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?