Life Behind the Fence

For months I have resisted the urge to take the baby outside and put him down on the ground. We live in an apartment complex with a gated, landscaped courtyard. Although it might seem secure behind the wrought-iron fence and locked gate, our grass and shrubs are maintained by a company that uses herbicides, fungicides, fertilizers, and god knows what else. Like all babies his age, my son is orally fixated and puts everything in his mouth. And, like all first-time parents, we err towards the overprotectiveness.

So here he is, ten months old, understanding words, producing sounds—and occasionally even producing sounds that resemble words. He enjoys pulling objects off tables, digging his hands into his lunch, chewing books, flinging cloth around, gnawing power cords, and generally experiencing the world in a very intimate way. But the world he knows is a limited one. It is the world of our apartment, of wooden floors and wool rugs, window-shades and mirrors, a place where there are no animals, and the only soil is in the houseplants that live just beyond his reach.

To me this seems impoverished.

I grew up on a farm, where myriad life-forms—both wild and domestic—crossed my path, crept through the window screens, bit me, butted me, and soiled me. From an early age I knew more animals than people, and I understood them better than I did people. I ate a great deal of dirt, leaves, and worse. If the stories about me are true, by the time I was my son’s age, I had already thoughtfully examined, and then swallowed, at least one sheep dropping.

Good shit
Originally uploaded by baalands

But my life is not my son’s life. He is a city baby, and sequestration from nature is the reality of life in the city. Or it was until today, when I came across this article in the NY Times. Our obsession with cleanliness, it says, means autoimmune diseases are on the rise. Babies are supposed to put everything in their mouth as a means of priming their immune systems. (Of course, there’s no hard evidence for this—just the handwaving arguments of evolutionary biology). The article suggests that perhaps we should not keep our children so scrupulously clean. If you read through to the end, you’ll see that not only do some experts advocate letting children get dirty, and even letting them ingest some of that dirt, they also advocate allowing children to get worms—and not the friendly earthworm kind!

Soil bacteria I can handle. Even the odd fecal microbe, should it sneak its way in. But I have a visceral problem with the suggestion that my baby should have worms at some point, and that giving him dogs and cats as pets will facilitate that healthful infection. My disgust propelled us outside and into the dirt for the first time. With intentional parasite infection as the standard, the prospect of letting him crawl around in the dirt seem quite benign. I am not willing to expose him to a full range of beneficial filth, but perhaps I can manage a few dead leaves and bits of dirt. Just for today.

I set him on the ground. He looks up at me questioningly. Yes, sweetie, it’s OK.

He crawls off down the walkway, then veers over to touch the grass. Wet. Fragrant. Hmm, better to stay on the cement. Then along comes a flower bed full of anonymous winter foliage. He tugs on one particular plant for a while. Offers me some leaves.

After more crawling, he is dangerously close to some red rowan berries, so I pick him up and take him over to the fountain in the center of the lawn. It is surrounded by river rock. The baby picks one up, sucks on it, and put it back. He repeats the process, until the rock is well-covered in saliva. Nearby some moss needs to be poked. Numerous leaves are inserted into his mouth and maternally extracted.

As we explore, something inside somersaults with anxiety. Can the neighbors see me as I allow my son to stick fallen leaves in his mouth? Will my husband notice the dirt under his fingernails? Is everything covered with herbicide?

And yet we are doing something completely simple and lovely. The baby is exploring the world, neither overwhelmed nor jaded, just methodical, just investigating the merest fraction of what is, even in wintertime, a riot of soil, leaves, stems, berries, stones, and life. It is beautiful, it is normal—and it is also a bit sad. How could he have developed so much, learned so much, grown up as much as he had, and never smelled the earth before? Never crawled on the grass? Never eaten a stone?

baby in the grass
Originally uploaded by flyjawn

Comparing Soft Baby Shoes

BOBUX: Shoes You Can Chew!

We are very happy with the little guy's Bobux. The sizing was a bit hard to figure out, but it didn't cost much to send them back for a smaller pair.

You don't really see Bobux around town. It seems like every baby store carries Robeez, however.

My friends at a local retail establishment tell me that they are going to stop carrying Robeez and start carrying Bobux. Besides being guaranteed non-toxic, which Robeez aren't, Bobux are also manufactured under humanitarian conditions. Robeez is apparently going to be changing their supplier--which factory in China they use, I assume--and they are not able to guarantee that the new factory isn't a sweatshop.

My First Stroller Misadventure

If there was an object that caused your baby, after five minutes of exposure, to have a glazed expression; if it was difficult to rouse him from his trance; if his normal behavior were severely altered in its presence, would you have doubts about said item? I would. And I do.

The item is our new stroller. Being carless on weekdays, and being in possession of a baby boy of increasing weight, I decided it was time. Our Ergo carrier has been a brilliant investment, but it can only do so much. I carefully picked out a stroller online. The Chicco Capri is rugged, Italian, lightweight, folds easily, and retails for $69.99. Nothing to complain about there. The stroller itself seems quite serviceable.

We went for a spin around the block this morning. I expected the little guy to struggle, since he hates the car seat, and struggle he did. When we began to move, he stopped. Normally when I wear him in the Ergo, the baby looks around, makes noises at things, asks to stop and look, and generally seems interested in his surroundings.

But on this little "stroll", from the moment he ceased to complain and slumped in the seat, the baby did not move at all. His head did not turn. He did not utter a sound. We passed a power-saw cutting concrete. No response.

Back at our gate, I bent down to unhitch my son. His eyes stared vacantly. I touched his cheek. His eyes stared vacantly. I picked him up, took him inside, and kept an eye on him. He played normally and seemed fine.

Half an hour later, I decided we would try going to story time at the library. As I wiggled his feet into shoes and his heat into a hat, the baby started complaining loudly. Normally he seems happy to go for a walk. When I laid out the Ergo and put him in it, he quieted down.

As we made our way to the library, the baby on my back looked at dogs, tracked noises, and had me stop so we could watch two guys working on a gutter. It was an entirely different experience.

I don't know what to conclude from all this. I am aware of a recent study showing that babies in forward-facing strollers have higher stress levels than rear-facing babies that have eye contact with their caregiver. (Now that I'm trying to google it, I can't find it.) I guess I assumed my 9-month-old, who is always straining to see things, would like having an unobstructed view of things.

We'll try again tomorrow. But I'm wondering, Is this normal?

How to Not Spoil a Child

Just Enough.

Eat when hungry; sleep when tired.

— Zen notions/sayings

I am wondering what it means to spoil a child. By which I mean to say, I am wondering how a parent encourages a child to be uncreative, demanding, self-centered, and disruptive. I am wondering how a child comes to insist on being the center of adult attention, how a child learns to whine and agitate until parents give in. A spoiled child eventually secures the candy the parents would rather not see her eat. A spoiled child pounds up and down the hallways and wreaks havoc on adult attempts at civilized discourse. A spoiled child cannot play quietly on his own.

How do we get there from here? Or better yet, how do we NOT get there, when “here” is a charming infant with an excess of social savvy? The quotes above speak to this, I think. You do what it necessary. You do not overdo things. In order to respond appropriately in such a way, you must pay attention to the child. What was right today may not be right tomorrow.

The baby has been sick, and he seems to be in pain. He farts. Sometimes he writhes and cries, presumably because his guts are in a knot. He cries at bedtime, looking urgently at the door. He quiets at the mention of papa and will sleep only when his father is called in to lie near us on the bed. Even then, he is slow to fall asleep, drifts off only if there is a nipple in his mouth, and often wakes if it is removed. The more distressed he is, the more likely he will be able to sleep only with the breast's soothing comfort at hand. Last night, he sucked for hours as he slept.

Is that spoiling? Am I creating a monster? Or am I meeting my child’s needs, which are unusually great during this period of illness? Are papa and I being wound around the tiny fingers of our tiny little boy? Are we reasonable? Or are we being had?

When we go for walks, the baby really likes to stop and look at things. He will twist around, give a little shout, and practically fall out of the carrier when he sees something he likes. The slightest sound of running water is a huge draw. I can tell you about fountains and waterfalls in every crook and cranny of our neighborhood. Is it wrong to let him examine things like this? Even if it takes us twenty minutes to get to the end of the block?

Frequently during these days of illness, as I hold the baby, I find that I do not want to put him down. Some great tenderness inside me knows, before I ever try to disengage the nipple, that the little guy needs extra comforting. When I lay aside my desire to lay him down, to rehydrate (all that nursing dries a lady out!) or write or make some calls, and just hold my son, a great peace comes over us both. It feels as if we are in exactly the right place, doing exactly the right thing.

Similarly, after taking 45 minutes to walk to the pharmacy by way of some of NW Portland’s finer little fountains, I found myself in a magic state of quiet joy that normally only comes with the later days of sesshin. Joining the baby in his fountain-gazing, I have become more fully human. By allowing him to explore quietly, as he needs to, we both receive a gift of wonder.

I have been reading about Montessori philosophy, mostly in the Michael Olaf catalog and Paula Polk Lilliard's excellent book Montessori from the Start. What I find there confirms my intuition. The child tells you what he needs. He needs extra holding and extra comfort when he’s sick or teething. He needs to experience the world. Montessori folks advocate letting a baby nurse until he’s done (whenever that is!), and letting a child take all the time he needs to observe the world.

But what about spoiling? Where do I even get that idea, that you can indulge a child so as to create a hellion? It’s certainly easy enough to tell when other parents are being manipulated. But can you see it when you are the one being played for a fool? I don’t know, but I suspect that parents know when they are being had. And I suspect that my concern about being manipulated--by a small and sick baby--says more about me than about my son.

I know ill-mannered children do exist, but I don’t think they come about because parents are attentive and truly kind to them. An indulgent parent is operating based on some notion of herself. When I was a kid, a lot of hippie parents were interested in being “mellow”, or “unrestrictive”, which translated into paying very little attention to the children, and not seeming to care that the children clamored for attention.

Bratty behavior I’ve seen recently has turned out to be tied back to troubles in the home. When parents are stressed, kids are stressed, and they can’t begin to comprehend what’s wrong, and they can’t begin to solve the issues that plague their parents. Uncertain of what to do or where to stand, they act up, hoping for some attention, some certainty, some guidance.

The adult teachers in Montessori are called “guides”, and I’m thinking that’s what parents should be too. Guides. People providing guidance for the natural unfolding of a child’s psychosocial and intellectual development. To properly guide, you need to pay attention without strangling, and you need to provide direction without dictating. Like a gardener, you give the plants what they need, not what you think they need. You neither overwater, nor overprune, but neither do you fail to thin fruit.

When I hold my son, and my mind drifts to wondering if I’m overly permissive, I realize I have notions about discipline which are really just that, notions. They may become relevant one day, but they certainly are not relevant now.

I am certainly babying my son, but he is a baby: he ought to be babied. He needs to suck, to bond, to have his loved ones near him. If it’s no trouble to our family, if it’s no disruption, then why not have papa come lie with us for a few nights at bedtime? If it’s no trouble, if we don’t have to get there any time except eventually, what does it matter if we stop to look at trees and dogs and delivery guys? It does no harm, it abuses no priorities.

What I have seen over the past few days, since I consciously chose to honor my son’s unspoken requests as well as I reasonably could, is that he has changed. He is calmer, and seems more satisfied with life. Even though he’s sick, he’s taken to laughing with joy at the strangest things. He is delighted, with no sense of urgency. There’s no feeling of not having enough, of needing more. He has it all, and he’s rounded-out and fulfilled. I am beginning to see that babying the sick baby and stopping to smell the roses actually matter greatly.

When wondering about spoiling, maybe the key is to look at the outcome. If a particular parenting choice results in a spoiled-acting child, whatever you were doing was spoiling. If it results in a balanced, satisfied kid, whatever you did was not spoiling. Children are trainable, and as parents we are in charge. What kind of child do we want to raise?