An Early Adopter OR Beckett Loves J. Roddy

Beckett & Mr. Walston, himself.

My son is in love with rock 'n roll. Really, he's in love with all music. That includes, much to my chagrin, Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez or many other pop songs that our radio tuner may stumble upon. Actually, that's not entirely fair, I've warmed to T. Swift and despite what my husband may say, I like pop music. I do tend to recoil at auto-tuned, post-twee, Disney shills, and the like, who assert their "independence" by taking their clothes off and/or adding a hip-hop artist to a track. I will even admit to having a special place in my heart for Bruno Mars songs. I can comfortably say that because I'm in my thirties with two kids and am no longer worried about my indie cred. But I digress.

While the boy enjoys a good top forty fix, he is particularly fond of rocking out. Last week, in celebration of his third birthday, we saw J. Roddy Walston and The Business at WFPK's Waterfront Wednesday. It's an amazing free event one Wednesday a month throughout the summer at one of our lovely riverfront parks.

It is not uncommon for us to pack up the babies in the wagon (as in red, not station) and head over there on a summer evening, no matter who is playing. We usually call it, however, about midway through the second band and head home to tuck in the tykes. This time, the band didn't even come on until hours after Beck's bedtime, but it was his birthday and he loves J. Roddy.

I say that and people are like - Mmmmhmmm. I'm sure he likes them in a passive, toddler kind of way, but really it's you guys who are the big fans right?

Well yes and no. Yes, we are big fans. But Beckett likes J. Roddy in the obsessive way only a three year old could enjoy anything. He wants to listen to them constantly. During play time, before nap, whenever we're in the car. Thank goodness they have a kick ass new record out, because we are immersed.

This is not his first love affair with a rock band. As soon as he could stand he was dancing to the Black Keys in the most serious of manners. The Black Keys were his boss and dancing was Beckett's job. There were no smiles. Dancing was what must be done and he would bring the deep knee bends until the song ended.

When words came Weezer's Blue album was played in our car like some 18 month olds listen to Raffi. Hillary calls Weezer his favorite band and even he was tired of singing along to "Say It Ain't So," and fist pumping (required by Becks) to "My Name is Jonas."

Thanks to a Twitter conversation between Hillary and J. Roddy we pumped Beckett up for a possible picture with his favorite performer. As we weaved the wagon through the park Beckett pointed at every man he saw and asked us if he was J. Roddy. He was curious if he would get to see him play piano and we assured him he would.

Marlowe and I hung out at the small camp we set up around the wagon. With an infant and a toddler we travel like we might become permanent residents of any place we happen to be. Meanwhile, Hillary and Beckett, tracked down the gracious Mr. Walston and Beckett not only got a photo, but a high five that he has been talking about ever since.

When the band started playing Becks put on his protective head phones (which he also wears around the house to drowned out Marlowe's cries) got on his Dad's shoulders and went up closer to the stage. He barely stayed on Hillary's shoulders, he wiggled so much. He was entranced at the lights and the motion and instruments being played on stage. I imagine to it was a novel experience to actually see the sounds he's heard SO many times coming from real people and things.

It was an awesome show and Marlowe and I did plenty of our own dancing on the sidelines. My little rocker made it about 30 minutes into the set. I greeted him, wanting to find out everything he was thinking, but he walked straight past me, got into the wagon with heavy lids and drooped over the blankets that were piled in the center.

Thoroughly rocked out. 

Beckett - Three Years Old

Three years seems like nothing. No time. But looking at the almost magical transformation, we call it "growing," that has happened to my sweet Beckett is, truly, amazing. He's gone from a spazzy, drooling, screaming, little miracle to a thoughtful, joyful, verbose, little boy. Yes, he has nearly shed all of his baby and is fully a boy these days.

He can count, knows his ABCs, and blows me away when he pulls out sentences like "which book would you prefer?" He can catch, kick and throw a ball. And is starting to do cool stuff like clear his plate from the table and get himself dressed. He also is the worst at potty training and asks embarrassing questions, such as, "did you say excuse me because you farted or burped?"

He makes me laugh every day and I am thrilled and honored to be his mom.

Embracing Your Burgeoning Buttinski

In the last six months conversations between my husband and I start out as normal, but within a sentence or two Becks jumps in with a "Hey, Mom!" or "Guys, watch this!" Depending on what Hillary and I are saying to each other dictates if we stop what we're saying to indulge him or ask him to please wait until we're finished speaking. We don't have any hard and fast rules on interrupting, we just do what we feel. He just wants to be included, we get it.

Now with his sister here, it's gotten to the point where Hillary and I can only have a conversation after he's in bed. Sometimes, though, you just need to talk to another adult in the house before 8:45 p.m. So I've found that making eye contact with Beckett while I tell Hillary a story works kind of well.

This is an actual conversation I had with my three year old (which was really with my husband).

Me: I was listening to that podcast that Alec Baldwin does and he was interviewing Chris Columbus.

Becks: Uh-uh.

Me: (Still looking directly at Becks) Did you know that Gremlins, his first screenplay, only got made because Steven Spielberg walked passed it laying on some assistants desk and liked the title?

Becks: (Never breaking eye contact) Oh. Okay!

Then he just walked away and Hillary and I laughed and laughed. Until he ran back down the hall and said "Hey mom! What's a Pod Cat?"

Touched Out

I was in month two of my maternity leave, sitting in a cozy arm chair in our family room, nursing my six week old for, oh, maybe the 70th time that day, when my sweet and loving two and a half year old son scrambled up in the chair and squeezed himself in the minuscule space between me and the chair arm. He kissed my cheek and I said thank you, but I was feeling a bit claustrophobic. The July heat was penetrating the room and getting the best of the air conditioning. And little Marlowe is like having a portable heater strapped to your chest. I kissed him back and suggested he play with his toys on the floor, but he didn't budge.

He sang and patted his sister on the head. It was so cute, but all I could think was get these kids off of me! I tried again to distract my son and told him I thought I heard Piggy calling for him to play over by the couch.

"Piggy's not here, mommy," he said. "He's in my room."

Just then my husband decided to take a break from his writing and come say hello to us all. He smiled at the sight of his little family piled on top of each other in the arm chair. He came over, placed a hand on my shoulder and kissed my head. The kiss that broke the camel's back.

"Okay!" Was all that came out of my mouth, but I quickly handed the baby to my husband and walked, through the kitchen, into the living room and out the front door. I was sort of surprised to find myself out there. My body had been on autopilot in a hunt for space. I took a deep breath and sat down on the step.

I was touched out, over touched, suffering from no-more-touchiness. I love nursing my baby girl and I love snuggling with my little boy and I love when my husband kisses me on the head, all a separate times.  It makes me feel like I do not own my body and I feel out of control, which is not enjoyable for me.

This is happens to a lot of moms, dads too probably, although I think dads suffer more from lack of touch in the early month of a new baby, but I'm sure there are cases to be made. It happened to me when it was just Beckett, but now that I have two, it's a bit more frequent.

I try now to give Beckett a project when I'm going to nurse, a puzzle or some crayons. That works, sometimes. Other times, if my husband is around, I sneak away to another room and shut my eyes while I nurse Marlowe. And sometimes there is nothing I can do. Beckett needs me, Marlowe needs me, I breath through it and take a long bath later, if time permits or allow myself two glasses of wine after Beckett's in bed and let Hillary bond with Marlowe over a nice warm bottle.

Good Moms Feed Their Babies

This post was inspired by Mothering's "Blog About Breastfeeding" event.

I sat sobbing in the huge room with clear bassinets and incubators lining the walls. My 4 lb 7 oz, daughter lay with just her diaper on under a heat lamp in front of me. The hospital's lactation consultant had just brought me a bag of small receptacles for collecting my colostrum. She was giving me a moment to compose myself.

Marlowe was seven weeks early, one day old and perfectly tiny. I was stunned to have a child in the NICU. It was something that had truly never crossed my mind. After a brief moment of snuggling her post delivery she was whisked away to a nearby children's hospital, my husband in tow. I spent a lonely night in the hospital bonding with a breast pump every three hours. Everything felt so wrong.

My memories of the days in the hospital after the birth of my first child are warm and hazy with nothing but coziness and love. The cold quiet of the NICU, interrupted only by ailing babies crying in unison, shocked me in a way I wasn't expecting. I focused on Marlowe's little fingers, blew my nose and looked at the lactation consultant.

"Breastfeeding is really important to me," I said. "I exclusively breastfed my son until he was two. Please tell me what I need to do to make that happen with Marlowe."

She told me that I needed a hospital grade pump and that I should be pumping both sides at the same time for 10-15 minutes every 2-3 hours.

Good, I thought. Directions are good. I will bring milk in tomorrow.

"They will be supplementing her with formula, however. Until you start producing enough milk."

I gasped. "But..." My mind was racing. What was it about formula that I was so opposed to? I couldn't think. Then, "what about nipple confusion?" My facade had cracked. The tears were flowing again.

"I don't believe nipple confusion is a real thing." She sounded stern and I started crying harder.

"Babies know where the good stuff is. If you put her to the breast, when she's ready, she'll take your milk." Her voice was softer. She touched my knee. "You want her to grow as quickly as possible. That's how you'll get her home."

Okay, so there was the plan, at least, to get her home. I pumped religiously for a week and only had drops to show for it. I was stressed and frazzled, not getting enough calories, water or rest to increase my supply. I went to a  friend who happens to be a birth educator for help. She suggested herbs. I took them and they helped. I left her that day with more than advice on my milk supply, however. She told me this - "good moms feed their babies."

I've thought about that a lot. Marlowe needed food. I couldn't give it to her immediately. She had to get it elsewhere. I've dropped my formula hang up since then. Moms everywhere are doing what they need to to feed their babies. Be it by formula, their own breast milk or a donor's. They are all good moms, feeding their children so they will grow.  

Two months later, Marlowe nurses like a champ, and I am grateful for that. I am also grateful for the help we had in the beginning when she couldn't.