have a good man for a father, and he doesn't have all the latest toys and such. But he has a mother willing to knit socks for him and read him stories. He has a host of relatives, official and unofficial, who send him love via email and UPS. He is surrounded by love, and as he grows, God willing, he will receive gentle guidance and firm affection.
As my son grows, he reminds me that I've got some growing to do, as well. I'd been afraid to start a new life, half hoping that the decision would be taken out of my hands. But I realized that I can't foster growth while remaining stunted. I can't foster independence if I'm looking to give mine up at the first likely opportunity. And I can't avoid repeating my past unless I change my present.
This week, I made my first errand on my own. It took two hours for a task that would take twenty minutes by car. I'm still committed to learning to drive, but for now, my feet are what I've got. I'm learning to stand on my own, even if in small ways. That said, I'd like a chance to sit after- two hours of walking is no joke.
I'm about to travel to introduce my son to a man who nearly ended his life before it began. The Milk Monster will face the man who tried to force me to abort him, swore to never have anything to do with him, and when that didn't make me want to get an abortion, offered my unborn child to one of his girlfriends. After I fled, he tried to deny paternity, a particularly weak charge when I was so isolated I barely left the house. And my son will have to call this man father.
Sometimes, I wonder if it was fair to go through with my pregnancy, knowing that my child has this man for his father. But I realized before I gave birth, as the movie tried to pummel one over the head with, that it's not what you start off with, nor what happens to you. It's what you do with it that matters. My son does not have a good man for a father, and he doesn't have all the latest toys and such. But he has a mother willing to knit socks for him and read him stories. He has a host of relatives, official and unofficial, who send him love via email and UPS. He is surrounded by love, and as he grows, God willing, he will receive gentle guidance and firm affection.
As my son grows, he reminds me that I've got some growing to do, as well. I'd been afraid to start a new life, half hoping that the decision would be taken out of my hands. But I realized that I can't foster growth while remaining stunted. I can't foster independence if I'm looking to give mine up at the first likely opportunity. And I can't avoid repeating my past unless I change my present.
This week, I made my first errand on my own. It took two hours for a task that would take twenty minutes by car. I'm still committed to learning to drive, but for now, my feet are what I've got. I'm learning to stand on my own, even if in small ways. That said, I'd like a chance to sit after- two hours of walking is no joke.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sweet baby!
I've whipped up banana bread and sun tea for guests I'm expecting. But I really ought to be more careful when preparing food while wearing the Milk Monster. I'd measured out sugar for simple syrup when I noted an ant crawling on the edge of the measuring cup. I closed my eyes and blew hard on the ant to get him away from the sugar. When I opened my eyes, the ant was gone- and my son was sugar-coated.
He wasn't hurt, and he didn't even fuss over his crunchy sweet topping, and I quickly brushed it off. The Milk Monster is sweet enough- no need for extra sugar.
The banana bread, however, went off without a hitch- he even got to taste the mashed bananas. Not sure whether he likes them or not, however.
He wasn't hurt, and he didn't even fuss over his crunchy sweet topping, and I quickly brushed it off. The Milk Monster is sweet enough- no need for extra sugar.
The banana bread, however, went off without a hitch- he even got to taste the mashed bananas. Not sure whether he likes them or not, however.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
On the road again...
I'm traveling for the first time with the Milk Monster, and so many issues present themselves: travel crib or co-sleep? What toys should I take for the flight? Will it be OK to read to the Milk Monster on the flight? But most importantly: what to knit on the trip?
I've got Zak's other sock to do, but I'm on the foot, it's cuff down, and it's for a baby- not nearly enough of a project to last me for more than a week of my Grandma going on about how incompetent I am as a parent. I don't have the needles I need for his cardi, and I don't want to do anything in the round, as I use DPN's, and if I lose one on the plane, I'll be an unhappy camper. I need a single-point needle project, preferably using stash yarn.A scarf would fit the bill, and so would another bath mitt. But I don't want to do another bath mitt so soon after the last, and I need something with color interest. Sounds like a job for (trumpets, please)- a hand-painted yarn!
The crystal ball indicates that I've some online yarn shopping in my future, as I've no hand-painted worsted weight in my stash. I could pick up some size 4 straight needles then, too Any suggestions?
I've got Zak's other sock to do, but I'm on the foot, it's cuff down, and it's for a baby- not nearly enough of a project to last me for more than a week of my Grandma going on about how incompetent I am as a parent. I don't have the needles I need for his cardi, and I don't want to do anything in the round, as I use DPN's, and if I lose one on the plane, I'll be an unhappy camper. I need a single-point needle project, preferably using stash yarn.A scarf would fit the bill, and so would another bath mitt. But I don't want to do another bath mitt so soon after the last, and I need something with color interest. Sounds like a job for (trumpets, please)- a hand-painted yarn!
The crystal ball indicates that I've some online yarn shopping in my future, as I've no hand-painted worsted weight in my stash. I could pick up some size 4 straight needles then, too Any suggestions?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Opening my shirt for a better world.
My son is exclusively breastfed, and it's surprising how controversial that act is. Mammals, by definition, produce milk designed for their offspring. It would be considered utter folly to take a young deer from his mother to be fed modified walrus milk, but that's exactly what human mothers the world over are expected to do with their young. The AAP, WHO, and the Qur'an, among others, recommend human milk as the best food for infants and young toddlers. Human milk costs nothing to produce, does not require sterile containers and can be stored for longer periods than artificial baby milk. Its constituents cannot be duplicated commercially, as no living substance can be. It is not a miracle food, but it comes close.
It's the best food for human babies, and is quite practical for almost anyone who can produce it naturally- that is, most mothers. Why, then, is it portrayed as somehow less desirable for mothers, especially those who work outside the home?
I'm not going to indulge in conspiracy theories, but I will say this: it's considered more profitable for a company to have a market full of people who can least afford expensive consumable goods. It's considered a luxury, not a necessity, for mothers to take the time needed to feed their babies. It's considered perfectly OK to shell out large amounts of money for inferior food for the sake of "convenience". It's part of the reason why the poorest people have the poorest health outcomes- besides the expense of health care, good nutrition is viewed as too expensive, inconvenient, and only for tree-hugging hippies. But when one factors in the cost of days missed from work due to illness, the link between poor nutrition and behavioral problems in school-age children, and the higher cost on a cumulative basis of "convenience" food, you see that convenience food isn't all that convenient for a tight budget.
Formula can't even be considered convenience food, except for the most expensive "ready to feed" bottles. What convenience food requires special equipment to prepare the serving vessel, requires that water be boiled then cooled, before the food itself can be prepared? My usual answer to the "why not formula" question is that I'm not sterilizing anything at three in the morning. Formula is a godsend for mothers who cannot produce sufficient milk (not common, but it happens), mothers who must take medication incompatible with nursing, and for babies who lose their mothers early. But for many other mothers, it's an expensive, inconvenient option that they are pressed into by family-unfriendly work policies, aggressive marketing strategies, and a culture that is deeply uncomfortable with the true function of the human female breast.
Nursing initiation and continuance rates are especially poor among African-American women. Formula is marketed quite aggressively to black folk, and black women are more likely to have the insecure, low-paying jobs that aren't conducive to pumping and storing milk. We can often ill afford time off from work when we are employed, and we often wind up in the sorts of birth facilities that have outdated policies about feeding newborns and caring for new mothers. There's also a more troubling factor: poorer folk often have less time and access to the latest health info, which means that they may get the bulk of their parenting guidance from elders and commercial literature. Advice from elders can be great- but it can also be deadly. I've been instructed to feed Zak cow's milk and cereal at the age of two weeks, to not buy a car seat, and to put him on his stomach to sleep- all things known to be dangerous, even fatal, to infants today. I've ignored that advice, but if that was the only information I'd gotten, what else could I be expected to do? I was warned that breastfeeding was too hard and painful, and that I'd shortly give it up. If I hadn't done my homework, I'd probably miss out on one of the most satisfying experiences in my life.
Right now, nursing is magic. Zak's tired? Nurse him down. Zak's teething? Comfort nursing. Zak's hot? Forget Gatorade- foremilk hits the spot. It comforts us both- him with the closeness, the sucking and the milk. Me with knowing Zak couldn't get better food than what is made just for him, and that I'm able to comfort him. God willing, he'll grow up happy, healthy, and strong, and I will have given him the best possible start. Doesn't every baby deserve the same?
It's the best food for human babies, and is quite practical for almost anyone who can produce it naturally- that is, most mothers. Why, then, is it portrayed as somehow less desirable for mothers, especially those who work outside the home?
I'm not going to indulge in conspiracy theories, but I will say this: it's considered more profitable for a company to have a market full of people who can least afford expensive consumable goods. It's considered a luxury, not a necessity, for mothers to take the time needed to feed their babies. It's considered perfectly OK to shell out large amounts of money for inferior food for the sake of "convenience". It's part of the reason why the poorest people have the poorest health outcomes- besides the expense of health care, good nutrition is viewed as too expensive, inconvenient, and only for tree-hugging hippies. But when one factors in the cost of days missed from work due to illness, the link between poor nutrition and behavioral problems in school-age children, and the higher cost on a cumulative basis of "convenience" food, you see that convenience food isn't all that convenient for a tight budget.
Formula can't even be considered convenience food, except for the most expensive "ready to feed" bottles. What convenience food requires special equipment to prepare the serving vessel, requires that water be boiled then cooled, before the food itself can be prepared? My usual answer to the "why not formula" question is that I'm not sterilizing anything at three in the morning. Formula is a godsend for mothers who cannot produce sufficient milk (not common, but it happens), mothers who must take medication incompatible with nursing, and for babies who lose their mothers early. But for many other mothers, it's an expensive, inconvenient option that they are pressed into by family-unfriendly work policies, aggressive marketing strategies, and a culture that is deeply uncomfortable with the true function of the human female breast.
Nursing initiation and continuance rates are especially poor among African-American women. Formula is marketed quite aggressively to black folk, and black women are more likely to have the insecure, low-paying jobs that aren't conducive to pumping and storing milk. We can often ill afford time off from work when we are employed, and we often wind up in the sorts of birth facilities that have outdated policies about feeding newborns and caring for new mothers. There's also a more troubling factor: poorer folk often have less time and access to the latest health info, which means that they may get the bulk of their parenting guidance from elders and commercial literature. Advice from elders can be great- but it can also be deadly. I've been instructed to feed Zak cow's milk and cereal at the age of two weeks, to not buy a car seat, and to put him on his stomach to sleep- all things known to be dangerous, even fatal, to infants today. I've ignored that advice, but if that was the only information I'd gotten, what else could I be expected to do? I was warned that breastfeeding was too hard and painful, and that I'd shortly give it up. If I hadn't done my homework, I'd probably miss out on one of the most satisfying experiences in my life.
Right now, nursing is magic. Zak's tired? Nurse him down. Zak's teething? Comfort nursing. Zak's hot? Forget Gatorade- foremilk hits the spot. It comforts us both- him with the closeness, the sucking and the milk. Me with knowing Zak couldn't get better food than what is made just for him, and that I'm able to comfort him. God willing, he'll grow up happy, healthy, and strong, and I will have given him the best possible start. Doesn't every baby deserve the same?
Monday, September 7, 2009
Our First Ramadan.
Ramadan, in years past, was a bustling affair involving whipping up rich stews and dashing from iftar to iftar. I volunteered for fund raising events and balanced printing out flyers with attending Taraweeh. It was a busy and wonderful time with friends and a peace that seemed quite at home in the midst of a flurry of activity. I'd hoped that Ramadan would improve even more when I married. I was wrong.
I spent my first Ramadan as a married woman in a roach infested apartment, preparing rich meals that were sometimes ignored, sometimes criticized, by my ex and his sister. I would prepare suhur amidst complaints from my ex's sister, as she's not Muslim and never missed an opportunity to, well, sneeze in my ice cream. My first Eid as a married woman was spent alone due to a protection order. As they say, "cheer up, things could get worse". Well, I cheered up- and they did get worse.
My last Ramadan as a married woman was last year. I spent it trying to flee, fearing miscarriage due to the violence I experienced at my ex's hands, and wondering where my ex was and with whom. Eid was spent with him pondering marriage proposals from other women, before a loud argument in IHOP. It was the most blessed of months, but I came to dread this time, for my hopes were higher than ever for a happy family life, which meant that they were more cruelly dashed.
This year? Alas, no fasting- my milk supply is too fragile for that. And I've not had a chance to go to the mosque, either. I've not been in a mosque for Ramadan since before I married. But it's the best Ramadan in years. Hearty muffins prepared for the suhur of an acquaintance of mine, reading Qur'an with Zak in my lap, and holding Zak during prayers. It's an unconventional Ramadan, but it's got family, worship, and great food- just about everything needed to make Ramadan complete.
I spent my first Ramadan as a married woman in a roach infested apartment, preparing rich meals that were sometimes ignored, sometimes criticized, by my ex and his sister. I would prepare suhur amidst complaints from my ex's sister, as she's not Muslim and never missed an opportunity to, well, sneeze in my ice cream. My first Eid as a married woman was spent alone due to a protection order. As they say, "cheer up, things could get worse". Well, I cheered up- and they did get worse.
My last Ramadan as a married woman was last year. I spent it trying to flee, fearing miscarriage due to the violence I experienced at my ex's hands, and wondering where my ex was and with whom. Eid was spent with him pondering marriage proposals from other women, before a loud argument in IHOP. It was the most blessed of months, but I came to dread this time, for my hopes were higher than ever for a happy family life, which meant that they were more cruelly dashed.
This year? Alas, no fasting- my milk supply is too fragile for that. And I've not had a chance to go to the mosque, either. I've not been in a mosque for Ramadan since before I married. But it's the best Ramadan in years. Hearty muffins prepared for the suhur of an acquaintance of mine, reading Qur'an with Zak in my lap, and holding Zak during prayers. It's an unconventional Ramadan, but it's got family, worship, and great food- just about everything needed to make Ramadan complete.
I've got finishitis!
For some strange reason, I'm determined to finish the projects I have on my needles before beginning another. For non-knitters, it may seem strange, but having several projects in progress is the natural state of being a knitter; to focus on one project from start to finish is something of an aberration. I've wondered why this is- after all, you don't get to show off your finished objects if you don't have any. Then, I cast on.
Knitting is an adventure. Each stitch, each yarn over, takes us closer to a destination unique to every knitter, for no two knitters are alike. Knitters often make slight (or dramatic) changes to a pattern, lengthening sleeves here, adding cables there. This creates an object even more different from that created by the designer. Knitting is not the mindless parroting of a designer's will- it is a dance of the fingers that makes art of piles of string.
I've blocked and sewn up Zak's bath mitt, and the swatch for his sweater has been blocked and gauge noted. But before I'll allow myself to buy the new size four needles to start on his cardi in earnest, I must, I must, I must finish this sock. It's my first pair, for Zak, and in a charming shade of yellow green. I've already done the first, and got down to the heel on the second. Perhaps this is a new knitter's disease- Postpartum Second Sock Syndrome? I started the first sock while in labor, and managed to finish it by some miracle while Zak was a newborn. Yet, the turning of the heel for the second sock stopped me cold for a while.
Knitting a sock is the closest thing to magic that can be accomplished without a scantily clad assistant. You use straight needles to create a round tube, and without bending the needles or the time-space continuum in any way, you change direction. No seams, no glue, just knitting around and around until you're at the toe- or cuff, depending on where you started- and you graft or cast off your way to an exquisitely well-fitting sock.
But the allure of this magic trick seems to fade with the second sock- no matter how many socks a knitter makes, the second holds less charm than the first. I'm determined to finish before I start a new project, in part because I tire of white socks on Zak, am too cheap to buy colored socks when I have some on my needles, and just because I want to. Oh well.
Happy Knitting!
Knitting is an adventure. Each stitch, each yarn over, takes us closer to a destination unique to every knitter, for no two knitters are alike. Knitters often make slight (or dramatic) changes to a pattern, lengthening sleeves here, adding cables there. This creates an object even more different from that created by the designer. Knitting is not the mindless parroting of a designer's will- it is a dance of the fingers that makes art of piles of string.
I've blocked and sewn up Zak's bath mitt, and the swatch for his sweater has been blocked and gauge noted. But before I'll allow myself to buy the new size four needles to start on his cardi in earnest, I must, I must, I must finish this sock. It's my first pair, for Zak, and in a charming shade of yellow green. I've already done the first, and got down to the heel on the second. Perhaps this is a new knitter's disease- Postpartum Second Sock Syndrome? I started the first sock while in labor, and managed to finish it by some miracle while Zak was a newborn. Yet, the turning of the heel for the second sock stopped me cold for a while.
Knitting a sock is the closest thing to magic that can be accomplished without a scantily clad assistant. You use straight needles to create a round tube, and without bending the needles or the time-space continuum in any way, you change direction. No seams, no glue, just knitting around and around until you're at the toe- or cuff, depending on where you started- and you graft or cast off your way to an exquisitely well-fitting sock.
But the allure of this magic trick seems to fade with the second sock- no matter how many socks a knitter makes, the second holds less charm than the first. I'm determined to finish before I start a new project, in part because I tire of white socks on Zak, am too cheap to buy colored socks when I have some on my needles, and just because I want to. Oh well.
Happy Knitting!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Why don't you just...? or My Patronus.
If you've not been in an abusive relationship, it's quite difficult to relate or even imagine. Being in an abusive relationship is not merely coping with a slap or a punch; it's fighting for sanity in a world gone mad.
Being in an abusive relationship is to wake up in a world where black is white, hate is love and love is hate. It is to fall asleep in heaven and wake up in hell. One can behave reasonably, even beautifully, and be cruelly punished; one can be absolutely wretched and be praised. The rules are that there are no rules- one is forever being jerked about by a mad puppeteer, your strings tangling while the puppeteer keeps insisting that you have no strings, and that you lurch about of your own free will.
I lived in a world where eggs over easy is a crime befitting corporal punishment but offering sex for sale was quite permissible. I lived in a world designed to break me, to transform me into something less than human, a mere receptacle for abuse with no sense of self, of boundaries, of what it means to love.
I wish I could say that it was an unfamiliar world before I married. However, I cannot recall a time when I lacked strings or a puppeteer. Even now, I battle the attempts to control my every move, to convince me that abuse is what I deserve, that I and my son are unworthy of safety and love. But now, I've a weapon that I lacked before.
You should know that I am a Harry Potter geek. For those unfamiliar with the series, it recounts the adventures of a boy wizard as he comes of age. In the third installment, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, the reader is introduced to creatures called Dementors, who spread fear and despair in humans, and can remove the very soul from a person. There is a way to counter their evil effects- the Patronus charm. The Patronus is a visible representation of the best hopes, the happiest moments of a person's life, and repels the Dementors when the charm is cast.
While I've been beset by Dementors for years, my attempts to cast a Patronus charm have not been terribly successful. I've not had an unmixed joy or undashed hope in my life, unfortunately, and this sort of magic is not to be attempted when one's happiest moment must be carefully edited to remove memories of the criticism that preceded or followed. It wasn't until this year, however, that I had reason to hope and rejoice that refuses to be tainted or diminished in any way.
It's Zak, of course. Who else could it be? I won't pretend that he can love me, not yet, but I love him more than I can say, and that's what matters. He is glowingly healthy, happy, and smart, and I can't help but think that his well-being is due to my care. He brings me joy, he gives me a reason to believe that tomorrow will be a better day, as today is a better day due to him. Before he was born, he gave me the courage to fight back and leave, and to continue to fight. He cannot stand on his own, but it is he that helps me stand up for myself. It took much more than a strip of wood and a few words to bring him here, but he is my hero.
Being in an abusive relationship is to wake up in a world where black is white, hate is love and love is hate. It is to fall asleep in heaven and wake up in hell. One can behave reasonably, even beautifully, and be cruelly punished; one can be absolutely wretched and be praised. The rules are that there are no rules- one is forever being jerked about by a mad puppeteer, your strings tangling while the puppeteer keeps insisting that you have no strings, and that you lurch about of your own free will.
I lived in a world where eggs over easy is a crime befitting corporal punishment but offering sex for sale was quite permissible. I lived in a world designed to break me, to transform me into something less than human, a mere receptacle for abuse with no sense of self, of boundaries, of what it means to love.
I wish I could say that it was an unfamiliar world before I married. However, I cannot recall a time when I lacked strings or a puppeteer. Even now, I battle the attempts to control my every move, to convince me that abuse is what I deserve, that I and my son are unworthy of safety and love. But now, I've a weapon that I lacked before.
You should know that I am a Harry Potter geek. For those unfamiliar with the series, it recounts the adventures of a boy wizard as he comes of age. In the third installment, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, the reader is introduced to creatures called Dementors, who spread fear and despair in humans, and can remove the very soul from a person. There is a way to counter their evil effects- the Patronus charm. The Patronus is a visible representation of the best hopes, the happiest moments of a person's life, and repels the Dementors when the charm is cast.
While I've been beset by Dementors for years, my attempts to cast a Patronus charm have not been terribly successful. I've not had an unmixed joy or undashed hope in my life, unfortunately, and this sort of magic is not to be attempted when one's happiest moment must be carefully edited to remove memories of the criticism that preceded or followed. It wasn't until this year, however, that I had reason to hope and rejoice that refuses to be tainted or diminished in any way.
It's Zak, of course. Who else could it be? I won't pretend that he can love me, not yet, but I love him more than I can say, and that's what matters. He is glowingly healthy, happy, and smart, and I can't help but think that his well-being is due to my care. He brings me joy, he gives me a reason to believe that tomorrow will be a better day, as today is a better day due to him. Before he was born, he gave me the courage to fight back and leave, and to continue to fight. He cannot stand on his own, but it is he that helps me stand up for myself. It took much more than a strip of wood and a few words to bring him here, but he is my hero.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Time's Up.
I should have seen it coming when Zak was born. He's a beautiful boy, born with a full head of curls and a French vanilla ice cream complexion. He's gotten himself a caramel coating since then, but the head full of curls remains. I love my Milk Monster from head to toe, but I'm sure he'd like bath time more if he were one of those bald babies, and other than keeping it clean and rash-free, I don't think much about his skin at all. But my approach is not universal.
It started well before he was born. I expected some speculation over what Zak would look like, and that's perfectly fine-pregnancy seems to be all about speculation and anticipation. I'm surprised a betting pool didn't spring up over what sex Zak would be. But obsessing over how dark Zak would be, or how curly his hair would be, reminds me of a time when Zak's complexion was a passport to a world that would be closed to his dark-chocolate mother.
Yet I'm getting this from, among others, woman who lived during that time, and suffered for it. For she was no high-yellow snob: she's a dark-chocolate farm girl, who's worked hard for every penny she's ever earned. She faced ridicule and criticism for her rich brown skin and short curls, and she helps pass those antiquated ideals on to a boy born into the generation with the best chance yet for living in a world where the color of his skin matters no more than the color of his clothes.
I've tried to dismiss these attempts to rank him, by pointing out what really matters: that he's healthy and happy, and what's on his head matters much less than what's in it. Still, the grading by shade and degree of curl persists. One day, soon, I'm going to call time.
Black folk cannot effectively resist attempts to rank us by shade or hair texture if we insist on doing so ourselves; to a certain extent, how we treat ourselves is the way we will be treated by others. It's long past time to quit ranking one another by the tightness of our curls or the brightness of our skin. Those who are lighter, with more loosely curled or waved hair are not necessarily superior or supercilious; hair texture and color are accidents of birth, not products of a certain character, and they do not produce any personality traits. Those who are darker, with tightly curled or waved hair are not less intelligent, less civilized, and have no less inherent self-worth than any other sort of people. The finest minds lay behind faces of every hue and are topped by hair of every texture. The worst of humanity has laid claim to no color in particular. We have a black president, people. That shows that at slightly more than half the country was able to look past a candidate's skin color to what he has to offer as a politician and agent for change. It's time we got with the program.
It started well before he was born. I expected some speculation over what Zak would look like, and that's perfectly fine-pregnancy seems to be all about speculation and anticipation. I'm surprised a betting pool didn't spring up over what sex Zak would be. But obsessing over how dark Zak would be, or how curly his hair would be, reminds me of a time when Zak's complexion was a passport to a world that would be closed to his dark-chocolate mother.
Yet I'm getting this from, among others, woman who lived during that time, and suffered for it. For she was no high-yellow snob: she's a dark-chocolate farm girl, who's worked hard for every penny she's ever earned. She faced ridicule and criticism for her rich brown skin and short curls, and she helps pass those antiquated ideals on to a boy born into the generation with the best chance yet for living in a world where the color of his skin matters no more than the color of his clothes.
I've tried to dismiss these attempts to rank him, by pointing out what really matters: that he's healthy and happy, and what's on his head matters much less than what's in it. Still, the grading by shade and degree of curl persists. One day, soon, I'm going to call time.
Black folk cannot effectively resist attempts to rank us by shade or hair texture if we insist on doing so ourselves; to a certain extent, how we treat ourselves is the way we will be treated by others. It's long past time to quit ranking one another by the tightness of our curls or the brightness of our skin. Those who are lighter, with more loosely curled or waved hair are not necessarily superior or supercilious; hair texture and color are accidents of birth, not products of a certain character, and they do not produce any personality traits. Those who are darker, with tightly curled or waved hair are not less intelligent, less civilized, and have no less inherent self-worth than any other sort of people. The finest minds lay behind faces of every hue and are topped by hair of every texture. The worst of humanity has laid claim to no color in particular. We have a black president, people. That shows that at slightly more than half the country was able to look past a candidate's skin color to what he has to offer as a politician and agent for change. It's time we got with the program.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
On pins and knitting needles.
'Tis the season for cool weather knitting. And for learning to speak up for myself.
I've picked the Cozy Cardigan pattern by Patons, but instead of a Patons yarn, I grabbed some of the Fibranatura Baby Merino in my stash and started swatching. The colorway is "Johnny", an electric-blue/olive/tan mix. I'd post a pic of my swatch so far, but the camera and my computer aren't friends today. Phooey. Perhaps I'll get it sorted before I finally cast on.
Update: my swatch is below- still on the needles.
I'd bought the Baby Merino on clearance weeks before Zak was born, not knowing whether I had a boy or girl kicking me. It's a beautiful colorway, and I'd dreamed of whipping up a sweater-dress if I had a girl, or a hat-sweater bootie combo for a boy. It's a beautiful yarn, doesn't pool in garter stitch on size five needles- at least at my personal tension. I plan to swatch in stockinette, as well- but this garter stitch looks so right, I may skip it and do the pattern in garter stitch as indicated. And it's soft enough to be worn close to the skin. I keep touching it as I knit and type this entry.
There will, however, be one alteration to the pattern: the sleeves. I plan to make them a bit longer and wider than indicated, for a full sleeved cardigan that's slightly loose- that will lengthen the wear time, be easier to pull on, and provide an inch of extra warmth. I'm hoping to find wooden buttons- that will set off the colors perfectly.
I'm just glad that I didn't have my needles with me when someone decided to tear into me for not conforming to their ideas of what a young mother ought to be and do. To them, I just couldn't be a proper parent unless I was doing exactly what she did while raising her daughter, regardless of the fact that some of the things she did are illegal now.
I didn't have my knitting with me when I read her the riot act, but my statement to her and the sweater I'm working on share one thing: the importance of working with what you have, and valuing it. I don't have a house I can sell for ready cash or the yarn the pattern calls for. I don't have a husband that can help watch Zak, and the yarn I have may or may not be a proper match for the project. What I can do is what I can do, be it working from home or whipping out a yarn from my stash. I'm grateful that I can be at home with Zak, and glad I've a beautiful yarn to work with. Whatever comes of either Zak or the sweater is partly beyond my control- but I can choose to do my best with what I have, or whine about what someone else has.
So far, I have a glowingly healthy son and half a beautiful swatch. I think I'll just knit on.
I've picked the Cozy Cardigan pattern by Patons, but instead of a Patons yarn, I grabbed some of the Fibranatura Baby Merino in my stash and started swatching. The colorway is "Johnny", an electric-blue/olive/tan mix. I'd post a pic of my swatch so far, but the camera and my computer aren't friends today. Phooey. Perhaps I'll get it sorted before I finally cast on.
Update: my swatch is below- still on the needles.
I'd bought the Baby Merino on clearance weeks before Zak was born, not knowing whether I had a boy or girl kicking me. It's a beautiful colorway, and I'd dreamed of whipping up a sweater-dress if I had a girl, or a hat-sweater bootie combo for a boy. It's a beautiful yarn, doesn't pool in garter stitch on size five needles- at least at my personal tension. I plan to swatch in stockinette, as well- but this garter stitch looks so right, I may skip it and do the pattern in garter stitch as indicated. And it's soft enough to be worn close to the skin. I keep touching it as I knit and type this entry.
There will, however, be one alteration to the pattern: the sleeves. I plan to make them a bit longer and wider than indicated, for a full sleeved cardigan that's slightly loose- that will lengthen the wear time, be easier to pull on, and provide an inch of extra warmth. I'm hoping to find wooden buttons- that will set off the colors perfectly.
I'm just glad that I didn't have my needles with me when someone decided to tear into me for not conforming to their ideas of what a young mother ought to be and do. To them, I just couldn't be a proper parent unless I was doing exactly what she did while raising her daughter, regardless of the fact that some of the things she did are illegal now.
I didn't have my knitting with me when I read her the riot act, but my statement to her and the sweater I'm working on share one thing: the importance of working with what you have, and valuing it. I don't have a house I can sell for ready cash or the yarn the pattern calls for. I don't have a husband that can help watch Zak, and the yarn I have may or may not be a proper match for the project. What I can do is what I can do, be it working from home or whipping out a yarn from my stash. I'm grateful that I can be at home with Zak, and glad I've a beautiful yarn to work with. Whatever comes of either Zak or the sweater is partly beyond my control- but I can choose to do my best with what I have, or whine about what someone else has.
So far, I have a glowingly healthy son and half a beautiful swatch. I think I'll just knit on.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The difference between milk and water.
I thought I'd be announcing my soon to be tasted freedom today. The divorce was supposed to be entered for judgment today. Note, I said supposed to be entered. Now, it looks like I'll be pondering my upcoming freedom past Thanksgiving.
The hearing is scheduled for late November. I thought I'd be a free woman by my next birthday (late October), and it will still be pending while I'm making homemade cranberry sauce and sipping mulled cider. I have the ominous feeling that this will drag on until Zak passes the bar.
This has been a strange journey: I was abused and cheated on, yet my ex was the one who filed. I was the one urging him to reconsider, yet my ex is the one calling me "babe" when he calls, which is far too often. In a sensible world, I would have filed, but life with the ex is a trip to Crazyland, so this is pretty mild by his standards.
He's divorcing me, but is still playing control games- trying to push me away and hold on at the same time. His latest game consists of agreeing to give Zak or me one thing, then pulling a last-minute switch. I ask for, e.g. money for feeding supplies, he goes out and gets poor substitutes for what I would have bought, and won't send them to my parents, basically making the items and admission price for a visit. I tell him to return them, he refuses, pouts, and finally sends me the money/the right item. Rinse and repeat.
He's quite free to have his say in what Zak wears, plays with, etc. I'd already made arrangements for him to be able to do so via email. But he doesn't want some say- he wants the same control he had while we were married, when I was too afraid to blink without his express permission.
Thank God, I'm out and away from him, but his attempts to resume control haven't ended. I plan to make additional steps toward freedom for myself, but this feels like a roadblock between me and the rest of my life.
The hearing is scheduled for late November. I thought I'd be a free woman by my next birthday (late October), and it will still be pending while I'm making homemade cranberry sauce and sipping mulled cider. I have the ominous feeling that this will drag on until Zak passes the bar.
This has been a strange journey: I was abused and cheated on, yet my ex was the one who filed. I was the one urging him to reconsider, yet my ex is the one calling me "babe" when he calls, which is far too often. In a sensible world, I would have filed, but life with the ex is a trip to Crazyland, so this is pretty mild by his standards.
He's divorcing me, but is still playing control games- trying to push me away and hold on at the same time. His latest game consists of agreeing to give Zak or me one thing, then pulling a last-minute switch. I ask for, e.g. money for feeding supplies, he goes out and gets poor substitutes for what I would have bought, and won't send them to my parents, basically making the items and admission price for a visit. I tell him to return them, he refuses, pouts, and finally sends me the money/the right item. Rinse and repeat.
He's quite free to have his say in what Zak wears, plays with, etc. I'd already made arrangements for him to be able to do so via email. But he doesn't want some say- he wants the same control he had while we were married, when I was too afraid to blink without his express permission.
Thank God, I'm out and away from him, but his attempts to resume control haven't ended. I plan to make additional steps toward freedom for myself, but this feels like a roadblock between me and the rest of my life.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Happy in the Nappy.
Zak is cloth-diapered about half the time, which saves money and prevents the dreaded midnight diaper run. But lest you think I prick myself a dozen times a day with diaper pins while trying to wrestle on a cotton diaper, I'll have you know that cloth diapers have changed a good deal since I was sporting them. They now come in various sizes, styles, and features my older sis would have given an eye to have when she was trying to get one of those flat cotton diapers on me. That said, I've plenty of those kind, too.
First, about any products I discuss: I'm not currently paid to recommend any brand, and even if I were, I'd offer my unvarnished opinion about anything I'm asked to review.
Fitted diapers come in several styles: with velcro and/or snaps, those that require waterproof covers and "all-in-one" styles, those that are sized like disposable diapers and the one-sized adjustable sort. They come in cotton, hemp and bamboo, unbleached and a rainbow of colors and prints. They are more convenient than ever, and can often be washed with regular laundry, with no more than a quick rinse beforehand.
Before Zak was born, I bought a few of the Bum Genius and Fuzzibuns brand fitted diapers. I figured I'd try them both, and buy more of the brand that suited Zak best. I also purchased a disposable/cloth hybrid sort called Gdiapers, which I'll discuss in a bit. If you plan to purchase fitted one-size diapers, I'd suggest getting a few fitted ones in the smallest size, should you have a peanut like my Zak- he wasn't a preemie or even very small, but he wasn't one of the ginormous tots you'll often see in strollers. He needed the extra-small diapers, but not for very long. If you buy them in all white, you can bleach them to remove any stains and pass them on- just run them through an extra cycle to remove any bleach residue.
My hands-down favorite: Bum Genius 3.0 All-in-one. They fasten with velcro, come in sized and one-size adjustable types, and can be tossed in the wash with regular laundry for the most part. The size adjusts with rows of snaps, and has a pocket to double the absorbency for night time or long trips. I also purchased the Fuzzibuns one-size style, but Zak seems to wiggle out of those much too easily for my comfort. The size adjusts with snaps and elasticized bands that button into place, which was too fiddly for me. Both brands come in cute pastels, brights, and classic white. I must confess that I've not tried Happy Heinys, Swaddlebees, or any other brand of fitted cloth diapers, but Zak and I are so happy with Bum Genius that we need not look further.
Flat cloth diapers come in hemp, cotton, and bamboo, in prefold (thicker in the middle) and completely flat styles. All require a waterproof cover and fastener. The metal diaper pins are still available, but a toothed fastener called Snappi makes it possible to fasten a diaper without risking puncture wounds. The waterproof covers now come in nylon, with fleece outers for cold weather, and in a variety of colors and prints. Some parents are able to skip fastening the cloth diaper beneath and simply close the cover over the folded diaper. I wish I knew one of those parents personally- either they are rodeo champions, or they have unusually sedate offspring. Neither the Snappi nor skipping fastening the cloth diaper worked for Zak- his ability to wriggle out of diapers has only been foiled by Bum Genius, Gdiapers, and a type of disposable that I'll discuss later. But flat cloth diapers have worked well for generations of parents, and they are indispensable as burp cloths, changing pads, cleaning rags, etc. I'd get those as a baby gift for any parent, no matter what diapering option they choose.
The Gdiaper: a disposable-cloth hybrid. How cool is that? The paper (or cloth, a brand-new option) based insert goes into a waterproof snap in liner, which in turn goes into a cloth velcro-fastened cover. If you're going out and don't want to haul around a dirty diaper, you can just toss out the paper insert, which is biodegradable. I used them for doctor's visits, so I need not carry around a dirty diaper, but I wouldn't have to toss out a clean disposable because the adhesive didn't survive the diaper being opened for weighing and the doc's inspection of Zak's boy bits.
However, I decided not to use Gdiapers any more. Why? Little boys are experts at stunt peeing, and my little guy kept making sure that his bits were well-positioned to wet the cover instead of the insert- there were too many diaper changes where the insert was bone-dry but the cover soaked through. I'd probably have a better shot at this with a girl, so if you've got a little girl, please give the Gdiapers a try. The inserts can be composted, flushed, or tossed away.
Last come the disposables. I wish I didn't rely on them so much, but when you're waiting for more diapers in the mail or in the wash, you do what you've got to. Lately, it's become easier to find unscented and even unbleached disposable diapers, like the Seventh Generation brand, but for Zak, what's important is something that stays on when he doesn't stay put. I've settled on Huggies Pure and Natural- they are bleached, but unscented and stay on quite well. The tabs are also soft, which was a concern when I found out that Zak was being scratched on the tabs of disposable diapers.
Which sort is best? I have my favorites, but they are based on my priorities, lifestyle and Zak's activity level. What I recommend is to keep an open mind, and remember that a purchase, gift, or free sample is not a binding contract. Whatever you decide, you should be happy with your nappies.
First, about any products I discuss: I'm not currently paid to recommend any brand, and even if I were, I'd offer my unvarnished opinion about anything I'm asked to review.
Fitted diapers come in several styles: with velcro and/or snaps, those that require waterproof covers and "all-in-one" styles, those that are sized like disposable diapers and the one-sized adjustable sort. They come in cotton, hemp and bamboo, unbleached and a rainbow of colors and prints. They are more convenient than ever, and can often be washed with regular laundry, with no more than a quick rinse beforehand.
Before Zak was born, I bought a few of the Bum Genius and Fuzzibuns brand fitted diapers. I figured I'd try them both, and buy more of the brand that suited Zak best. I also purchased a disposable/cloth hybrid sort called Gdiapers, which I'll discuss in a bit. If you plan to purchase fitted one-size diapers, I'd suggest getting a few fitted ones in the smallest size, should you have a peanut like my Zak- he wasn't a preemie or even very small, but he wasn't one of the ginormous tots you'll often see in strollers. He needed the extra-small diapers, but not for very long. If you buy them in all white, you can bleach them to remove any stains and pass them on- just run them through an extra cycle to remove any bleach residue.
My hands-down favorite: Bum Genius 3.0 All-in-one. They fasten with velcro, come in sized and one-size adjustable types, and can be tossed in the wash with regular laundry for the most part. The size adjusts with rows of snaps, and has a pocket to double the absorbency for night time or long trips. I also purchased the Fuzzibuns one-size style, but Zak seems to wiggle out of those much too easily for my comfort. The size adjusts with snaps and elasticized bands that button into place, which was too fiddly for me. Both brands come in cute pastels, brights, and classic white. I must confess that I've not tried Happy Heinys, Swaddlebees, or any other brand of fitted cloth diapers, but Zak and I are so happy with Bum Genius that we need not look further.
Flat cloth diapers come in hemp, cotton, and bamboo, in prefold (thicker in the middle) and completely flat styles. All require a waterproof cover and fastener. The metal diaper pins are still available, but a toothed fastener called Snappi makes it possible to fasten a diaper without risking puncture wounds. The waterproof covers now come in nylon, with fleece outers for cold weather, and in a variety of colors and prints. Some parents are able to skip fastening the cloth diaper beneath and simply close the cover over the folded diaper. I wish I knew one of those parents personally- either they are rodeo champions, or they have unusually sedate offspring. Neither the Snappi nor skipping fastening the cloth diaper worked for Zak- his ability to wriggle out of diapers has only been foiled by Bum Genius, Gdiapers, and a type of disposable that I'll discuss later. But flat cloth diapers have worked well for generations of parents, and they are indispensable as burp cloths, changing pads, cleaning rags, etc. I'd get those as a baby gift for any parent, no matter what diapering option they choose.
The Gdiaper: a disposable-cloth hybrid. How cool is that? The paper (or cloth, a brand-new option) based insert goes into a waterproof snap in liner, which in turn goes into a cloth velcro-fastened cover. If you're going out and don't want to haul around a dirty diaper, you can just toss out the paper insert, which is biodegradable. I used them for doctor's visits, so I need not carry around a dirty diaper, but I wouldn't have to toss out a clean disposable because the adhesive didn't survive the diaper being opened for weighing and the doc's inspection of Zak's boy bits.
However, I decided not to use Gdiapers any more. Why? Little boys are experts at stunt peeing, and my little guy kept making sure that his bits were well-positioned to wet the cover instead of the insert- there were too many diaper changes where the insert was bone-dry but the cover soaked through. I'd probably have a better shot at this with a girl, so if you've got a little girl, please give the Gdiapers a try. The inserts can be composted, flushed, or tossed away.
Last come the disposables. I wish I didn't rely on them so much, but when you're waiting for more diapers in the mail or in the wash, you do what you've got to. Lately, it's become easier to find unscented and even unbleached disposable diapers, like the Seventh Generation brand, but for Zak, what's important is something that stays on when he doesn't stay put. I've settled on Huggies Pure and Natural- they are bleached, but unscented and stay on quite well. The tabs are also soft, which was a concern when I found out that Zak was being scratched on the tabs of disposable diapers.
Which sort is best? I have my favorites, but they are based on my priorities, lifestyle and Zak's activity level. What I recommend is to keep an open mind, and remember that a purchase, gift, or free sample is not a binding contract. Whatever you decide, you should be happy with your nappies.
Monday, August 31, 2009
ZOMG! A healthy baby!
So, yeah, Zak's perfectly healthy. What's the big deal?
Zak went in for his four month checkup today, and the doctor may still be scratching his head. I'm obliged to go to a clinic that rotates doctors, so every visit is with a new doctor. And this doc seems puzzled over Zak. Not because he's got some odd ailment- to the contrary, he's the textbook definition of a healthy baby boy. Not because he's a weirdlo, either. But because he's strong, curious, happy, and obviously well-cared for. Now, I know that docs are trained to treat disease and repair injuries, but if we're going to have well-baby care, docs should be better prepared for a well baby.
It started even before Zak was born: I was under the care of a midwife, knowing that they are better prepared for normality than an OB. Alas, at the birth center I went to, the OB barged in and took over. Before I could say "Lamaze" I was pinned to the bed by more machines than you could shake a speculum at, and forbidden even water. My dreams of a good birth for Zak evaporated. The OB was prepared for an abnormal birth, and by Gum, she was going to have one.
Flip past ominous tales of heart murmurs and mysterious marks by the ear. I'm of the mind that doctors are merely frustrated horror writers. Zak's doc du jour was simply gobsmacked that he is still exclusively breastfed- even though the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends exclusive breastfeeding for six months, and to supplement with solids for an additional six months minimum. Now, I'd told this doc that I stay at home with Zak, so it's not as if I work outside the home 18 hours a day, making breastfeeding quite the feat. Why is it such a surprise that Zak is happy, healthy, and fed the best stuff on Earth? (Sorry, Snapple.)
My answer: culture is strong stuff- stronger than science. Medical culture is geared toward disease and injury, so doctors come to expect disease and injury. We live in a consumerist culture, so the fact that Zak's food cannot be purchased at the market leaves people flustered. We have a culture so geared towards formula feeding that a doll designed to mimic breastfeeding creates reactions of horror. Why, if "the best things in life are free", do we have a culture so unprepared for what is best and free? If doctors are there to keep us healthy, why are they so unprepared for a job well done? Why is a perfectly healthy little boy such a shock to the medical system?
Zak went in for his four month checkup today, and the doctor may still be scratching his head. I'm obliged to go to a clinic that rotates doctors, so every visit is with a new doctor. And this doc seems puzzled over Zak. Not because he's got some odd ailment- to the contrary, he's the textbook definition of a healthy baby boy. Not because he's a weirdlo, either. But because he's strong, curious, happy, and obviously well-cared for. Now, I know that docs are trained to treat disease and repair injuries, but if we're going to have well-baby care, docs should be better prepared for a well baby.
It started even before Zak was born: I was under the care of a midwife, knowing that they are better prepared for normality than an OB. Alas, at the birth center I went to, the OB barged in and took over. Before I could say "Lamaze" I was pinned to the bed by more machines than you could shake a speculum at, and forbidden even water. My dreams of a good birth for Zak evaporated. The OB was prepared for an abnormal birth, and by Gum, she was going to have one.
Flip past ominous tales of heart murmurs and mysterious marks by the ear. I'm of the mind that doctors are merely frustrated horror writers. Zak's doc du jour was simply gobsmacked that he is still exclusively breastfed- even though the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends exclusive breastfeeding for six months, and to supplement with solids for an additional six months minimum. Now, I'd told this doc that I stay at home with Zak, so it's not as if I work outside the home 18 hours a day, making breastfeeding quite the feat. Why is it such a surprise that Zak is happy, healthy, and fed the best stuff on Earth? (Sorry, Snapple.)
My answer: culture is strong stuff- stronger than science. Medical culture is geared toward disease and injury, so doctors come to expect disease and injury. We live in a consumerist culture, so the fact that Zak's food cannot be purchased at the market leaves people flustered. We have a culture so geared towards formula feeding that a doll designed to mimic breastfeeding creates reactions of horror. Why, if "the best things in life are free", do we have a culture so unprepared for what is best and free? If doctors are there to keep us healthy, why are they so unprepared for a job well done? Why is a perfectly healthy little boy such a shock to the medical system?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Where have all the good shows gone?
If I owned a TV, I would have chucked it out this Friday. It's official: there's nothing on.
Not literally, of course. One can find any number of ways to waste your time and brain cells, but i was counting on two shows to help sustain Zak's childhood, and protect him a little from the commercial blitzkrieg that is children's television. Now one of them is gone.
I speak, of course, about Reading Rainbow. Every child of the late 70's to the 90's should have known and loved it. Since its premiere in 1983, countless children have developed a love of reading thanks to Levar Burton and his cheerful explorations of worlds found right in your local library. Now, thanks to financial concerns, my beloved show is gone, and with it my hopes of the show helping me introduce Zak to the many joys of reading.
But are those hopes really gone? Ever since Zak has had periods of wakeful alertness*, we've done story time on a regular basis. Even for the probably doomed visit I've planned with his father, the local library is on the list of spots to visit. Zak's holiday and birthday presents will likely always include books, and his baby registry is half-full of classics like "The Giving Tree", "Goodnight Moon" and "Where the Wild Things Are".
I am an avid reader, and have been since I taught myself to read at the age of three. But what would have happened had my interest in reading not been encouraged, what if that spark had been left to die out, instead of being fanned? Would I have the motley crew of books that make up my small but treasured library? Even more importantly, how would this have affected my life beyond reading for pleasure? I picked up "The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding" during my pregnancy. Would I have known enough to endure the difficult moments I've had, as few as they've been?
In a way, Zak is already reaping the benefits of Reading Rainbow without watching a single episode. I plan to purchase the DVDs anyway, along with School House Rock, another lost gem, and share those pieces of my childhood with him. And what's raising kids for, if you can't bore them with all the things you knew and loved when you were their age?
*In case you haven't been around a newborn lately, they do three things quite a lot: eat, sleep, and cry. There seemed little point to reading to Zak during any of those times, so I waited until he had a good stretch of time when he seemed ready for something besides milk or another diaper change.
Not literally, of course. One can find any number of ways to waste your time and brain cells, but i was counting on two shows to help sustain Zak's childhood, and protect him a little from the commercial blitzkrieg that is children's television. Now one of them is gone.
I speak, of course, about Reading Rainbow. Every child of the late 70's to the 90's should have known and loved it. Since its premiere in 1983, countless children have developed a love of reading thanks to Levar Burton and his cheerful explorations of worlds found right in your local library. Now, thanks to financial concerns, my beloved show is gone, and with it my hopes of the show helping me introduce Zak to the many joys of reading.
But are those hopes really gone? Ever since Zak has had periods of wakeful alertness*, we've done story time on a regular basis. Even for the probably doomed visit I've planned with his father, the local library is on the list of spots to visit. Zak's holiday and birthday presents will likely always include books, and his baby registry is half-full of classics like "The Giving Tree", "Goodnight Moon" and "Where the Wild Things Are".
I am an avid reader, and have been since I taught myself to read at the age of three. But what would have happened had my interest in reading not been encouraged, what if that spark had been left to die out, instead of being fanned? Would I have the motley crew of books that make up my small but treasured library? Even more importantly, how would this have affected my life beyond reading for pleasure? I picked up "The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding" during my pregnancy. Would I have known enough to endure the difficult moments I've had, as few as they've been?
In a way, Zak is already reaping the benefits of Reading Rainbow without watching a single episode. I plan to purchase the DVDs anyway, along with School House Rock, another lost gem, and share those pieces of my childhood with him. And what's raising kids for, if you can't bore them with all the things you knew and loved when you were their age?
*In case you haven't been around a newborn lately, they do three things quite a lot: eat, sleep, and cry. There seemed little point to reading to Zak during any of those times, so I waited until he had a good stretch of time when he seemed ready for something besides milk or another diaper change.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Fresh Man-baby scent.
Zak lacks that "baby" scent, as I don't put him in scented diapers, nor do I use commercially prepared baby products. I recently made a chamomile soap for him, and his all-purpose baby oil has chamomile and a bit of lavender, but otherwise, he smells like sour milk. And while I'm not fond of the artificially scented junk for babies, I kind of feel like the son of a woman who whips up handmade body products ought to have some interesting-smelling stuff on hand.
When Zak was born, I had to mentally file away my lovely patterns for girls, but also my plans for lavender-infused products for the most part. Lavender is not the best thing for little boys, so he gets very little of it in his baby oil, and none elsewhere. Chamomile is fine, but the essential oil is quite expensive, leaving me wondering what I could use on Zak that I can afford.
I'm considering rosemary and tangerine for Zak: tangerine is a less-common citrus allergen, and rosemary is antiseptic and good for enhancing memory. It's also not a "girly" scent. If you think finding a "manly" scent is tough- guys can be prickly about that- try a "manly baby" scent, or anything that's both masculine and appropriate for an infant.
This may be relevant beyond personal preference: I would like to include baby products in my line. Also, as I'm looking toward the end of Ramadan, body products and Zak are coming together in an interesting way.
This is Zak's first Ramadan and Eid. Last year this time, I was hoping that some miracle would occur to save my marriage and make Zak's first Ramadan one with him going to the mosque for prayers with Dad tucked in his Bjorn and family photos sent out with Eid cards. That miracle didn't happen, obviously. I'm in no way sure that Zak will get a gift from his dad, as there's nothing for my ex to get out of it personally. So, I decided to ensure that Zak will get at least one gift that didn't come from me, by participating in a gift exchange.
My lucky (or not, depending on how you feel about it) recipient will get some bath salts and hand cream. Any suggestions for the hand cream scent? The bath salts are already prepared, with bay, rosemary and eucalyptus. In return, I'm hoping that Zak will get a book or a toy that he will like; either way, he'll have a bit of the Eid I'd wanted for him- a few gifts and lots of love.
When Zak was born, I had to mentally file away my lovely patterns for girls, but also my plans for lavender-infused products for the most part. Lavender is not the best thing for little boys, so he gets very little of it in his baby oil, and none elsewhere. Chamomile is fine, but the essential oil is quite expensive, leaving me wondering what I could use on Zak that I can afford.
I'm considering rosemary and tangerine for Zak: tangerine is a less-common citrus allergen, and rosemary is antiseptic and good for enhancing memory. It's also not a "girly" scent. If you think finding a "manly" scent is tough- guys can be prickly about that- try a "manly baby" scent, or anything that's both masculine and appropriate for an infant.
This may be relevant beyond personal preference: I would like to include baby products in my line. Also, as I'm looking toward the end of Ramadan, body products and Zak are coming together in an interesting way.
This is Zak's first Ramadan and Eid. Last year this time, I was hoping that some miracle would occur to save my marriage and make Zak's first Ramadan one with him going to the mosque for prayers with Dad tucked in his Bjorn and family photos sent out with Eid cards. That miracle didn't happen, obviously. I'm in no way sure that Zak will get a gift from his dad, as there's nothing for my ex to get out of it personally. So, I decided to ensure that Zak will get at least one gift that didn't come from me, by participating in a gift exchange.
My lucky (or not, depending on how you feel about it) recipient will get some bath salts and hand cream. Any suggestions for the hand cream scent? The bath salts are already prepared, with bay, rosemary and eucalyptus. In return, I'm hoping that Zak will get a book or a toy that he will like; either way, he'll have a bit of the Eid I'd wanted for him- a few gifts and lots of love.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Conspiracy- maybe.
If you've been reading my blog, you may have noted that there once were ads on the right hand sidebar. Now they're gone. I don't normally indulge in conspiracy theories, but this one is just begging me to don my tinfoil hijab for a minute.
What I've figured out is that since I blog about being a mother of an infant, they put up ads for formula and disposable diapers on the site, thinking that other parents will read my blog and go with the cultural norms of formula feeding and disposable diapering. Makes sense. But considering that I blog about the joys of breastfeeding and cloth diapering at times, no one's going to read a post about how much nursing rocks if they're just going to buy formula anyway. I don't read posts about formula brands, either. But instead of plugging in ads for pumps and cloth diapers, the ads get pulled entirely. Why?
Tinfoil hijab on
Formula companies are rolling in dough, and they'd like to stay that way. Companies will sponsor content that highlights their product, but will also try to have attention pulled away from competing products and critical reviews. I'm thinking that a formula company decided that if the blog even offered an alternative to formula feeding, that said blog would not only find itself without formula ads, but pressured Google to pull all ads.
So, that leaves me without ads, and I'm resorting to an Amazon store instead. It will contain (mostly) things that I've used and loved, so while this is no guarantee that you will like them too, if it's in the store, at least one real person has used it and found it worthy of recommendation. While it's harder than the ads for me, it's more personal, and I'm one who likes to offer something of herself.
Sponsored by Medela- not.
What I've figured out is that since I blog about being a mother of an infant, they put up ads for formula and disposable diapers on the site, thinking that other parents will read my blog and go with the cultural norms of formula feeding and disposable diapering. Makes sense. But considering that I blog about the joys of breastfeeding and cloth diapering at times, no one's going to read a post about how much nursing rocks if they're just going to buy formula anyway. I don't read posts about formula brands, either. But instead of plugging in ads for pumps and cloth diapers, the ads get pulled entirely. Why?
Tinfoil hijab on
Formula companies are rolling in dough, and they'd like to stay that way. Companies will sponsor content that highlights their product, but will also try to have attention pulled away from competing products and critical reviews. I'm thinking that a formula company decided that if the blog even offered an alternative to formula feeding, that said blog would not only find itself without formula ads, but pressured Google to pull all ads.
So, that leaves me without ads, and I'm resorting to an Amazon store instead. It will contain (mostly) things that I've used and loved, so while this is no guarantee that you will like them too, if it's in the store, at least one real person has used it and found it worthy of recommendation. While it's harder than the ads for me, it's more personal, and I'm one who likes to offer something of herself.
Sponsored by Medela- not.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
It's a ... boy?
Zak has me flabbergasted on a regular basis. This started no later than the day he was born, when I found out that he was, in fact, a he.
I'd opted not to find out the sex beforehand, and while I knew there was a 50/50 chance of having a boy, I'd not really wrapped my mind around the idea. My parents had three girls, but no boy, and my mother has no brothers. Sadly, my father's mother passed long before I was born, so there were no mothers of boys in my family to consult.
When presented with my beautiful boy, I responded, "I have a son?". But in my defense, there were some serious medications involved (more on that later). What wasn't involved, not even a little, was a preference for a particular sex. Both sexes come with their own flavors of crazy, and while some things are easier for parents of boys, some things are definitely harder, so it's really six of one, half dozen of the other. I need not worry about Zak coming home pregnant one day, but I would be heartbroken if he'd gotten some girl pregnant when neither was prepared to be a parent. There are no ruffled or lacy clothes to try to keep clean, but finding well-made and comfortable boys' clothes isn't exactly a cakewalk.
I want my son to be the man his father pretended to be. Zak should learn to ride, shoot, and tell the truth. He should also learn to cook, knit and sew, for even if he never picks up another needle or gives a sidelong glance at a frying pan, to know how well-made garments are constructed and how to feed yourself are essential skills. He should be man enough to cry, and respect himself enough not to do so on national television. He should learn to pray, and learn enough to know when prayer is all you can or should do, and when more ought to be done.
Raising a man is definitely going to be a challenging task, but as I used to tell my now ex-husband, I didn't sign up for easy.
I'd opted not to find out the sex beforehand, and while I knew there was a 50/50 chance of having a boy, I'd not really wrapped my mind around the idea. My parents had three girls, but no boy, and my mother has no brothers. Sadly, my father's mother passed long before I was born, so there were no mothers of boys in my family to consult.
When presented with my beautiful boy, I responded, "I have a son?". But in my defense, there were some serious medications involved (more on that later). What wasn't involved, not even a little, was a preference for a particular sex. Both sexes come with their own flavors of crazy, and while some things are easier for parents of boys, some things are definitely harder, so it's really six of one, half dozen of the other. I need not worry about Zak coming home pregnant one day, but I would be heartbroken if he'd gotten some girl pregnant when neither was prepared to be a parent. There are no ruffled or lacy clothes to try to keep clean, but finding well-made and comfortable boys' clothes isn't exactly a cakewalk.
I want my son to be the man his father pretended to be. Zak should learn to ride, shoot, and tell the truth. He should also learn to cook, knit and sew, for even if he never picks up another needle or gives a sidelong glance at a frying pan, to know how well-made garments are constructed and how to feed yourself are essential skills. He should be man enough to cry, and respect himself enough not to do so on national television. He should learn to pray, and learn enough to know when prayer is all you can or should do, and when more ought to be done.
Raising a man is definitely going to be a challenging task, but as I used to tell my now ex-husband, I didn't sign up for easy.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
What I won't be blogging about.
There are a few topics that interest me, so much so that I refuse to blog about them.
1. Politics. Too many excellent political blogs, and too little that hasn't been said about the issues at hand.
2. Recipes for my body products. I may discuss the products I offer, and the adventures I have making them, but if I'm going to offer them for sale, why would I give out the exact recipe?
3. Religion, for the most part. I have a spot where I blog about that, so I may make a reference here and there, most of my religious ramblings will be on that blog.
4. My current location.
What I ought to blog about less:
1. My ex. It's over. I plan to announce the end of the divorce proceedings, but that ought to be it, really.
2. The tough time I get over parenting the way I do. Zak's my kid. Not my mom's kid, not the neighbor's kid, not my sister's friend's kid.
3. How tough it will be to be a single mom.
What I ought to blog about more:
1. Zak. He's pretty danged awesome.
2. Neat stuff I discover on a daily basis. Did you know that wool emits heat as it dries? How cool is that?
3. Stuff that will get me more money- just kidding.
4. My hopes for Zak and I as we enter this new chapter of our lives.
Any suggestions?
1. Politics. Too many excellent political blogs, and too little that hasn't been said about the issues at hand.
2. Recipes for my body products. I may discuss the products I offer, and the adventures I have making them, but if I'm going to offer them for sale, why would I give out the exact recipe?
3. Religion, for the most part. I have a spot where I blog about that, so I may make a reference here and there, most of my religious ramblings will be on that blog.
4. My current location.
What I ought to blog about less:
1. My ex. It's over. I plan to announce the end of the divorce proceedings, but that ought to be it, really.
2. The tough time I get over parenting the way I do. Zak's my kid. Not my mom's kid, not the neighbor's kid, not my sister's friend's kid.
3. How tough it will be to be a single mom.
What I ought to blog about more:
1. Zak. He's pretty danged awesome.
2. Neat stuff I discover on a daily basis. Did you know that wool emits heat as it dries? How cool is that?
3. Stuff that will get me more money- just kidding.
4. My hopes for Zak and I as we enter this new chapter of our lives.
Any suggestions?
Fancy a cuppa?
Tea, the sovereign remedy. I love it hot, iced (a blasphemy, I know), black, green and herbal, with mint and orange blossom water, with lemon and honey, with half a dozen spices, with sugar and milk. It's seen me through stressful days at work, a wretched marriage, a scorching day. Tea has eased my nausea and enhanced my milk supply. Is there anything a cup or glass of tea can't do?
I miss my electric kettle, though; it was a wedding gift that I left behind. Not only is it the best way to make a cup, but it's a reminder of a good friend and great mornings in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Not during my marriage- she has one herself, and the comfort of the tea she prepared was second only to her gentle support. She still provides the support over the phone, though. Perhaps I should make myself a cup -by microwave (!)- before I call.
I've never owned a proper tea pot; a Brown Betty is on my list of lovely things I'd like to have. Perhaps one Mother's Day or on my birthday, I'll get one. But what to do if you can't have any caffeine, and decaf just doesn't do it for you? Try this:
3 pods cardamom
1 cinnamon stick
1 wide strip orange zest
1 chunk crystallized ginger
1 cup boiling water
honey to taste
Steep the spices in boiling water for 5-7 minutes; add honey to taste. Curl up with a good book and sip away.
I miss my electric kettle, though; it was a wedding gift that I left behind. Not only is it the best way to make a cup, but it's a reminder of a good friend and great mornings in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Not during my marriage- she has one herself, and the comfort of the tea she prepared was second only to her gentle support. She still provides the support over the phone, though. Perhaps I should make myself a cup -by microwave (!)- before I call.
I've never owned a proper tea pot; a Brown Betty is on my list of lovely things I'd like to have. Perhaps one Mother's Day or on my birthday, I'll get one. But what to do if you can't have any caffeine, and decaf just doesn't do it for you? Try this:
3 pods cardamom
1 cinnamon stick
1 wide strip orange zest
1 chunk crystallized ginger
1 cup boiling water
honey to taste
Steep the spices in boiling water for 5-7 minutes; add honey to taste. Curl up with a good book and sip away.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Less than a week to go- oh my!
Ramadan is scheduled to start this Saturday, insha'Allah. It feels odd, as I won't be fasting and I know this in advance. I tried to fast last year, but early pregnancy and fasting in the desert don't mix very well. As Zak nurses about every two hours, going for fourteen hours without food or water is a bit much. That leaves me wondering how to honor a time for fasting when I must eat several times a day.
Ramadan is also the month of the Qur'an- time to read and reflect. I hope to read Qur'an to Zak- he gets excited when I read to him. Also, for me, Ramadan is the month of tears and joy, of repentance gladly sought, of the fear of being alienated from God, and the hope of growing closer to the Divine. I'm not sure how to share that with Zak at this point, but perhaps one day I will.
Oddly, for a month of fasting, it's also about food. Rich stews, sugary desserts, and all sorts of delicacies will be prepared for the fasting. I'm going to skip those, for the most part, but I do plan to whip up Ramadan muffins for my sister's boss. They are an oatmeal-date-nut type of muffin, the kind that sticks to your ribs and is quite tasty. We'll see how well they go over- the guy I'm baking for isn't exactly a health nut.
Oh, and of course, Rumi on Ramadan:
Fasting
There's a hidden sweetness
in the stomach's emptiness.
We are all lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox
is stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and the belly are burning clean
with fasting, every moment a new song comes
out of the fire. The fog clears, and a new energy
makes you run up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink, Satan sits
where your spirit should, an ugly metal statue
in place of the Kaaba. When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring. Don't give it
to some illusion and lose your power.
But even if you've lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast, like soldiers appearing
out of the ground, pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tents,
Jesus' table.
Expect to see it, when you fast, this table
spread with other food better
than the broth of cabbages.
Ramadan is also the month of the Qur'an- time to read and reflect. I hope to read Qur'an to Zak- he gets excited when I read to him. Also, for me, Ramadan is the month of tears and joy, of repentance gladly sought, of the fear of being alienated from God, and the hope of growing closer to the Divine. I'm not sure how to share that with Zak at this point, but perhaps one day I will.
Oddly, for a month of fasting, it's also about food. Rich stews, sugary desserts, and all sorts of delicacies will be prepared for the fasting. I'm going to skip those, for the most part, but I do plan to whip up Ramadan muffins for my sister's boss. They are an oatmeal-date-nut type of muffin, the kind that sticks to your ribs and is quite tasty. We'll see how well they go over- the guy I'm baking for isn't exactly a health nut.
Oh, and of course, Rumi on Ramadan:
Fasting
There's a hidden sweetness
in the stomach's emptiness.
We are all lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox
is stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and the belly are burning clean
with fasting, every moment a new song comes
out of the fire. The fog clears, and a new energy
makes you run up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you're full of food and drink, Satan sits
where your spirit should, an ugly metal statue
in place of the Kaaba. When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon's ring. Don't give it
to some illusion and lose your power.
But even if you've lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast, like soldiers appearing
out of the ground, pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tents,
Jesus' table.
Expect to see it, when you fast, this table
spread with other food better
than the broth of cabbages.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Where's the script?
Someone needs to tell my son that he's not quite meeting the baby guidelines. He'll do anything in a crib but sleep, ditched the pacis without a second glance when my milk came in, and while he can't literally talk, the expressions on his face say everything from "Dang, that was some good milk, need a lie-down now" to "What the fluffy duck are you trying to put in my mouth, woman?!"
My son, as his auntie says, is a weirdlo. But he's our weirdlo, and we love him. I also don't quite fit the mold, either: I'm an African-American breastfeeding mom, I cloth diaper Zak, and I'm trying to get my degree in Islamic studies. So I guess Zak fits in just fine.
It's good that Zak is smarter than me. With all the parenting books and tons of (usually bad) advice out there, I'm glad I've someone to guide me. I figured out early on that I needed to raise the kid I have, not the kids other folk have had or kids I've read about. Expecting Zak to be just like a baby halfway across the world, or thirty years ago, or like anyone but himself is absurd when you think about it. One of the more eloquent looks Zak has given me when he's not acting like my grandmother thinks he should translates to:"My name isn't Most Babies, The Neighbor's Baby, or Your Mother. My name is Zak. Act accordingly."
So I guess there is a script- one written by my son.
My son, as his auntie says, is a weirdlo. But he's our weirdlo, and we love him. I also don't quite fit the mold, either: I'm an African-American breastfeeding mom, I cloth diaper Zak, and I'm trying to get my degree in Islamic studies. So I guess Zak fits in just fine.
It's good that Zak is smarter than me. With all the parenting books and tons of (usually bad) advice out there, I'm glad I've someone to guide me. I figured out early on that I needed to raise the kid I have, not the kids other folk have had or kids I've read about. Expecting Zak to be just like a baby halfway across the world, or thirty years ago, or like anyone but himself is absurd when you think about it. One of the more eloquent looks Zak has given me when he's not acting like my grandmother thinks he should translates to:"My name isn't Most Babies, The Neighbor's Baby, or Your Mother. My name is Zak. Act accordingly."
So I guess there is a script- one written by my son.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Snarky, Snarkier, Snarkiest.
It's not unusual to come across cattiness on the Internet; I suppose I was due for some, as I've not had any in a while.
The woman's, well, a bit unstable, but the situation I presented wasn't exactly cut-and-dried, so she probably went off her rocker trying to understand it. My ex has created a holy hell of this divorce, and I'm just trying to get out of it and get custody of Zak. There's issues of adultery (his), abuse, (his against me) pregnancy during proceedings (mine) and the fact that neither of us reside in the state where he filed anymore. Enough to give anyone a headache, ne c'est pas?
Then I'm accused of fraud because I can't alter what my ex and his lawyer have filed or even when he filed. Short of a time machine or a cool million, I can't think of any way out of this but through the mess he made.
I should be used to this by now; it was my fault when he hit me, my fault he had to go and see other women, my fault he signed up with an escort service. I just figured that it would stop being my fault at some point, but apparently, someone will blame me when my ex forgets his next wife's birthday. Oh, well.
I did get a bit of my own back in some snarky emails. She replied. I won't bother any further with her nonsense. Besides, it's too hot for all that.
The woman's, well, a bit unstable, but the situation I presented wasn't exactly cut-and-dried, so she probably went off her rocker trying to understand it. My ex has created a holy hell of this divorce, and I'm just trying to get out of it and get custody of Zak. There's issues of adultery (his), abuse, (his against me) pregnancy during proceedings (mine) and the fact that neither of us reside in the state where he filed anymore. Enough to give anyone a headache, ne c'est pas?
Then I'm accused of fraud because I can't alter what my ex and his lawyer have filed or even when he filed. Short of a time machine or a cool million, I can't think of any way out of this but through the mess he made.
I should be used to this by now; it was my fault when he hit me, my fault he had to go and see other women, my fault he signed up with an escort service. I just figured that it would stop being my fault at some point, but apparently, someone will blame me when my ex forgets his next wife's birthday. Oh, well.
I did get a bit of my own back in some snarky emails. She replied. I won't bother any further with her nonsense. Besides, it's too hot for all that.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Attached by the heart.
Attachment parenting has its benefits, its drawbacks, and like any idea, its kooks. Essentially, it stems from the ideas that a child's emotional needs are just as valid as his or her physical needs, and that having loving people nearby is a need for babies and young children. Such closeness enables them to develop a sense of security that forms a springboard for their growing independence. There are a few elements that help to establish that closeness, such as co-sleeping, babywearing, and breastfeeding. While attachment parenting isn't an all-or-nothing proposition, these things do facilitate closeness.
I never thought I'd be a hippie (are there black Muslim hippies?) but apparently, Zak and I are leaning in that direction. I say "Zak and I" because while I made all-natural body products for Zak before he was born, the babywearing was Zak's idea. I'd bought a Bjorn, but I hadn't planned on wearing it quite as much as Zak demanded- but isn't that the story of parenthood- making plans, then having them shattered by your darling offspring?
Zak, thank God, is a happy, healthy, active baby. I can't help but think that it's due in part to the loving attention he receives almost 24/7. He's never left to "cry it out", and I'm rarely more than a room away from him. He's growing like a weed, meeting and exceeding milestones, and is pretty amazing in general. So why, oh why, am I getting grief for my parenting choices?
If I were to basically ignore Zak but give him every baby toy ever made, I'd be deemed a pretty decent mother- not "spoiling" him, but giving him things to amuse himself. Even if I could afford all those doodads, I wouldn't dream of doing so. The best I can give my son is myself- my time, my affection, the milk my body makes for him. Yet a mother's love is deemed too good for a child- but what should you give a child other than the very best?
My son is asleep, right where he should be- next to my heart.
I never thought I'd be a hippie (are there black Muslim hippies?) but apparently, Zak and I are leaning in that direction. I say "Zak and I" because while I made all-natural body products for Zak before he was born, the babywearing was Zak's idea. I'd bought a Bjorn, but I hadn't planned on wearing it quite as much as Zak demanded- but isn't that the story of parenthood- making plans, then having them shattered by your darling offspring?
Zak, thank God, is a happy, healthy, active baby. I can't help but think that it's due in part to the loving attention he receives almost 24/7. He's never left to "cry it out", and I'm rarely more than a room away from him. He's growing like a weed, meeting and exceeding milestones, and is pretty amazing in general. So why, oh why, am I getting grief for my parenting choices?
If I were to basically ignore Zak but give him every baby toy ever made, I'd be deemed a pretty decent mother- not "spoiling" him, but giving him things to amuse himself. Even if I could afford all those doodads, I wouldn't dream of doing so. The best I can give my son is myself- my time, my affection, the milk my body makes for him. Yet a mother's love is deemed too good for a child- but what should you give a child other than the very best?
My son is asleep, right where he should be- next to my heart.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Frugality, thy name is Divorced Mother.
My ex cut my child support by about $100 last month, so I'm trying to clothe and diaper an almost 4 month old on a rather tight budget. I use cloth diapers part time, so it's only the disposables, that get used at night and for outings, that were affected by this, until yesterday.
Zak has now officially doubled his birth weight, outgrowing the fitted cloth diapers that I'd bought for him. I'd also bought one-sized diapers, so I'm not having to potty-train him today, but that's less diapers, and more laundry. While I am thrilled to see he's growing, it's only going to get more challenging as time goes by.
Note that at the top of this post, I don't mention having to feed Zak. No, the boy isn't starving- I am proud to be a nursing mother. Not only does that mean that Zak's food does not have to be purchased, but it also means that he's getting the best food on earth for him. I can't provide much in the way of fancy clothes or toys, but the fact that I can provide at least one thing that is the very best for him is a consolation. I also freely admit that nursing itself rocks.
The following is not a crack on formula-feeding parents.
Nursing, if you're a SAHM/WAHM, is low-maintenance, very cheap, and might I add, uses between 300-500 calories a day. Even WOHMs may find it easier to pump than deal with sterilizing bottles and midnight formula runs. (Not all do, though, and I sympathize entirely.) The benefits of breastmilk are too numerous to list here, and cannot be duplicated or even approximated by formula. I knew when I became pregnant, there were far too many reasons to breastfeed to consider formula feeding by choice. As this post is about frugality, I'll focus on the financial ones.
My ex-husband is not financially responsible. I don't mean that he'll come home with various doodads when we'd set aside money for Zak's college; I mean he'd run off to Europe for a month to "find himself" when he had a divorce in the works, a baby on the way, and was already about twenty grand in the hole. Also, for those of you considering divorce: do find out what your lawyer charges per hour before hiring one, and make sure you can afford that. His lawyer charges more per hour than he gives me per month- much more than my nearly bankrupt ex can handle.
While I'm no financial genius, I knew at the outset that throwing away money like old newspapers would not get us the American Dream. So, I sought to run the house in a way that would make things pleasant and save money. But the homecooked dinners were ignored (dinners he now swear he misses), the efforts to bring in a little extra were sabotaged. It got to the point where I had to buy groceries online at some expense, because he refused to take me grocery shopping. (I do not drive- yet.)
So, I'm doing what I can with what I've got, which means lots of laundry, hunting for sales, and prayer. It also means bringing in whatever I can in terms of money. I hope sell body products online soon.
Zak has now officially doubled his birth weight, outgrowing the fitted cloth diapers that I'd bought for him. I'd also bought one-sized diapers, so I'm not having to potty-train him today, but that's less diapers, and more laundry. While I am thrilled to see he's growing, it's only going to get more challenging as time goes by.
Note that at the top of this post, I don't mention having to feed Zak. No, the boy isn't starving- I am proud to be a nursing mother. Not only does that mean that Zak's food does not have to be purchased, but it also means that he's getting the best food on earth for him. I can't provide much in the way of fancy clothes or toys, but the fact that I can provide at least one thing that is the very best for him is a consolation. I also freely admit that nursing itself rocks.
The following is not a crack on formula-feeding parents.
Nursing, if you're a SAHM/WAHM, is low-maintenance, very cheap, and might I add, uses between 300-500 calories a day. Even WOHMs may find it easier to pump than deal with sterilizing bottles and midnight formula runs. (Not all do, though, and I sympathize entirely.) The benefits of breastmilk are too numerous to list here, and cannot be duplicated or even approximated by formula. I knew when I became pregnant, there were far too many reasons to breastfeed to consider formula feeding by choice. As this post is about frugality, I'll focus on the financial ones.
My ex-husband is not financially responsible. I don't mean that he'll come home with various doodads when we'd set aside money for Zak's college; I mean he'd run off to Europe for a month to "find himself" when he had a divorce in the works, a baby on the way, and was already about twenty grand in the hole. Also, for those of you considering divorce: do find out what your lawyer charges per hour before hiring one, and make sure you can afford that. His lawyer charges more per hour than he gives me per month- much more than my nearly bankrupt ex can handle.
While I'm no financial genius, I knew at the outset that throwing away money like old newspapers would not get us the American Dream. So, I sought to run the house in a way that would make things pleasant and save money. But the homecooked dinners were ignored (dinners he now swear he misses), the efforts to bring in a little extra were sabotaged. It got to the point where I had to buy groceries online at some expense, because he refused to take me grocery shopping. (I do not drive- yet.)
So, I'm doing what I can with what I've got, which means lots of laundry, hunting for sales, and prayer. It also means bringing in whatever I can in terms of money. I hope sell body products online soon.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Welcome.
Asalaamu alaikum. I'm Umm Zakaria, a new mother, writer, knitter, home soapmaker, and general crafty sort of gal. I've had a few blogs over the years, most of which I'd pulp if you could do that to a blog. But I've decided to try yet again, because I felt I needed a dedicated space for all the things that strike my fancy and the things dearest to me.
If I weren't terribly shy about it, I'd write a book about the past two years. I married in the spring of 2007, and I am now waiting for my divorce to become final, as the man who was my husband is a violent and quite unstable man. I fled my marital home in October 2008, while 3 months pregnant with Zak. You'll understand that I won't be disclosing my exact location in this or any blog, but I will say that I reside in the United States.
What helped me survive, in part, was crafting. To transform one thing into another, to bring into being something that previously existed only in my head, saved me. I knit and crochet but have not yet learned to sew. I also make soap and other body products. To make something that can be used, that is pleasing to the eye and comforting to the soul, wasn't something I'd planned on even three years ago. But I'm on a grand adventure called life, and the satisfaction I get from watching a pot of oil and lye become soap is greater than some have in life, and that's enough to be grateful.
Speaking of grand adventures, a few months ago, someone else's life started, and that someone is inexpressibly dear to me. Zak is the handsomest Milk Monster in the world, and if I had to go through a 35 hour labor ending in a C-section again for him, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Perhaps not a heartbeat- I'd want something to eat first. (Curse that OB wench who overruled my midwife and wouldn't let me have water, even.)
As you can see, there's a good amount for me to elaborate on, if you care to stay tuned for the story of how "Christmas Crack" got its name (it's a brown sugar scrub that I make), the latest rubbish that my ex has spouted to try to scare me/get me back, and the most ridiculous baby items that have been purchased for Zak. Ahlan wa sahlan.
Oh, and you may have noticed that I'm Muslim, too. More on that later.
If I weren't terribly shy about it, I'd write a book about the past two years. I married in the spring of 2007, and I am now waiting for my divorce to become final, as the man who was my husband is a violent and quite unstable man. I fled my marital home in October 2008, while 3 months pregnant with Zak. You'll understand that I won't be disclosing my exact location in this or any blog, but I will say that I reside in the United States.
What helped me survive, in part, was crafting. To transform one thing into another, to bring into being something that previously existed only in my head, saved me. I knit and crochet but have not yet learned to sew. I also make soap and other body products. To make something that can be used, that is pleasing to the eye and comforting to the soul, wasn't something I'd planned on even three years ago. But I'm on a grand adventure called life, and the satisfaction I get from watching a pot of oil and lye become soap is greater than some have in life, and that's enough to be grateful.
Speaking of grand adventures, a few months ago, someone else's life started, and that someone is inexpressibly dear to me. Zak is the handsomest Milk Monster in the world, and if I had to go through a 35 hour labor ending in a C-section again for him, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Perhaps not a heartbeat- I'd want something to eat first. (Curse that OB wench who overruled my midwife and wouldn't let me have water, even.)
As you can see, there's a good amount for me to elaborate on, if you care to stay tuned for the story of how "Christmas Crack" got its name (it's a brown sugar scrub that I make), the latest rubbish that my ex has spouted to try to scare me/get me back, and the most ridiculous baby items that have been purchased for Zak. Ahlan wa sahlan.
Oh, and you may have noticed that I'm Muslim, too. More on that later.
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