Ahem, food please!

Jack is full of new sounds, and a very distinct request for food.  In fact, it is no longer working to eat meals without him insisting upon some tastes. Quite frankly I was hoping to extend exclusive nursing indefinitely, so I'm a little disappointed.

Joseph cleverly stuck the squishy "bumbo" seat into his high chair so that Jack could sit securely and have access to a nice big tray with some tidy little bits of carrot and potato. Mostly he just slapped the cooked food into a mush all over his sleeves and the tray with the most maniacal look I've ever seen on him.  I'll post some footage sometime soon.

Pretty great

There's something impossible to describe about having both boys close by, breathing in their sleep. The two of them sleeping simultaneously sometimes feels nothing short of a miracle, but of course there's more to it than that. In the sound of their little breaths, rising and falling to their own offset rhythms lies the reassurance of life's continuation, and the reminder of its mystery. In that sound is the wonder of watching their own relationship slowly unfurl as the months pass.  I don't think Pasha has noticed consciously that Jack has sat up, reached out and engaged in our world in so many new ways, but he now stretches his fingers out to tickle Jack for no reason or grins when he hears him laughing; an innate  response.  Jack delights in Pasha as he always has, probably Pasha's voice is as close to him as his own skin.  So when I hear them breathing together I think that they will always have each other and their private bond that I can't really pierce, or drive, or know.  It's gratification itself.

Pasha's thu-ree!

Holy crap, he is three years old!

Jousting (part of the costume chest ensemble, which he doesn't know about yet.)

Don't hurt me, big brother!

See, you hold it down here.

I reject your handle-using conventions!

He enjoyed the whole lighting candles, having people sing to you, and blowing them out thing so much that we did it three times over.  A touch indulgent, perhaps.

Pasha with all his 'rents

Ah, my babies.

Six months old!

Happy half-birthday, my sweet, burbling, goo-ga-geeing, easygoing, milk-loving, long-toed, toilet pooping, night-giggling wonderful fellow.

Five glorious pounds of chanterelles, become one glorious pint of chanterelle powder. The ultimate satisfaction would have been to harvest them myself, but that will be a pleasure I'll enjoy again when my kids are big enough to carry their own weight.  In the meanwhile, I got a wickedly good deal on these at our newly-opened "Corner Market" here in my neighbhorbood which sells all sorts of locally grown and harvested goodies. They were just closing up and I was just leaving (disappointed that they had neither eggs or chanterelles) when some young mushroom hunters pulled in with a harvest. Yipee!

I can hardly wait to put some of this concentrated deliciousness into a soup.

Tricky Jack!

I definitely don't hold with the idea that children are conniving little manipulators trying to shake down their parents for all they can. Incidentally, this is a very popular notion, though it's usually dressed up a little more nicely. Yeah, they sometimes learn to manipulate (from us), but even then I like to think it's only because those are the tools they have on hand to try to reach us about some legitimate need they have. In any case, I like my life and my children much more when I frame it that way. Easier to approach with compassion and creativity someone who has a cumbersome way of expressing a need than someone who is trying control me.

Which brings me to, that tricky baby must know what he's up to!

Dutifully, we waited until he was a month old before we introduced a bottle, not wanting to interfere with a firmly established nursing relationship. When we finally brought the bottle out, hoping to facilitate some father-baby bonding and give mama an occasional break, he politely refused. Five months later, he's still pretty clear about preferring the old fashioned way of getting his milk with its accompanying flesh, softness, smells, sounds and irreplaceable comfort.

And so when it came to starting school full time and having him spend three days a week in daycare, I regarded this as a problem. I thought at first that experienced childcare providers might have some magic jojo by which to instill a love of bottles. They don't.

Next I imagined a scenario where I would be at home doing schoolwork and take a break mid-day for a comfortable ride down to the childcare place to nurse him before getting back to my studies.  A couple of screaming-baby phone calls later, that option was out too.

Finally, I tried doing my schoolwork in the staff lounge of the daycare. Between the very frequent comings and goings of staff coming through the major thoroughfare of the lounge and the frequent pull of children's cries on my mama-heart (is that my baby's cry?) it really wasn't facilitating much focus.

Now, I sit in my car in the parking lot.  I park it next to one of the daycare's garden beds so I can look out at the sprawling winter squash and maturing corn plants when I stop to think.  Now and again a friendly face pops out, "He's trying to nurse Lori's arm, could you come?" or maybe I just feel compelled to check on him and I go on in and spend a little time ogling, nursing, tickling and sharing smiles.

I could never have conjured up this scenario, but now I frankly wouldn't trade it for him willingly bottle feeding at this point.  I'm so glad I get to check in with him throughout the day and maintain that connection and closeness which makes it so much easier to sense what his needs are.

It took a while to dawn on me, but I've come to appreciate his rejection of bottles as a major gift and a really remarkable "strategy" on his end.  Tricky baby, making sure his and my needs are met despite my plans!

Friends

Other than coaching Pasha to give Burian some cheese once I was already filming, I totally didn't stage this. It just happened and I sprinted for the camera.

Whoapatoes?

One of the thrilling parts of my life is hearing Pasha pronounce the word "vegetables." Whoapatoes is my favorite spelling so far.

Enjoy:

Babies...

My babies are going to daycare for the first time tomorrow.  I have two separate pits in my stomach.

One pit is round and happy and looks very cute wearing a bib as a cape.  

It feels highly unnatural to imagine leaving such a sweet, young vulnerable baby for very long at all.  He is such a scent and feel oriented creature.  He knows what home feels like, he knows what family feels like.  It aches to think of him wanting mama, the familiarity and comfort that only I can offer him, and not having it in short order.  The good news is I'll be visiting him regularly to nurse and coddle. He's a remarkably easygoing dude that's just happy when people look at him and are close. Other than those really tender baby-wants-mama moments, I trust he and his cape will be largely unruffled.  Still..

And then there's the cheeky pit.

Cheeky as in chubby sweet round face, and cheeky as in attitude.  His era of primal smell based existence has been over for a while, so it's different to contemplate this venture for him.  Even though I think it will probably be beneficial, it feels a bit sad to think of him just being one of a bunch of kids.  He's so often the star of the show.  Will something in him feel diminished?

I'm also excited for Pasha, I suspect it will be fun for him in many ways to have this structured world of activities, and a little independence from home life.  He'll be going one day to the same place as Jack, one day to a very small Waldorf daycare a friend runs out of her home, and one day with a close family friend who he's always known.  I look forward to seeing the impact on him, and giving him some power of choice about where he goes.

And yes, I'll get to have a little adultness back to my life.  That I look forward to as well.