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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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'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!

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.

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.

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.