shokufeh is…home

I’m feeling a little sad. Tomorrow afternoon, Sam, MrMan, and I will be getting in the car and heading to the airport. And then I’ll be coming home. Alone. I’m excited for their first father-son trip, and I think it’s coming at a perfect time: when MrMan is all about D. But it will be his first time so long away from Mi. (Not a misspelling – a while after he started calling Sam “D,” he started calling me “Mi.” Who needs first syllables?) And my first time so long away from him.

Our niece, and Sam’s Goddaughter, is having her first communion this weekend. We decided it was too expensive for us all to fly to Chicago. So this seemed like a great compromise. One paid ticket, one free toddler on the lap, MrMan getting to see his cousins he hasn’t yet met. A weekend of freedom for me. A possible solution to our weaning woes. But now that it’s upon me, I’m tearing up.

It’s not just the time apart that will be hard, but the idea that tomorrow may be the last time MrMan nurses. Over the past few weeks, we’ve worked our way to no nursing between his bedtime and around 5:00 am. Which is a huge accomplishment, since it’s the nighttime nursing that takes more of a toll on me. For the first week or so, when he would wake up wanting to nurse, we’d take him to the kitchen for a snack instead. But then we realized he was becoming used to eating yogurt and bananas at 1:00 in the morning. So we took on the challenge of enduring his crying. And I endured his tugging, and hittting, and sobbing “No, no, no, no…” while wagging his finger in my face. But I stood my ground, patiently offering him water. Which he usually vehemently declined. And now, we’ve reached the point where he might ask once in the night, calmly takes my refusal, and then he usually rolls over and goes back to sleep.

So, while, in my heart of hearts, I feel like he’ll be okay without me, I’m not sure I’ll be okay without him. I don’t know what will happen on Monday when we reunite. Maybe he’ll lead me over to the couch and want to nurse. Maybe he won’t. Okay, now I’m truly crying. So I guess it will be a weekend not just of cabbage leaves in my bra, but tissues in my hand.=\

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Last night, and a little this morning, I was beating myself up. “My child’s not even two, and I’m failing him as a mother!”

Growing up, my brothers and I were blessed to have a mother who prepared cooked delicious, healthy meals. I feel lucky that she cultivated a love of fresh vegetables and whole grains. My high standards for food? A double-edged sword: good for my health and well-being, tough to satisfy in a fast-food world. And my idea of a good mother is based not just on what the media throws at me, but on living with a great mother – for the first eighteen years of my life, and now. Just ten days ago, as we were preparing to leave on our road trip, she whipped up some muffins for us to take. De-li-cious muffins. With pumpkin and nuts and wheat germ and oatmeal…. Muffins that MrMan gobbled down. (And then threw up, but that’s another story. One I’ve already told.) Muffins that we gobbled down. Home-made muffins.

Muffins not dissimilar to the ones I anticipated making last night. My version probably wouldn’t be so delicious, nor so effortless, but they’d be good. And good for you. And they’d fulfill the request that MrMan bring a muffin to school today. (They’re focusing on the letter ‘M’ this week.) I had every intention of making those muffins. I looked forward to making those muffins. But after dinner, there was discussion about important matters. And then getting MrMan to bed. And then finishing up our taxes. And then, suddenly, it was 11:00 and I was realizing that I hadn’t yet made the muffins.

So Sam went to the store and bought (ack! dagger in my heart! the sugar! the artificial flavoring! how can I feed my child this stuff?!) muffins. And I bemoaned my failings as a mother.

I felt a little better this morning when I dropped off MrMan and saw that other parents had brought store-bought muffins too. And even more better when my eyes fell on this article, listing ten things I’m doing right. No mention of muffins.

1. Giving hugs and kisses and saying “I love you.”
2. Reading stories and singing songs, especially before bedtime.
3. Having conversations with your baby before he can talk.
4. Praising baby’s accomplishments.
5. Teaching your toddler manners.
6. Admiring your child’s artwork.
7. Answering your baby’s cries.
8. Making regular trips to the pediatrician.
9. Encouraging your child to interact with others.
10. Celebrating special events as a family.

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I don’t know what precipitated it, but in the past week or so, MrMan has stopped calling Sam “Daddy” and started calling him “D.” It’s pretty hilarious. Especially since it’s been accompanied by generally preferring Sam to me. And my dad to my mom. We’re hearing a lot of “D!” and “Papa”* these days.

*I don’t really know how to capture the way MrMan says this, as the consonant is somewhere between a B and P and has a softness to it. Regardless it’s sweet.

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Yesterday, we made the return trip from Atlanta. It, like the trip there, took about eleven hours, instead of the seven or eight hours one might expect. But, instead of the extra time being taken by things like cleaning up puke (twice! on the way up), it was taken up by leisurely strolling around an outdoor mall and a bookstore. MrMan did great on the trip as a whole, both in the car and during our numerous and fun social engagements. I guess he took my whole hearting-the-hurl thing seriously, but I won’t hold it against him. Especially since he tried to clean himself up. (So cute!) After the pukey experience on the way there, we decided it was best to time our return trip to maximize his sleeping, and to make leisurely stops. I’d say this philosophy was a success.

Today, we’re hanging around the house. We haven’t fully unloaded the car of all the things we went to pick up in Atlanta, due to the rainy day. But the rain is great for cultivating the relaxing we were hoping to achieve. MrMan is still in his PJs, even though he’s been awake the longest.

Tomorrow, it’s back to the routine. Work for me and Sam, school for MrMan.

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Yesterday, we went hunting for eggs with our playgroup. It took a while for MrMan to get the idea (during which time, he reminded of Ferdinand), but he had a great time. Especially once he discovered that some of the eggs contained mini Reese’s cups.

Tomorrow, we’re off on our first family roadtrip. To Atlanta! See you when we get back. Or, some of you, while we’re there.

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Yesterday, when MrMan got home from daycare, he insisted upon nursing – pulling at my neck, my belly, my chest. As I pulled up my shirt, he did his requisite tickling of my belly as he makes a little “teehee.” And then that boy sat and sucked for almost an hour. When I say almost, I don’t mean almost like when my dad used to come in my room at 6:15 and say, “Shokufeh, it’s almost 7:00. You’re going to be late for school.” I mean it like ten minutes shy of an hour, and that was only because we had to leave home to pick up Sam. MrMan was not happy about the disengagement.

Some kids don’t want to nurse at all when they’re teething. Not MrMan. All he wants to do is nurse, nurse, nurse.
“Do you want to play?”
“No, no,” and back to nursing.
“Do you want some water?”
“No, no,” and back to nursing.
“Do you want some bread?”
“No, no,” and back to nursing.
“Do you want some yogurt?”
“No, no,” and back to nursing.
The boy is not be deterred. I think his molars are coming in.

So, our weaning process has gone a bit off course. We were doing pretty well for a week or two. I’d been sending a bottle with him to school, at his teacher’s request, but we stopped that since he wasn’t using it. His evening nursing sessions were getting shorter. We’d cut out the nursing during daylight hours. It sounds more abrupt than it was – it was actually pretty gradual and not too forced. It wasn’t that he never asked to nurse, but he was easily distracted into doing something else. But then, he got sick. Sick enough to warrant his first visit to the doctor for illness. So I nursed him, for his physical and emotional health. Then I got sick. So I nursed him, since the alternative would be being lively and up and about. Now we’re both better. And he’s got me in a vice grip. Which isn’t the worst thing in the world. So now I just bide my time, waiting for the next window of opportunity, for the next time his interest in the boob is waning.

Unrelated, or maybe very related: today we had a breakthrough. When I picked him up from daycare, instead of his usual yelp-on-the-verge-of-crying greeting, he walked over to me and then sat down and didn’t want to leave yet. The place is really growing on him.

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Today, I learned – or maybe confirmed – that I’m a bad liar. Even if the other person were to believe me… The stress! It’s just not worth it!
I had to handle an issue for one of Sam’s accounts. I tried weeks ago, but they wouldn’t let me, since I’m “not authorized” to do such. That’s not what they said when I set up the payments, hmph. So then Sam called. But wasn’t totally familiar with the issue so didn’t pursue it when they told him there was nothing to worry about. So Sam and I decided the easiest thing to do was for me to call and just say I was him. There’s nothing deep about my voice, but little did I guess that they would try to call me on it.
“You’re Sam?”
Oh, gosh, she’s on to me. Should I just confess and try having Sam call again? No, we already tried the honest route. “Yes.”
Later…
“You’re not Sam’s wife?”
“No.”
“Because we have a note here that Sam’s wife previously called, but she’s not an authorized user.”
“I didn’t know how to set that up.”
“What?” Her tone of voice, she thinks I’m saying I am Sam’s wife.
“I didn’t know how to make her an authorized user.”
“Oh. So you’re married to a lady?”
Well, I don’t know if I’m a lady, but I am a woman. Maybe I should just hang up and pretend the connection was lost. “Yes.”

Despite her challenging my identity, things got sorted out. I guess it was worth the churning stomach.

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