A vocal fringe does not a mandate make

A co-worker summed up my feelings about the results of yesterday's election: "There's a reason I'm wearing all black today. I'm in mourning." Yes. What she said.

Not simply because I live in a very progressive metropolitan area and most of the national results do not reflect our local world view. I'm in mourning for the dearth of civility and logic, and excess of rancor exposed by the scrabbling on all sides during this last election. When did moderation, compromise and thoughtful consideration of differing viewpoints became epithets hurled at anyone unwilling to pick up a stone, real or verbal, and hurl it at the nearest person not walking in lockstep with those in closest proximity?

I was one of those at home cheering Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert and their 200,000+ brethren at the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear last weekend. I danced with my kids to the bands in hopes that they would glean some of what was being presented: that it's okay to agree to disagree and not have a kneejerk, angry reaction to anyone with a different perspective.

I know, the pendulum of politics and history will swing again (for perspective, read Robert Reich's piece "Why Obama Should Learn the Lesson of 1936, not 1996"), but for now, I may wear black for another day or two.

10 months: no teeth, no problem

About a day after bringing baby Dylan home from the hospital, there was a moment where both he and big sister Ava were crying simultaneously, creating misery in stereo in our bathroom.

J. and I had spent the two previous not at all restful days in a bustling hospital room on a bed and fold out chair clearly intended to ensure that you left as soon as physically able. We looked at each other over the kids' heads with the same thought going through our minds: what have we gotten ourselves into?

Things have gotten much better since that day, but that was our first hint that our occasionally hectic but relatively calm life as a family of three was a distant memory. Gone too, at times, was our tenuous grasp of what it took to manage an infant. Now, we had to tag-team to manage the older kid, who, while quite verbal, was still just two, along with the new kid who was clearly very unlike the one who came before.

She was and still is all things tiny, pink, fluffy and girly. We didn't baby proof anything. A stern look or raised voice was all it took to keep her away from household hazards.

Dylan, aka Big Boy, is all things big, rugged and noisy. He is happiest sitting intently in front of a cabinet alternately banging the door on its hinges, slapping the pot and pan lids up and down and if left to his own devices, pulling them out onto the floor with a tremendous clatter and bang, followed by a smile. Every chance he gets, he beelines for the TV and DVD player, knowing that he's not allowed to touch them. The stern look and raised voice that froze his sister are met with a sidelong smile, hand poised in mid-air near the screen - his 10 month old's version of "I'm not touching it... Stiiiiill not touching it."

Over the last three weeks, he went from no teeth to two and a half: one upper, which he promptly chipped somewhere (sigh), and one and half lowers.

"Shouldn't he have more teeth by now?" my dad asked. "It's not like it's stopping him," I replied, listing out all of the foods he's been eating for the past six months: yams, bananas, grapes, apples, strawberries, watermelon, nectaries, cherries, rice, couscous, waffles, cornbread, gumbo, jambalaya, chicken, steak, tacos, shrimp, crab, corn, sausage, sugar snap peas, pizza (with salmon and capers!), lasagna, salmon, banana pudding, turkey... you know what? My hands are tired. You get the picture. Basically, he has not spit out ANYTHING that we've put in his gaping maw. Anything! And most of that list was before he had teeth!

Dylan, 10 months, with his performance art installation made of stir fried noodles with sugar snap peas and chicken.

All of that is in addition to nursing! Rather than a glutton, he appears to be a pint sized gourmand, diligently feeding himself and eating his fill, before topping off the meal with a nursing session.

Given those culinary proclivities and his weight at birth (nearly 10 pounds), it's probably not surprising that he now weighs 25 pounds at 10 months. Ava just turned three years old: she weighs 27.5 pounds. We are predicting that he may catch her in weight by Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Yet I have no fears that he's on the path to the debacle that is One Big Happy Family-style obesity. He's just solid through and through like his dad, and a one big happy baby.

And at 10 months, he really is still just a baby, which is easy to forget as he cruises the furniture and raises his arms to be picked up. Groaning, J. and I realize our aching backs never felt this strain with Ava becauase by the time she hit his size, she was well over two years old, walking, talking and rendering wardrobe opinions.

As in, "Nana, those pants are okay, but that shirt has to go." Thank you for channeling Michael Kors. Now go paint or something while I pry your brother off my leg so that I can get the feeling back in it.

Vote. Now.

A friend mentioned what a sad commentary it is that despite all the folks rocking their "I voted" online badges and posting their vote status to their profiles, most Americans don't vote.

I always want to punch those people I overhear or see on the news complaining about needing a stamp (we're all-mail voting here) or that they were too busy.

But judging by the beverage cup, not too busy for a double tall, half-caf, caramel mochiatto apparently. Perhaps that's what's needed to get more people to use their right to vote: drive through voting. At Starbucks.

But I'm sure there would still be some people who would complain that they have to lean out of their car to drop it in the ballot box and that makes their wrist cold. Sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Halloween preview

Ava's went to a Halloween Carnival a week ago, which made things a lot less harried and sugar-fueled on the actual day. In honor of the recession and her limited long term memory for an event 1/3 of her life ago, we recycled her bumblebee costume from last year.

She asked excitedly, "Do I get to wear my bumblebee costume again?!"  Why yes! Yes, you can. And she had just as much fun buzzing around again. Look at that smile: don't fake wings and tulle scream fun pretty much any day of the year in almost any setting?

But check out that pumpkin. A little creepily over-excited, don't you think? Like it's ready to take a bite out of her head. Or maybe it's just amazed by her blow-dried, flat-ironed tresses, which she requested out of the blue that morning.

It's as if she said, "What is the attire for ye olde carnival? Festooned and bejeweled? Ah, well, simple ponytails would be gauche. Let us go forth with a more, shall we say,  substantive coif. Something more befitting a bee. A queen bee!"

Actually, she just said, "I want my hair straight! And down!" Regardless, that pumpkin is all, "Say whaaat?! Yeeeahhh gurl: that 'do is DONE!" Yeah, in my mind, the pumpkin is channeling every character Tracy Morgan ever played on SNL.

So after explaining the whole candy and doorbells and costume thing and seeing her accept it as plausible, I think I could make up just about any crazy "custom" and pass it off as real. Like, "Hey Ava, get some yogurt and string cheese. We have to go put these on people's windshields for the Dairy Fairy. She'll pick them up and leave a carton of Baby Yogurt under your pillow tonight!"

I mean really, is that any less plausible than the tooth fairy and trick or treat backstories? Clearly, I may not be the best one to impart these childhood fables, what with my lack of disbelief suspension and all.

Here is how we spent the actual Halloween: grocery shopping. I know: the paparazzi had a field day! (Ha!)

It was pretty cool to see that Dylan's finally big enough to sit in this kiddie cart without falling over or out, despite Ava's periodic efforts to steer both wheels at once. Check out his pose: it's like he's in NASCAR and gunning for the inside lane.
 
But note to store shelf stockers: if you're going to install racks at shoulder level that jut out into the aisle with toddler-sized bottles of spices, you're just asking for someone to have to utter the words "cleanup on aisle 12" over the PA system at some point during your shift. Just sayin'.

Hope you had a fun-filled day!

Breastfeeding space for working moms ridiculous? Say it ain't so Joe

I'm a full-time work outside the home, milk pumping mom going on month 37 of nursing between two kids and I couldn't believe my ears this past Sunday when I watched Time magazine's Joe Klein on Meet the Press with former presidential speechwriter/Wall Street Journal columnist Peggy Noonan.

When David Gregory asked about the mood among average Americans, Klein had something derisive to say about a provision in the recently passed healthcare bill that called for businesses of a certain size to set aside a room for breastfeeding mothers.

According to Joe, during his recent listening tour of middle America, many folks feel this is an example of  "ridiculous provisions" in legislation pushed by Democrats. As the link above explains, he went on to buttress the comment by saying that his dad had run a small business and would have let a nursing mom use his office if needed, presumably without any intrusive government legislation.

I was a bit apoplectic at the time but spewed forth to my husband about the many blogs and articles I've read about nursing moms forced to pump in janitor closets reeking of chemicals, conference rooms in distant buildings (if available) with no door locks, and other situations that made it tough, if not impossible to pump effectively after returning to workplaces that were less-than-supportive of the needs of working moms. We're talking in 2010!

Using Joe's argument, civil rights legislation in the 1960s presumably would also have been unnecessary since there were some people (somewhere) who had no problem hiring people of color. As the article's author Peter Hart so succinctly put it:

Perhaps working mothers should all work for someone like Joe Klein's father. Since that's not possible, then maybe laws to protect such workers are necessary after all.

Just last week I pumped in my car because there wasn't a convenient place to pump at a simulated emergency exercise in which I participated. Fortunately, I have tinted rear windows and I'm an old hand at this pumping process. I shudder to think of a new mom who's newly-returned to work and stressed about leaving her baby and getting back into the swing of things having to manage in this way. "Relax and let down" would be a challenge, to say the least.

I think there should be a 'walk in my shoes' requirement for Joe and others like him who see simple accommodations for nursing moms as too cumbersome or symbols of government intrusion. They should have to spend a couple days packing and carrying a breast pump, a laptop bag or other tools of a trade, and lunch to their workplace. Once there, they have to find a sanitary, discrete place to hook it up and actually use the pump while eating lunch, preferably a couple times each day.

Extra points if they can do so at a traditionally male-dominated workplace/industry and, of course, major points if they successfully express any fluid . THEN tell me what a crock it is that businesses with more than 50 employees should be required to do this. Until then, shut your non-engorged, no first-hand experience pie holes.