pink pajama mama

Today when we left the beach, Henry was hungry and tired and cranky and as he dragged his little feet through the sand, he said, “Mom? You are a pain in the ass!”Out of the mouth of babes! I explained to him that “pain in the ass” is a “grown-up” phrase, meaning only big people can use it. I demonstrated other phrases he could use instead such as “pain in the neck,” but if he really wanted to say something cranky to his Mom, he could say “I love you most beautiful queen of the universe.” This made him laugh through his disgruntled pout, and if he hadn’t dropped his tiny broken brown seashell in the sand, we may have even avoided the late day meltdown of tears, resulting in plopping ourselves down in the powdery sand, right in the middle of the pathway, and foraging through the snack bag for something to make Henry feel better.When we got home later, our 6-year-old neighbor and his Dad popped by for a surprise visit. Dad decided to make himself at home and polish off a bottle of Jack Daniels, while the little boy and Annabelle and Henry got out the thick nubbly art paper and glitter glue. I ran around the house trying to make it look less like the aftereffects of a tornado, and Annabelle came into the kitchen. “Mom? I forgot to say Oh Boy!” she said, holding out one finger covered in glitter glue. “What did you say instead,” I asked. “Oh fuck” she replied.Alrighty then little thumbelina!!My tiny sweet graceful girl has taken to swearing like a sailor, even better, in front of the neighbor child, who will go home with all sorts of new phrases. “I won’t say it again,” she said, and went to find a towel to wipe the glitter off her finger.I guess I knew it was coming. Whenever she was frustrated today she said “fu” like she hears me say, but usually I drag out the “u” sound and tack a “j” sound onto the end, making “fudge.” I guess I’m fooling no one. I told her that children don’t say “fu” and she said ok. Henry immediately picks up anything I say not to say, so he grinned at me and started saying “fu-fu-fu-fu” over and over again. He’s a master of causing trouble, and even better at barely eluding it. He knows he’s not allowed to say “stupid” so he calls people “supid,” his own brilliant way of avoiding a naughty word. He also called our little neighbor “supid”, and when the poor child told me Henry was saying the naughtiest word of all–”stupid”–Henry could deny it with a clear conscience.Should I be scared or impressed by his ingenuity?I don’t like to put a stigma on words the kids say because I don’t want words to carry that extra power that naughtiness gives. Kids are too attracted to forbidden pleasures, so I hope that if I don’t react but just make clear those are grown-up words, they won’t repeat them too often.When I was 20, I drove my rattly VW bus to teach preschool in Salt Lake City and  I had 35 3-year-olds in my class. One boy, I’ll call him Dave, had a blonde mullet and that little cocky posture particular to dirt bikers in Utah. Dave was a master of troublemaking, and one day, he took off his shirt and was running in circles around the classroom. My co-teacher, Penny, told him to put it back on and he shouted “Fuck you!” loud enough for the entire classroom, adults and children alike to come to a standstill with one collective gasp. This great moment of drama was enough to ignite a frenzy of cursing and it took some time and some ignoring to take the power of the word away before everyone settled down.It was with this in mind that I reacted to Annabelle announcing at dinner last night that cleaning the windows of the playhouse was a “pain in the ass.” (I’m sure this is where Henry heard the phrase to repeat to me today.) George and I looked at each other across the table and George, who has a very hard time keeping a straight face around the kids, burst out laughing. This is never a good tactic when you’re trying to disempower something a child says. If you laugh, they will want to repeat whatever they just said or did to make you laugh again. Luckily, I pointed out to Annabelle that “pain in the ass” is not a kid’s phrase and she said “ok Mommy” with a smug delighted smile on her face.And so, as I navigate the waters of parenthood, rowing the river of right and wrong but never wanting to squelch creativity, I find that rather than make a blanket statement that certain words are bad or naughty, I’ll just calmly inform the kids that there are certain things that belong to the realm of grown-ups, and when they grow up, they will be part of their world.And so tonight, when Annabelle fell off her bike and said “Damn it!” I just stayed neutral and she quickly looked at me and corrected herself. “I mean, oh boy!”Out of the mouths of babes!

Today was what we, in Babyworld, would call “a doozy.” I was baking away as usual and Annabelle became entranced by the container flour on the table. She ran to her own little kitchen and pulled out her little pots and pans and started mixing away. I figured it would be messy,  but I was happy she was getting some tactile stimulation–usually she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty. A few minutes I glance behind me and she is covered in flour from head to toe, including two handmarks on her cheeks and her pink princess underwear bulging with flour. She starts giggling maniacally (thank goodness Henry was sleeping and couldn’t join in the hijinks!) and takes off running through the house, delighting in the trail of powdery footprints she’s making all over the hardwood floors. A few seconds later, she’s grabbing handfuls of flour and throwing them against the wall, in her baby stroller, and into Daddy’s shoes. “Daddy’s going to love the powder I put in his shoes!” she shouts as she grabs another handful and flings it against the wall. I’m laughing so hard, there’s no way I can stop her, and so I resign myself to spending the afternoon cleaning it up. How hard can it be I ask myself?Ha! Have you ever tried to sweep up flour on hardwood floors? It just multiplies? And if you add water? It makes paste. Yes, now all the cracks in my gleaming hardwood floor are filled with flour paste. The cucurachas will be pulling out their maracas and having a fiesta tonight! And my whole body aches from the hour I spent on my knees trying to clean it up.This was followed by Henry insisting on wearing Annabelle’s white ruffled turtleneck under his overalls  and walking up to me with his big eyes and enormous cheeks, staring at me for a minute before reaching out one chubby hand to smack me across the face. This followed by Annabelle climbing on me like I’m a jungle gym. This followed by a nature walk to try to redirect some wild energy.We’d already spent the morning getting into costumes and partying at Gym Rompers. Henry refuses to wear a costume so he went as a cowboy in his underwear, wearing his striped longjohn pajamas tucked into Annabelle’s pink cowgirl boots (this is his favorite morning outfit every day) and I just added a red cowboy hat. Annabelle told me that after Halloween would come “Sanksgiving” as I dressed her up like Cinderella in her puffy dress and light-up shoes.No wonder I’m comatose tonight. What a day!

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was hungry to connect with other mothers so I read every magazine and article on pregnancy and parenting I could find. What I took away from this information is that parenting is hard, grueling, exhausting, and scary. This left me unprepared for the complete undescribable joy I felt when Baby Annabelle arrived. When I held that baby in my arms, even before knowing if it was a girl or boy, I was so overwhelmed with love and awe all I could say was “You’re perfect!” over and over again. I couldn’t believe the complete and absolute miracle of giving birth, that this little human body was formed inside my own body, and now I would get to spend the rest of my days being a mother. I had wanted to have a drug-free birthing experience. I figured this was the most powerful thing I would ever experience as a woman and I wanted to be fully present. I also realized that I was being transformed into a parent, it was a ritual by fire. But I came out with a deep understanding of what I was willing to do for this child. Due to complications, I did end up having an epidural, but at that point, I no longer cared. I realized someone else was captain of my ship now, it was no longer about me. And the complete ecstasy I felt when I held this tiny naked being in my arms was overwhelming! I’d never felt such love, such pure boundless joy. Love for her, love for the whole world… just love washing over me in huge waves. I don’t know if it was the oxytocin from breastfeeding or the after effects of the epidural, but I felt high for months after giving birth.

And sleep? What’s that? Who cares! I have a baby!! Coherent sentences?? What are those? Who cares? I have a baby! Getting out my sweats and ugg boots, a good look at all times, nope, I was warm, comfy, and carefree. Vomit away baby! I’m here for you! To be completely honest, in my deepest most secret heart, I didn’t find parenting to be hard or grueling or any of those things the magazines warned me about. The ecastasy just wouldn’t stop. I wondered why none of the books or magazines talked about post-partum euphoria. I kept the baby right next to me all the time and lived my bliss. She never cried, I never cried, and I have no idea if we ever slept. We were truly floating along in our very own ocean of love. When she was hungry, I fed her, when she was wet I changed her, when she wanted to play we played, when she wanted tranquility, I gave her that too.

The day she was born, the nurse told me to let her cry, that she needed to learn to “self-soothe.” This went against every instinct I have. I told her, “This baby lived inside my body for the past year, there’s no way I’m going to let her cry. She doesn’t need to self-soothe, she has me to soothe her!” A few days later, the town pediatrician told me I should give the baby a pacifier and let her cry for at least five minutes before feeding her. Okey Dokey Attila the Hun. That’s just what I’m going to do, stick a piece of plastic in my baby’s mouth and let her cry even though I have the ability to comfort her. Never! Whether she’s 2 days old or 60 years old, I’m not the type of parent who can let her child cry. It’s stressful for me, besides teaching her that she’s not important enough to me to meet her needs. What would that do for her self-worth? I actually studied “attachment parenting” at Harvard. We learned that when a baby cries and no one responds, the baby can become ‘disassociative.” This means the baby will stop crying because she knows nobody will respond anyway, and it’s a very dangerous place for a baby to be. Learning at an early age that you can’t trust your caregivers can have dangerous repercussions for the rest of baby’s life. Remember that baby is learning more from Day one than we, as adults, can comprehend. Her neural connections are on turbo speed right now, and will be for the next five years. If her needs are not met, this can cause her neural pathways to connect in a “disorganized” ways paving the way for anti-social and possibly dangerous behavior in her teen and adult years. In addition to the cognitive damage that can be done, baby is releasing stress hormones when she cries. This means that all her energy is going into crying instead of optimal development. I know many of us have been taught the “cry it out” method of parenting. “They’re strengthening their lungs! Their learning they can’t always get their own way! If you pick that baby up, you’ll spoil her, she’ll become clingy.” Maybe, but according to research, there is no truth in these words.

Quite the opposite is true! Attachment research tells us that babies who’s needs are met actually grow up feeling very safe and secure, so they’re actually MORE independent and self-reliant when they get older. They feel safe enough to explore away from their caregiver, knowing they can trust and depend on their caregiver should the need arise. This is a wonderful foundation to give your child. I meet many parents who are confused about how to raise their child to be the healthiest. They want them to be self-reliant, independent, confident, kind and successful. According to best practice research, your best chance at this is through attachment parenting. And best of all, it goes with your instinct! No more stress and anxiousness as you listen to your beautiful bundle of joy wail. Pick that baby up, put her in a sling, and go about your business. You can shower—bring baby in, put her in a safe place, then play peek-a-boo with the shower curtain. Baby will love it! You can exercise—put baby in her stroller or strap her to your chest and relish the fact that you’re getting an even better workout with the extra weight.

Some things will have to be put on the back burner for a while with a new baby. You may not feel comfortable leaving your baby, especially if you’re nursing on demand and baby doesn’t take a bottle. I have one word for this dilemma—surrender! Surrender into this time! Cherish every moment, because it won’t last forever. Soon enough you’ll be back drinking margaritas by the sea with your girlfriends, but for now, just revel in being Mom. Revel in those tiny clothes as you fold 30 socks no bigger than your hand, and remember what an honor it is to care for another human being. Surrender to the sacred beauty of parenthood. When Baby waked you in the night to eat or be comforted, don’t resent her, cherish these moments. Drink them in. It is such an honor to have this little being turn to you for food, for comfort. Sing her a soft lullaby and know that this precious time will end. Sooner than you want to realize, baby will be all grown-up, and out of the house. Take this time and let her know you’re there for you. She can trust you to comfort her when she’s sad or angry. She can depend on you for her needs, that she is safe and secure and perfect, just as she is.

Surrender into the beautiful dialectic that is parenting—pouring all your love over the beautiful head of your baby, supporting and nurturing them as she grows, all the while knowing that someday you’ll be letting her go. Nothing can change the wisdom that comes from the transformative ritual of birth—you were a woman, but now you are a mother, now and forever. Nothing can take that away. It is a badge of honor, so be proud to walk in the footsteps of all the thousands of women before you who have chosen this path. And remember that parenting is a sacrifice, a beautiful deeply meaningful sacrifice. In today’s time, we don’t get to experience too many deeply transformative rituals anymore, and we don’t get to really sacrifice very often, so drink this experience in.

For those who know m, it’s no secret that I have a special bond with gay men. We like the same movies (Auntie Mame!), we love stories with dramatic flair, and we appreciate fabulous fashion.So, when my second child was a boy, I was thrilled!  ”Oohh!! Maybe he’ll grow up to be a drag queen!” I thought. Sparkles, rhinestones, gorgeous costumes, cabaret songs all danced in my head. At first, there were all sorts of positive signs. He wore his sister’s sundresses nearly every day and showed no interest in “boy’s” clothes. He wore a leotard, tutu, and ballet slippers to gymnastics class and to Annabelle’s ballet class, and even though, at 2 years old, he was too young to join the class, he danced around outside the closed door with real gusto, leaping, twirling and bending his pudgy little knees into plie’s.Other moms would chide me: “You big goof! Why do you make him wear dresses and tutus!” Well, I don’t know about other mothers and their toddlers, but I don’t “make my children wear anything.  Henry was quite adamant about his clothing choices, and even if I was a dictator-type mother, clothing choice is not a battle that is important to me. He’s a toddler! He can wear what he wants. There will be plenty of battles in life, but for me, clothing will not be one of them. My parents were open-minded enough to let me wear whatever I wanted as a kid, and as a result, I was able to express a lot of my creativity and individuality through my clothing. I loved it. They loved it. They just shook their head and laughed when I went to school wearing a bustle and long dress on one of my more creative days. And so, I was thrilled with Henry strong sense of his toddler self, He felt comfortable enough to wear exactly what he wanted, regardless of society’s restrictions. Honestly, who cares, and what toddler wouldn’t prefer pink sparkles over a dinosaur with sharp scary teeth?Well, ok, I’m sure there are plenty, but my Henry wasn’t one of them.But as Henry’s grown, he’s now 3, it seems he’s actually more attracted to those dinosaurs. We go to the toy store and he heads right for the boats and motorcycles. He loves any game that involves kicking and throwing balls, and he’s informed me that boys don’t wear nail polish. Whenever I see a male with painted nails, I point out to him that some boys wear nail polish, but, sadly, he’s put his own moratorium on painting his nails.Regardless of what I do, Henry will turn out to be Henry, and while I’m still secretly rooting for him to be a swaggering broadway musical director, he seems to leaning toward being a pirate or a speedcar racer.There are some encouraging things though. He did sit through quite a bit of the opera yesterday, and at 1 year old he sat through the ENTIRE Nutcracker without a peep.  He was fascinated. I had planned to leave after a few minutes when he got antsy, but he never did. So we’ll see. Maybe he’ll  just be a well-rounded hetero who can attend the theater with his wife and actually like it.Then again, maybe his wife will be named Mark.

OK, I elect two year old Henry as messiest toddler of the year. This afternoon, he was eating a chocolate ice cream cone which is only allowed in the kitchen. I saw him through the crack of the door toddling down the hall with his cone. I watched him drop it upside down, squat down to pick it up, but then change his mind and get down on all fours where he promptly began eating it like a puppy. I was brushing my teeth, so I continued, realizing I’d just have to clean it up in a minute. When I re-emerge, he says, “Mama, I’m ice skating!” And he is. He’s ice skating through a large patch of melted smooshed ice cream which now covers him from forehead to toes, including between his adorably pudgy toes. He has smeared chocolate ice cream all over the walls as he’s hanging onto the wall and it’s all over his hands.After I clean up him and that mess, I hear a big ruckus in the hallway as I’m putting Annabelle’s hair in a ponytail. Next thing I know, he’s dumped out a paper bag full of books in the hallway and is stumbling into the bathroom with the bag on his head.He is our little hero though. The other morning Annabelle saw a roach down near the front door. She came running back up to me and said, “Mama! Mama!! I saw a real cucuracha!! I feel like I ate butterflies!”Henry was playing quietly by himself, but as soon as he heard her, he was off to the rescue. A few minutes later I heard him shout “I dot it mama!!”  ”You got what?” I replied.”I dot the bug!”I ran down the stairs and sure enough he had killed this giant hard shelled prehistoric creature WITH ANNABELLE’S TINY PINK CROC that must weigh less than an ounce!! I have no idea how he did this. When George gets them, he uses his own giant shoe and smacks it about 10 times. Not Henry, he used a tiny little pink shoe.This of course sent Annabelle into hysterics and I had to spray her shoe with antibacterial spray. Always an adventure around here! 

Henry awakened me asking to nurse “fo one minute.” I said no, he kept asking, so I raised the two-finger tickle monster who said, “Sh!” over and over again until it reached Henry’s tummy and he collapsed in giggles. This went on for a while, and Henry kept asking, so finally Dr. Pinky came out and said, “No nursing! You’re too big! Nursing is for babies.” Henry said, “Dat pinky can’t talk! He doesn’t have a mouth!”Yes, thats why Dr. Pinky can’t talk.  I can’t believe Henry still nurses at his size! He’s 35 pounds! Poor little boo scraped his knees and feet today on the brick driveway running from the hose. He wanted to be held like a baby chimp the rest of the day. We had a magical day. We wenwt to toddler time at the Longue Vue Mansion–what an inspiring garden! I got so many ideas for my yard this summer! I loved the wisteria arbor, the jasmine trellis with digging for worms underneath, the sweet pea tepees… Henry immediately went for the beach balls and after we played a gleeful game of soccer with those, he watered the flowers with a spray bottle, occasionally turning to spray me. After this, he dragged a wagon of logs or “firewood” into the middle of the clearing and laid them all out end to end in a curving design, saying he was building a fire. This was followed by digging for worms. It’s an amazing experience to kneel in the rich dark soil with your son and look at the first real worm he’s ever seen together! The little worm raised its head as if to say “how do you do?”Henry loved this! He was afraid when they started to wiggle with gusto. We moved onto picking and eating sweet peas, which he refused to try, and then to the lemon trees and all the sweet smelling herbs. henry especially loved the bamboo tunnel, the twisted tree, and the story and song about bears and hibernation. We drove to pick up Annabelle, and when she emerged from the classroom, Henry ran to her and threw his arms around her. She then hugged me, and he hugged her again! He kept talking about “my sister.” She was really cute with him too. She tried to cheer him up when he fell by doing a crazy dance and saying his favorite word, “poop.” We came home and they played for a while in the front seats of the car, even stacking the leftover carrots from Annabelle’s lunch on the roof of the car! When I drove to my board meeting later, carrots came rolling down the car!Annabelle had a ball at school and played with the hose and climbed trees afterwards. She loved doing playdough, and her favorite thing in the world is hearing stories. We’re reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and she carries it from room to room begging me to read more. We just finished James and the Giant Peach and the Boxcar Children. She immediately disappears into her own magical world when she’s playing.I really can’t believe how lucky I am to spend my days with them. It’s bittersweet to watch Annabelle pull away from me. She loves school, loves playing with her friends, and is more than happy when I leave and the babysitter comes. This is exactly what I’ve tried to raise her to do, of course, a safe happy independent exploration of the world, but still, I long for those days when I held her warm little body in my arms and it fit so snuggly and perfectly. I told her tonight how when she was in my tummy, I couldn’t wait to meet her, and when I finally held her in my arms, all I could say was “You’re perfect!” over and over again.She is perfect. They both are.   

Tonight Henry smeared blue shaving cream all over his face and growled to me in his meanest voice: I”m a rectangle!” He ran around the house all day wearing a variety of things as capes, from playsilks to my red silk harem pants. He showed me his little pink mouse–he had her tiny arm wrapped in toilet paper and he told me her arm was “broten.” he then shows me his own “Broten” arm, also wrapped in toilet paper. He’s really thinking about doctors as we had to make an emergency trip to the oral surgeon yesterday after Henry knocked his mouth on the pool table. I didn’t see it happen and never heard him cry, so when I saw a big chunk of his fronts gums hanging over his front tooth, I thought he was eating chocolate. He was so brave at the dentist office. I lifted him into the chair and sat next to him. The dentist was so kind and let me lift Henry’s lip so he could look. He said it was very common and he didn’t want to hurt Henry by snipping it so he would just leave it alone. I took Henry out of the chair and he said, “Why not fiz my toot?” (Why didn’t he fix my tooth?) “Do you want him to fix it?” I asked him. “Yeah!” So back up in the chair and a little snip–no flinch, no peep, no crying. Amazing.But then he never ceases to amaze me. Let’s see, I served him a little chocolate pudding yesterday and he took a big spoonful and plopped it onto his belly, then took his hand and smeared it in. He proceeded to do this all over his body, the table the floor. He was having such a good time all I could do is grab the camera and record his tactile fascination. 

There’s something so stabilizing and powerful about the mountains of Utah. Walking up rocks holding the hands of four toddlers only to emerge at a breathtaking waterfall, moss-covered rocks, so beautiful.This morning Henry swung on the pole of my parent’s treadmill and told me he was on the streetcar. He then insisted I carry three buckets up the stairs—one was his hat, one his drum, and the red square one his piano. We came upstairs and he promptly put the box for Mr. Potato Head over his head and said it was his motorcycle helmet.Later, he gazed at himself in the mirror and said, “Santy Claus, where you take our Tristmas Tree? I take it out there and bring it back here, fix it.” He repeated this segment of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas about four times before glancing over his shoulder and smiling at me.He got overtired at Marlise’s house and insisted on wearing four-year-old Zoe’s Little Mermaid nightgown and silky nightcap. I was finally able to get him into his sweats for the ride home, and he dragged five-year-old Watson’s Big Wheel up the driveway and tried to shove it in the car. When I informed him we had to leave it behind and he could ride it tomorrow, he yelled loud enough for the moon to hear. He quieted down when he actually saw the moon and he made a full moon with his little hands. “Look, Mama, full moon!”When we got home, he got a second wind and started chattering about Cinderella’s wicked stepmother and asking me if he could ride in “Ho-Ho’s sleigh.” It was a long journey to sleep–I’m exhausted!

Ahh, getting dressed. That age-old ritual. I wonder how it was in caveman times. “Honey? Do you want to wear the fig leaf or the buffalo skin loin cloth today?” Did two-year-old cavebabies shout “No!” at their mothers and throw their bamboo leaf underwear across the cave? Or were they better behaved and wear whatever their mother put on them before smacking their sibling across the head with a club and writing on the cave walls with a stick covered in soot?

How will it go today, I wonder? A quick painless two minutes? Or an agonizing forty-five minutes of “I don’t want to wear my crocs! I wear my neakers!” (Toddler talk for sneakers.) Ahh the adventures of dressing a two year old with very firm opinions on wardrobe choices. “I completely understand,” I say, gazing at my own eighth grade school photo of my asymmetrical haircut with raspberry pink highlights—hey- it was the eighties! I always loved that my parents let me dress however I wanted. They never put the kibosh on any bizarre outfit I could dream up, and believe me, I dreamed up plenty. I used to look at the couture wear in Vogue and create my daily masterpieces, like wearing my mom’s bright red muumuu that dragged on the floor behind me and creating a bustle in the back with rubber bands. But high fashion, or in my case, low fashion, was my passion, my expression, my artistic creation; and to my parent’s credit, they never squelched me, even when I came home with avocado green hair. They just laughed and nodded and said they were glad I hadn’t gotten a tattoo. That would come later when I went to school in Paris.

But back to my toddler.

“How about these shorts and shirt?” I say, holding up some adorable play outfit.

“No! Poople dress!” my two-year-old shouts, referring to my four-year-old daughter’s purple sundress.

“Sweetie, why don’t you wear your shorts? It can be tricky to play in a dress. It’s much easier to run and jump and climb in shorts.”

In an act that can only be described as a mutiny, my toddler grabs the clothes out of my hands and throws them across the room.

“No shoats! Dress!”

“You won’t be able to play in it,” I warn.

After glaring at me and engaging in some deep thought, my little fashion plate stands with arms folded and says, “Eotar,’ which is toddler speak for “leotard.”

I can’t argue with that. Leotards are easy to play in, but in an ingenious maneuver, I say, “But how will you slide? You need pants or shorts on.”

My willful two-year-old trots over to the dance bag and triumphantly pulls out a pink tutu. “Tutu!”

I sigh.

I suppose in some ways it might be easier for me if I made my children wear whatever clothes I chose for them, but I feel like they have so few choices about their lives at this point, clothing choice is a harmless concession. It seems, however, I’m out of step with the rest of the world. My “munchkin”, you see, is Henry, my two-year-old son, and he absolutely insists on wearing dresses and leotards every day. Partly because he wants to emulate his big sister, but partly because he just likes fun clothing. He loves to dance, especially ballet, and he likes to wear something that will twirl when he spins. Even on the days Annabelle wears t-shirts and shorts, Henry still wants to wear her prettiest dresses.

            I truly don’t mind. Children aren’t gender specific until they’re older, they often want to emulate their older siblings, and dresses and leotards are more comfortable on round little tummies, but you’d think I’d committed an atrocity with the reaction I get from the general public. A fellow Mom socks me on the arm. “You big goof! Why are you dressing your son in a tutu?” she says. First of all, I didn’t “Dress him,” he dresses himself, and honestly, why shouldn’t he be able to wear what he wants? He’s two! If my daughter was wearing the clothes of her older brother, everyone would think it’s perfectly fine, so why does the world have a fit the other way around? Is our patriarchal culture so ingrained that boys are considered “weak”or “weird” if they wear girls’ clothing? Why shouldn’t all clothes be interchangeable, especially as toddlers?

My 24-year-old nephew calls me from California. “I hear you’re letting Henry wear dresses,” he says. I sigh again. If I have to give another lecture on gender politics I just might scream.

“Yes,” I say. “He’s two. He’s not gender specific yet. He can wear whatever he wants. Blah blah blah.”

My nephew pauses. “As long as he grows up to like girls.”

I silently count to ten, breathing deeply, before I reply, “I don’t care who he grows up to love—it can be women or men. I just hope he grows into a kind, compassionate, non-judgmental person.”

“Whatever,” my nephew replies. If nothing else, these youths today are succinct!

This nephew is the tip of the iceberg. We were just visiting my macho family in Utah. My sister’s friend came over with her young son, a macho man in training. “My son’s been racing dirt bikes for three years,” she says proudly.

“Wait a second, I thought you said he was six?”

“He is,” she says. “He’s been competition racing since he was three.”

Uh, huh…and I’m being roasted for letting my son wear what he wants, while other parents are applauded when they put their toddlers onto dangerous machinery. The he-man six-year-old dropped his jaw when he saw Henry doing pirhouettes around the kitchen in his leotard and ballet slippers.

“Why is he dressed like that?” he asked me, his face a mixture of horror and fascination.

“Because he likes ballet,” I answered.

“Boys don’t do ballet,” he said.

“Oh, they sure do. There are many amazing male ballet dancers, and you can’t believe how high they can jump!” I reply, as Henry leaps past us in the pantry. “Even pro-football players are often required to take ballet—it helps with fast footwork and moving around the field.” I could see the wheels turning in his little head. Maybe someday he’ll trade in his dirt bike for tights and slippers.

I don’t see many other boys wearing dresses, but I have heard tales of boys who loved wearing princess dresses and high heels until they’re about five. And another of my nephews (I have twenty three nephews and nieces!) always wore dresses as he grew up. He always decorated his room with The Little Mermaid and I remember being at my parents, and saying, “What’s that smell?” My nephew came strutting down the stairs wearing a green velvet dress, full make-up, high heels, a black hat and veil, and massive amounts of perfume. All the kids in the room clapped their hands over their mouths and snickered, the adults laughed uproariously, and my brother—his father—leaned over to me and said, “He’s going to very famous in Vegas one day.” When anyone asked Brandon what he wanted to be when he grew up, he’d say “A belly dancer,” and his favorite activity after dancing was crocheting. I still have the oven mitt he made me. Brandon is now 20 years old, and is one of the most stellar human beings I’ve ever known. Responsible, kind, unusually considerate, Brandon was a high school football star, graduated with honors, learned to speak Czechoslavakian and is nearly finished serving a two-year mission in Prague. Brandon is only 20, there’s still time for him to move to Vegas and become a belly dancer, but so far, he’s just a nice person doing amazing things. I would be ecastatic if Henry followed in his footsteps.

So what do I do with the general public that will tease and scoff at Henry and me? I want Henry to follow his heart, to march to his own drummer, to be a non-conformist, to revel in his individuality. I don’t want him to grow up and hate me because I let him wear girl clothes when he was little. Before I had children, I always thought it was weird that Hemingway’s mother put dresses on him when he was a baby. This seemed to explain a lot about his machismo issues, but the difference is, I don’t dress Henry—he dresses himself. I usually give it the old college try “Henry, don’t you want to wear shorts and a shirt like Daddy?”

“No! Dress!” he shouts, and I can’t think of one good reason why he shouldn’t wear what he wants.

Tonight I came home to Henry wearing his sister’s Minnie Mouse costume complete with red polka-dotted dress, sparkly high heels, and mouse ears with a bow. He was dancing to his favorite music, Hannah Montana.

Well, I guess I got my wish as for marching to his own drummer. I hope he hangs onto that as he grows. I hope he always follows his own truth, regardless of what the masses are doing. And most of all, I hope he always follows his dreams whether that entails wearing a football uniform, a business suit, a leotard, or yes, even a dress.

The Case of the Chocolate Footprints

Today there was a mystery in my house, and we love a good mystery around here. If we can’t find one, we create one. For example: The Case of the Missing Car Keys, The Case of Mama’s Missing Cell Phone, The Case of the Little Lizard in the Paintbrush Drawer…

 On this particular day, I was busy making lunch and when I turned around and saw a trail of footprints across the kitchen floor. I gasped. “Where did these footprints come from?” I asked. We all looked at the footprints and then each other’s feet, we being me, my two-year-old son, Henry, and my four-year-old daughter, Annabelle. It wasn’t long before we found the culprit— Henry’s little pink toes were covered in chocolate.

Henry is one of those amazing children that can eat one cookie and end up with it in his hair, across his face, down his belly, and yes, smeared all over his tiny plump feet.

I had just swept the floor, but it was impossible to feel anything but amusement. I stand by the motto I have taped on my refrigerator: “My favorite kitchen has chocolate fingerprints on the appliances and flour on the floor.” 

In Italian architecture, the “hearth room” is often an extension of the kitchen. The Italian word for hearth is “focolare” from the same root for the word, “focus.” This makes sense as the kitchen is the heartbeat and focus of most homes. I like to fantasize about the hearth-like kitchen I’ll have one day: arched ceilings, a brick oven, Tuscan colored walls, a lavendar dishwasher, and plenty of room for family and friend to hang out with a glass of wine while I’m cooking. Recently, I was able to pick out a few things for the little kitchen in my new house. My coup de grace of the entire house? A blue granite farmhouse sink, one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I love running my hands over the rough side, and I must say everyone who comes to the house gasps when they see the sink and says the kitchen is their favorite room.

I don’t know why I’m so devoted to kitchens as cooking has never been my forte. The only recipe I’ve ever mastered is chocolate chip cookies. I’ve been the cookie queen since I was twelve years old. But other food? What other food? To me, the essential food groups are all contained in a big bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. Add oatmeal and the nutritional value increases exponentially.

However, I knew I couldn’t feed my growing children cookies, so I learned to cook, and amazingly enough, I’ve learned to enjoy it. I love making hot meals that nourish their growing bodies. I like thinking about which vegetables, fruits, whole grains, and proteins they might want to eat today, and I feel very fortunate that they love vegetables. The other night I told Annabelle she could pick whatever she wanted to eat for dinner and it could be anything. She shouted exuberantly, “Broccoli and carrots!” Wow. I offer you anything and you pick broccoli and carrots? I made oven-roasted cauliflower the other day and Annabelle said, “These are great Mom! They taste like candy!” My heart did a little flip. Of course, I made them again a couple of days later and they weren’t nearly as popular as the first time. In fact they were spit out accompanied by a nasty face. But I just keep presenting a wide array of colorful veggies and tell the kids we need to eat rainbows to be our strongest. Incredibly, they get very excited about eating rainbows and will usually try just about anything colorful I put in front of them. And I’ll tell you a little secret if you don’t already know: when you roast veggies in the oven at a very high heat (like 450-500) after you’ve massaged a little olive oil and salt into them, all the natural sugars in them rise to the surface making them taste—and I’m not kidding here—better than candy.

And so my cooking has become a labor of love, I never thought I’d see the day when I, self-proclaimed domestic disaster, reveled in cooking, but when you’re doing it to nurture the people you love, it takes on a whole new meaning. It becomes a sacred rite. And I get to reap the benefits of it myself by eating more healthy food then I ever thought possible.

And I still bake the cookies. And I have the curves to prove it.

As for Henry, he was delighted by his chocolate feet. After gazing at them with wonder for several minutes, he sat down, lifted his foot, and said, “Mama, lick my toes!”

It’s not every day you hear those words come out of someone’s mouth. And as tempting as tiny chocolate-covered chubby toes are, I ended up washing them and the footprints, although a bit sadly. I actually like having chocolate footprints on my floor.