Here, There, All Over the Place

18 months is longer than a year. I do not think it is fair to the addled and time-confused among us (raising hand, waving madly) to continue counting a baby’s age in months when the first year has passed.

Fresco is one and a half years old today. He is ALMOST TWO.

I shouted that last part because I am having that usual denial-of-child’s-age thing that happens when you put your head down and live your life like there’s a raging bull on your ass and then one day you look up

blinking
bewildered

“Did he just say ‘thank you’?”
“Maybe?”
“Taaak OOOOOO!”
“Yes, I think he did”
“Wow.”
“WOOOOOOWW!”
“Did he just say ‘wow’?”
“Definitely.”

and there he is. A year and a half. Loves crackers, drumming, running and being held upside down. Also: singing ducks. But who doesn’t.

And here I am: stay at home mom of two for a year and a half.

And there you are: still reading even though I update rarely and then only hit an average of 4/20 entries anywhere near second base, let alone get a home run.

I love math and baseball so much I’m going to create a cumbersome analogy using both!

I bought new bras today. I was going to wait until Fresco weaned but he doesn’t seem eager to do that – plus it’s flu season so why not

nurse a little longer / please baby a little longer / make immune systems stronger / with mother’s milk today!

(anyone else remember that Big Red commercial? With the people on dates, breathing on each other for HOURS because they had Big Red gum?)

Today, as it happened, I had almost two hours free while Trombone was at preschool and SA was at home with Fresco because he took the day off sick (SA, not Fresco) and so I went to the mall and directly to Winners, who pissed me off – FOR THE LAST TIME, do you hear me, Winners? I am never looking at your shoes again! – by having their size 10-11 shoe section cluttered with discarded 8s and 7s and 9.5s as well as having several pairs marked as 11s when really they were 10s. So I’m trying to wedge my foot into a size 11 shoe and it won’t go! I’m thinking, good heavens, I’m a size 12 now? but really, no, don’t panic, the shoe is marked wrong. Huff! I stomped off in disgruntlement and on my way to look at toys saw a lovely brown satin bra and it was what I think my size might be so I switched gears and went to the lingerie section.

Guys! I mean, girls, but YOU GUYS! Winners has name brand underwear! I don’t know why this has never occurred to me before but it hasn’t and I was delighted to find Calvin Klein bras for $16.99! Those bad boys are $40 and up at the department store!

Aside: if you had told me that Calvin Klein bras would be My Bras, the ones that fit me, the ones that are the size and shape of my breasts, I would have laughed at you. Calvin Klein? With the skinny, wasting away, yet still energetic enough to have sex all over each other in posters models? With the Marky Mark? With the two-page ads in Glamour? Surely I am more of a Maidenform boxed bra type or a Playtex, yes, that sounds utilitarian and boring enough. I have not much va, and very little voom. But truly – since my first Calvin Klein bra, before I got pregnant with Trombone, I have found consistent, me-appropriate fitting from Mr. Klein. You just never know.

So yes, I got new bras for my almost weaned breasts and now how am I going to tie this together.

I was talking about still nursing Fresco with another mom at preschool and she said, oh you must be going for the 24 month mark? And I said, um, not consciously. We just haven’t stopped yet. But I guess there are milestones. And I have passed most of them without really noticing.

People who have trouble nursing set small goals. One week. One month. Three months. I never had trouble so I never set goals. With Trombone, he had to be weaned when I went back to work, when he was a year old. But with Fresco – no such end date.

Yet, in other respects, so much thought and energy has gone into breastfeeding my babies. Learning about breastfeeding; good latching, cluster feeding, block feeding, nursing in public, nursing to sleep, breastmilk in the eye for infection, nipple confusion, growth spurts, fussing at the breast, overactive letdown, oh, the things I have googled. The stories my cache could tell.

But it’s like getting a big rev up at the beginning of a cross country drive and then going for a while and then looking over your shoulder and realizing there’s no one around you. No one in front, no one behind. You got past the mountains, which was the only really important part and now you’re just having a drive. You can stop anytime and you won’t be penalized or disqualified. You could even take a right turn and go to Minnesota.

I’m not really sure what Minnesota is in this analogy. Strawberry milk?

Not that I ever felt in competition with other nursing mothers. Or even with myself. Breastfeeding was important to me and I was so lucky that it came relatively easily and so, I just keep driving.

I have been told that when it’s time to stop I will know. When I don’t want to do it anymore, my body will tell me. Or, if Fresco decides he’s done, we’ll be done.

Here’s the part where I wrap up a year and a half with a neat bow
that will be untied in a minute because children are curious and need all the ribbons for the things they’re building.

Or I could toss in another adorable picture, featuring The Hair I Am Never Cutting, Ever.