Furious Firsts

Yes, he's wearing blue.  That's my fault.

We got the proofs back of Walt's first "school photos" today.  The whole thing was very exciting ... dressing him up in a ridiculous outfit, dropping him off at day care, Walt looking all clean and put together and us wondering exactly how long that would last. My school photos always featured extra static-y hair and freshly scratched-open scabs on my face.  So, I was expecting something like that.  Instead, Walt's clothes, hair and face look great.  But they posed him with a toy tractor.  And, in another photo, a baseball, bat and glove.  Why?!  So distracting, so unnecessary, so nonsensical, so unimaginative, so ... presumptuous. We don't know what sport he likes or if he likes sports at all.  We can't assume he'll automatically be enamored with farm equipment and heavy machinery.  I was almost mad enough to write my first angry mom letter, warning against forcing my son into heteronormative stereotypes.

But then I took another look at the one with the tractor, and it's pretty cute.  We might get an 8 x 10 or two.

Fleeting fits of anger are the norm these days in our house.  Mostly on the part of Walter, whose sixth month milestone sheet from the pediatrician says this is a normal developmental stage.

This is Walter's worried face

Today, Walter had his first honest-to-goodness temper tantrum. When I picked him up from day care and put him in the car seat to go home, Walt did his normal little worried face and informative cry. He was informing me that I needed to get him on the boob, ASAP.  I was able to distract him with the ABC song. When we got home he seemed OK, so I thought I'd try to get some oatmeal into him before nursing.  The moment his bottom hit the highchair he wailed, and then stopped as soon as I picked him up again.  I still needed to take off my coat, so I tried to sit him down in our nursing chair for a moment.  He locked his legs to keep from sitting and then ...

...he stamped his feet!!

Angry foot stamping!  I couldn't believe it. I didn't hesitate for a moment--I got him to sit, took off the coat, removed all other barriers and got him nursing--but that little foot stamp flooded me with all kinds of thoughts and emotions.

This little guy has always had big feelings.  Even before he was born, I felt like he was trying to express himself. Maurice Sendak died today, so I'd already been thinking about kids and all those deep, big, sometimes scary feelings that wash over you and toss you around when you're little. I can remember shaking with rage, totally out of control with feelings that were too big for my body.

I'm not going to lie ... Walter stamping his foot and throwing a tiny baby tantrum was pretty adorable.  But it was also pretty amazing, and it gave me pause to think about all the tantrums and outbursts and door slamming to come.

It's alright to cry, little boy.  It's OK to stamp your feet sometimes, too.  Gotta get all that energy out somehow. Preferably not while nursing.  Ouch.

Why, Mom?  Why?

A week ago we were at church and I decided to get Walt out into the beautiful weather to play on the grass.   "This is going to be so fun!" I thought, also feeling guilty that we don't have good grass for Walter to lounge and play on at home.  I joined some congregation members outside, sat down, and very confidently sat Walter down in front of me, feeling proud that he's so good at sitting up on his own.  The mom next to me said, "Wow, that's great.  When I put my babies on the grass they usually ... did that!" She pointed and I saw Walter winding up a huge silent scream, preparing the way for a heartfelt wail.  I scooped him up, got a blanket under him, and he was fine, but wary.

Yesterday we tried again, a little wiser, a little more cautious. I sat him down on a blanket on the grass.  He sat up confidently and reached out to touch the grass with hands. He'd touch it, shudder, wipe his hands on his pants, and then reach out for the grass again and repeat.  Eventually, his curiosity regarding dandelions overcame his repulsion, and he set his hands down on the grass and kept them there awhile.

He still doesn't like it.  But he keeps trying.  And when a cool breeze blows through his hair, he smiles and sighs.  There's a whole lot of good in this wild, scary, infuriating world.

News from the Womb

We learned many things about our Scooter today:

• The Scooter is limber.  Baby spent the whole ultrasound with feet right up next to face, which is some kind of advanced yoga move, we think.  We have amended our prediction from "soccer scholarship" to "yoga scholarship."
• The Scooter is coordinated.  We watched in awe as Scooter did the most energetic thumb-sucking the world has ever seen.  So cool!
• The Scooter has two kidneys, a brain, a heart, a diaphragm, a stomach, an umbilical chord, two hands, two feet, and long-looking arms and legs.  Based on the amount of heartburn I'm getting, we're also thinking that Scooter has hair (the ultrasound did not reveal anything to do with this. The war between my Scandinavian genes and Sean's hairy genes wages on unseen.)
• The Scooter is terrifically uncooperative.  It turns out that impressive yoga positions are not the best for getting pictures and measurements of the spine.  We tried turning me over on one side, then the other.  Then some walking around, then some orange juice and graham crackers.  The solution ended up being the classic "dig the ultrasound wand into Mommy's belly as painfully as possible" maneuver. The radiology tech's comment: "Oh, the things we do for our children!"

While the Scooter's position was no good for spine-revealing, it was perfect for revealing other important parts of the body.  And, let's be honest, none of us were looking forward to this ultrasound and thinking, "I wonder what the baby's diaphragm will look like!"

The question of the day, truly, was this:

OR

The answer is known and shall indeed be revealed, but a couple of thoughts, first (I'm just trying to recreate for you the experience we had this morning, when the ultrasound tech did every other possible measurement before giving us a blessed glimpse between Scooter's legs.)

First, I'd like to reiterate that "Scooter" is an entirely sex/gender neutral nickname.  It was, in fact, one of my nicknames.  Video evidence exists: during the epic Easter Egg hunt of 1986 one of the clues read, in part, "To the computer/scamper, dear Scooter."  It's also been a favorite term of endearment used interchangeably between me and Sean (see Seinfeld, "shmoopy.")  You can clearly see our preference for the nickname in these photos from the Edison-Albright archives:

Jersey Shore; Wonderland Pier; Circa 2007

Park Ridge, IL; Jewel; Circa 2009

So, no matter what we saw on that ultrasound today, "Scooter" is a nickname we will continue to use proudly and often. (More family name trivia: Sean's mom was nicknamed "Skeeter" by her dad. And my grandpa was named Kermit.  So, a rich precedence for Muppet-related names on both sides.)

Second, keep in mind that the ultrasound revealed our baby's sex, but not our baby's gender. (For more on that, scroll down to part II of this post, and read the excellent comments, too.)

I'm trying to think of other ways to stall, but I'm all out.  So, if you're still curious about the sex of our baby ...

William wants a doll

I'm intimidated at the thought of raising a boy. I'm an only child--my main frame of reference/resource for child-rearing is Free to Be, You and Me. Which is great, and it did great things for me, but I'm not sure "William wants a doll" and "It's alright to cry" are going to balance against the messages the world sends boys.

I'm not saying the world doesn't send mixed up messages to girls. I'm just personally familiar with many of those messages.

If you had told me when I was a young feminist (0-18 yrs old) that patriarchal society has just as much of a negative impact on men as it does on women, I would have been deeply offended. This is corny, but in a college journalism course we watched a video called "The Tough Guise" about the dangerous myth of masculinity and its impact on men and boys ... and it opened my eyes. And freaked me out on a whole new level at the hypothetical thought of raising a boy--I'd always imagined having a girl, but this video only heightened that aspiration.

All of this came out in a less-than-graceful way over lunchtime chatting at the refectory last week. A friend asked if we want a boy or a girl, and I responded: "We're planning on a boy, but we're hoping for a girl." Another friend called me out on this and another friend assured me that it's OK to hope for a girl baby, knowing that Sean and I are going to love our baby. Period.

So here I am, a slightly more mature feminist who really does believe that Free to Be stuff. I don't want to turn around and dump a bunch of my own sex/gender issues on my child. I want to go into this mysterious process with an open mind and an open heart (wait a second ...) and really be ready with the love, no qualifications. Frankly, I should be intimidated no matter what.

So when I imagine hypothetical future baby these days, I often imagine a boy. He has a name, which I've promised Sean I will not disclose, but the name does help me imagine the kid. It's exciting. Here's the thing ...

Is it OK if I'm still kinda hoping for a girl? I'm genuinely asking ... as a fine YDS graduate once said in a sermon, "I'm not allergic to your Amens" ... or in this case, comments.