If extended breastfeeding causes dependency, why do my babies keep weaning themselves before they’re two?

No really. I wanna know. I keep gettin’ gypped.

It appears Georgia is moving on from the nursing relationship (at 21 months).

And the thing is…I want to nurse her more. I want to keep this going. But she’s only vaguely interested and gives me a passing glance and asks for “gook” (milk) occasionally and I offer repeatedly…but it’s becoming clearer and clearer that she’s pretty much, well, “over it,” as they say.

WHY? WHHHHHHYYYYYYYY? I’m not ready.

Today in the grocery store parking lot I saw a woman sitting in the backseat with the door open, nursing her baby who was probably about 8 months old. And as they do at that age, the little one was just intent on it – pulling her nourishment with vigor and interest and focus. My toddler? Half-assed nursing at best. Any little something – any little noise – any action in the room – boom. she’s done. Off the lap.

“I got things to do and people to see. I’m out.”

And she takes off to terrorize the house and squeal and climb shit.

It probably has something to do with the fact that she takes a bottle because I went back to work when she was 4 months, and often I’m not here when she goes to bed. So it’s my fault. Obviously. I know that. I accept that.

But it still makes me a little sad, this moving on. The new stage. Clearly it’s fine. And yes, I know 21 months is a good, solid time to nurse your baby.

But she just seems so little still, just a little thing stompin’ around and raisin’ hell. Just a little thing exploring the world, checking it out, venturing into life with strong and sure, but tiny, vulnerable, and innocent steps. She’s little. I can enfold her in my arms. I can pull her into a ball against my chest.

She still smells like a baby.

People. She smells like a baby.

swoon.

But I’ve vowed to trust her and me and the process, and if she’s done, she’s done. I get to let go. I get to feel the pang of detachment and watch her walk along, in her new independence.

There are times as a mother when I have to put my money where my mouth is. Do I really believe in child-led weaning? Do I really believe my kids will let me know when they’re ready to move on? Well…do I or not?

Cause a part of me wants to fight her on it…wants to keep it going…wants to force the issue (not that you can “force” a baby to nurse) – but you know, ignore her [rather obvious] dismissal, pretend she still wants it — NOT LET GO.

But it’s a selfish move. It’s for me.  I want it. She is clearly quite undisturbed by the whole thing.

But when it gets down to it, I know my job is to provide a foundation, not BE the foundation. I build a solid ground upon which she can grow, in whatever direction that takes. I don’t get to determine HOW she grows. I don’t get to mold her into what I think she should be. She already is.

She is already complete. Everything she needs is within her. I nourish what’s there. I do my best to create a setting in which she can thrive. Find herself. Find herself.

Not find me.

It’s my job to find myself, and keep looking for me when I can’t see me — and if I ever, EVER start looking for “me” in my kids – looking for “me” in another individual, well then, I know I’m looking in the wrong place, expecting a child to make me whole, placing on them a responsibility for my well-being – demanding of them, taking away their freedom, making my existence their problem.

And I won’t do that.

So go, little Georgia. Go on, baby one.

I’m here when you need me. In whatever form that takes.

And I sure loved it while it lasted.

there she is

xo

Alright. I’m gonna let something outta the bag. I hate homeschooling. No, rephrase: I hate homeschooling at this particular moment of my life with the particular arrangement I’m facing.

Allow me to paint a picture for you.

It’s 8am. I have just dropped older kid off for school. We are now home. I have managed to feed the kids, get them dressed, have a cup of coffee and we are ready to start homeschooling. I excitedly tell Rocket “Okay, it’s school time!” There’s so much enthusiasm in my voice I make myself nauseous. But I want him to feel excited. He looks at me with disdain and BEGS me not to make him. He whines. I tell him “We’re gonna have fun!” His body contorts into a position that speaks his mind “I’d rather die than do homeschool with you, woman.”

“ROCKET. NOW.”

He reluctanctly rises. We go into the homeschool room. He’s dragging his toys. I make him leave his toys. He puts them down and kicks them. They knock something over. I get annoyed. Georgia is stomping with her standard frightening determination.

Georgia goes straight to the work table, climbs up the only chair Rocket will use and begins chucking things off the table. I move her, try to entertain her with one of the SEVENTY-FIVE FUCKING THOUSAND other toys in the room. She has no interest in them. That’s because she’s 20 months old. She must be with us. Near us. ON US. I know today is going to be like every other homeschool day – HELL.

We sit down. He rolls his eyes. We get the books out. We work on our letters. Every step, every activity, every moment feels like dragging a loaded wheelbarrow through knee-deep mud in the pouring rain. He resists everything. The only thing he wants to do is science projects. We can only work in 5-minute intervals because he can’t focus longer than that on shit he doesn’t care about (if one of you tells me he has ADD I will in fact HUNT YOU DOWN).

And while he’s resisting, while he’s ignoring and flailing and daydreaming and fidgeting and selectively listening and zoning out…Georgia is going batshit crazy. She’s climbing up my lap and tearing things off the table. She’s scaling his chair. She’s biting his knee. She’s pulling the trash can on her head. She’s drawing on the dollhouse with permanent marker. And if I divert her? She’s screaming.

So I have this kid who would rather stab himself in the eye than do schoolwork and this toddler who would rather stab him in the eye too, and neither of them are budging and the moments are crawling and we’re making no progress and my patience is waning and I’m trying to keep a 6-year old engaged and a toddler away from him and not dead and I am failing on every front and putting out fires as they come. and BOOM! One minute I blow. I can’t fucking take it.

I walk out to breathe. I walk out to gather myself lest I run full-speed out of this damn house FOREVER and quite possibly, into oncoming traffic. But we’ve only got two hours because in two hours I have to leave for class or work and I’ve got papers to write and classes to prepare for or maybe a conference call and oh yeah, a shower to take. OMG it never ends. I have to do this. I don’t have time to do this. I don’t have TIME TO DO THIS.

And yet, I must do this. I committed to do this.

I think I made a mistake.

I’m not cut out for this homeschool thing. I think that’s the truth. I think I could do it if I weren’t in grad school and working, if I could do it in the afternoons when Georgia naps – if homeschool/home-making is all I did.

I feel like I failed my son. Like I made him a promise and broke it. Like I thought I could serve him well as his teacher but I just could not. And now I’ve wasted his time and mine and my heart is breaking, as usual, with that feeling of remorse for letting time pass and not quite cuttin’ it.

It’s breaking because I already miss it. And yet my GOD I won’t. We only have a couple months left. He’ll be going to regular school in the Fall. And I KNOW that as I drop him off each morning I will miss him, miss him hanging out, missing him by my side. Miss him.

But there is this thing I try to live by called “honesty” and sometimes it requires facing some facts about yourself. What I’m facing now is that I’m not a good homeschool mother.

In the interest of honesty, though, I gotta admit, there is one area I haven’t failed in. And that area is fun. We’ve gone to 10 plays together. We get discounted tickets through his charter school, and we haven’t missed one.

And so we’ve gone together, just he and I. And he sits on my lap through the whole thing and we watch theater and we laugh and I kiss his head and ruffle his unruly curls.

And I love the time I’ve had with my son. And I’ll never regret it. And someday I’ll accept that old saying, that old truth that feels like a copout until it fully sinks in, the honesty of it, the truth of it…that I did the best I could.

And maybe, inside, deep in his little soul, he knows it.

And he’ll remember moments like these…

xo

So I hesitated writing this post because I don’t really have anything helpful to say on the topic of bullying.

But then I remembered this entire blog is devoted to unhelpfulness, so I figured “what the hell” and I’m writing it.

I have no particular insight into what makes a kid mean, no meaningful perspective on what it is that makes one kid a rampant teaser and another kid the victim of it.

And I don’t know what I’ve done to make my kids more the “victims” than the perpetrators. Perhaps I’ve done nothing. Perhaps they are the perpetrators and I just don’t know it.

Although to be honest I doubt the latter, mostly because they tend to come home telling me about how they have been made fun of, and how they don’t understand it, or they tell me about how mean some kids are to other kids, and how it’s sad. And they are visibly disturbed.

But I guess it’s critical for me to say that my kids aren’t angels. They aren’t perfect. They aren’t kind and patient and understanding all the time. I’ve read blogs by women who think their kids shit rainbows.

I am not that woman.

But I am pretty confident in asserting that my kids are not mean. I watch them with their friends. I have never had a complaint from any friend, teacher or acquaintance telling me my kid was involved in teasing or bullying, but I have seen both of them in tears, more than once, on account of other kids making fun of them in a repeated, disturbing way.

With Ava, the teasing has become sexual in nature and I’ve had to raise some serious hell in her school.

And when these moments occur (you can read about the saddest one HERE), when I’m watching the pain in my kids’ eyes, doing my best to trudge through it with them, comfort and hold them, I wonder, really truly wonder, what it is exactly that makes some kids bullies and some kids not.

Are they born that way? I doubt it.

Is it their parents? Are they neglectful? Are these kids vying for power and attention at school because they have none at home? I don’t know.

Are they abused? Does meanness run in their families? Are they teased by their parents? Are they criticized and harassed? Maybe.

Is it television? I don’t really see how that would work, but whatever, most bad shit can be blamed on television so I thought I’d throw that one in.

Or are they simply not taught right from wrong and respect for others? This one seems the most plausible to me. Maybe they aren’t “born bad” and they don’t have excessively horrid parents, but maybe those parents have not given their children a moral compass, a sense of “okay” and “not okay in any circumstance.” And so, they think something is funny and they just roll with it. And maybe they start and the other kids laugh and it’s exhilarating and fun and empowering, and nobody’s ever explained that that particular laugh is at the expense of another. Another’s heart. Another’s well-being. Another’s feeling of acceptance. Another’s RIGHT TO JUST BE.

And when I think about it, there is one thing my husband and I absolutely do not tolerate under any circumstances, and that’s the act of bullying in our home. My kids are not allowed to use their size or their power to dominate a sibling or anybody else. When I see it I make them set it right immediately, no matter where we are, and we talk about why it was wrong. Even grabbing a toy out of Georgia’s hand is unacceptable.

We don’t call names.

We don’t make sweeping insults that slash another’s character.

And we recognize when we have hurt each other. We watch them cry. We feel what we have done and we FUCKING APOLOGIZE.

In these routines I’m trying to teach my kids some morality. Some sense of “it ain’t right to make somebody cry because I feel like it or it’s fun or I want something.”

I am responsible for my words. And the consequences of my words.

And my actions. And the consequences of my actions.

And it isn’t right to GAIN ANYTHING by hurting somebody else, by violating their rights, by making them feel small and powerless and alone.

Or, maybe they’re just born that way.

I don’t know. I guess I just want my kids to obey what is probably the only solid, universal advice in the history of the world:

“Don’t be a dick.”

And if you can, maybe support each other occasionally, even people you don’t know, like you would your little sister just learning to walk, as you plod along this rugged path we all walk, stumbling, falling, grabbing for the hand of somebody who might actually give a shit.

I do things on a somewhat regular basis that cause me to question my qualifications for parenthood.

For example, I sometimes contribute to the truancy of my children. I’ll take them out of school early or bring them late or have them miss a day or two for last-minute beach trips or jaunts to San Francisco or pretty much no compelling reason at all.

It’s not that I think school is unimportant. Obviously not. I mean shit, I’m a grad student, clearly I don’t think it’s a complete waste of time.

It’s just that I have a hard time convincing myself that sitting in a classroom with 20 other 4^th-graders is more important than a trip to the ocean with your family.

This week I pulled Ava out of school for 3 days because it was my Spring break and I felt like cruising down South to visit my best friend Claire, who I’ve known since 2^nd grade. She lives in Central California, near San Luis Obispo, and we went. The husband had to work, so I took all three kids by myself, knowing that I’d be hanging with another mother, who would help me.

I felt a little guilty for taking Ava out. But I’ll be honest, it was worth it. At least I think it was. Maybe she’ll end up in therapy because her mother was a flake, but alas, nobody’s perfect.

There is something remarkable about a best friend since childhood. There is something sacred and wonderful about a person who isn’t “family” but has known you longer than most people on the planet. Family HAS to love you (well, at least in my family), but a best friend? Ah, they’re there because they want to be with you. They chose you. They don’t have to be there. But they are.

When we were 7, Claire and I played dolls and “restaurant” and Barbies in my bedroom. We had a pet bug named “Shiloh” who lived under a Monopoly hotel.

When we were 10, we busted into the neighbor’s house one boring summer afternoon, until we realized we had just done something illegal and we freaked out and bolted. When we got home we sprayed hairspray on the stucco wall of her house and lit it on fire. Both of those activities were my idea.

When we were 12, we went roller skating every Saturday and contemplated boys from afar.

When we were 13, we got dressed up and Waltzed with her younger twin cousins in her grandma’s living room, while she drank bourbon and smoked cigarettes and instructed our dance moves.

When we were 15, we stole her grandma’s Cadillac in Santa Clara and drove around.

When we were 17, we did the same but added beer.

When we were 18, we gazed into the eyes of Claire’s newborn baby and wondered what the hell had happened.

When we were 21, we drank Bloody Mary’s at 7am in Vegas.

When we were 25, we didn’t talk much, because I was drunk and lost and too full of self-hatred to reach out to the people who knew me before I was a failure.

When we were 29, I got sober and drove to her house 5 hours away and asked her to forgive me and love me again. And it became clear she had never stopped.

And now, at 32, we get together and take care of kids and talk until 2 in the morning and laugh like we did when we were 10 years old, giggling in the back of our parents’ cars, sisters who chose one another.

I guess this week I just needed my friend. Maybe Ava should have gone to school.

Then again, maybe not.

We went to Morro Bay

and Georgia contemplated god, err, I mean the ocean.

we missed daddy

We went to Avila and it was 73 degrees and glory.

Georgie wore her new bathing suit and we all died from the cuteness.

Rocket dug "the biggest hole pretty much in the world"

And made this face, which kills me.

doing what big sister does...

Still a little girl...

Yep, it was definitely worth it.

Claire and Georgia.

We already know this, but let’s say it again just for funsies: toddlers are lunatics.

Beyond pooping on themselves and attempting to grab it, waking up ready to party at 5am no matter what time you put them down the night before, and seeking out their own physical demise on a pretty much hourly basis, they have some seriously warped social behaviors.

For example, the grabbing stage.  Also known as the biting stage, whacking stage, or pinching stage.

I have a grabber.

Oh yeah. That Georgia. She’s a mean one these days.

A couple days ago we were at Little League practice (holy hell it’s started AGAIN), and there was this super sweet little girl around 13 months toddling around, kind of following Georgia, who was of course sprinting around the bleachers like a bat outta hell while yelling “apple” [which is odd, considering none of us had an apple].

So this little munchkin walks up to my 19-month-old (looking rather calm and innocuous I might add), Georgia’s looking at her like she fears she might knife her, or steal her imaginary apple (oh I don’t know I’M GUESSING).

And just as this little girl gets close, Georgia stares her down with the toddler death eyes and just gives it to her. BOOM! Grabs her little cheek like a little hellion.

My heart jumps. I immediately hold Georgia’s arm down, telling her “no” and “gentle.” She’s looking at me like “Whatevs, mom. That kid was all up in my business.” I tentatively release her arm and BOOM! She does it again. I move her. I apologize profusely.

So yeah. I have the evil grabber kid.

Usually mothers are pretty understanding, well, if they have a kid who’s been through this stage. The Little League mom was way cool – apparently her innocent-looking toddler assaulted some unsuspecting newborn at a recent playdate. Score. Real mothers. LOVE THEM.

But most of the first-time mothers whose kids haven’t reached this jewel of a phase look at me like I’m some sort of trash-dwelling creature with trash-dwelling creature offspring. I wonder if they think we all walk around the house grabbing each other’s faces when we’re mad.

You know, they’re still all smug and shit, basking in the infinite goodness and purity of their little bundle. Sure it’s never going to change.

Pshht.

Just wait, lady. Your little beam of sunshine will soon be gnawing the nose off her friend’s face.

And you’ll feel bad. Soooo bad. And you’ll get embarrassed. And you’ll look up quickly at the eyes of the mother, wondering what you’re gonna get: “Oh, no worries. My baby does that too!” — or that face. That furrowed brow and quick sweep picking up her baby and moving away – the face and body and gesture all saying “come on, honey, let’s get away from this obviously deranged toddler and her obviously subpar mother.”

When those women, those “If you were a better parent your kids wouldn’t be such assholes” women (I stole that from Sara, a commenter on this blog, because it so perfectly summarizes The Attitude. You know the one.) look at me with that face of disdain, I like to imagine the day when they get the call from the school informing them that their little Johnny bit Sally on her forehead during Circle Time.

Buahahahaha!

Payback’s a bitch.

Cause now Johnny’s an ass-kicker too, and you better hope that other mama isn’t as smug as you were…or you’ll be getting The Face. Oh yeah, The FACE.

Then we come home and Georgia does THIS, and I feel it again: Freaking nutjub toddlers. All of ‘em.

Face-grabbing to monkey-towel grinning in 2 hours flat.

And I’ll take her as she is.