Green With Envy

     It's "Going Green" Week here at what I like to call Camp (Insert your last name here.)  Let's just call it Camp Awesome for the purposes of this post.  Every week, I give the kids little challenges to complete, and in return I take them someplace not only fun, but almost always free.  The purpose of the challenge is one of three things--to get them to work together, to get them thinking, or to give them a little friendly competition without actually giving them competition.  For example, this week one of their challenges was to take a two-story "dollhouse" (two wipes boxes taped together) and use recycled materials to decorate it.  There were a couple of requirements--it had to have a "character" living in it, it had to have a recognizable couch, chair, bed, and wall decorations, and lastly, it had to be good enough that it could get 25 likes if I put it on my Facebook account (I had no real worries about that as I have enough adults on there that it shouldn't be an issue.)

     Fun, right?  Right away there were issues.  Punkgirl had jumped right up for this challenge, thrilled because she had made a dollhouse before,  so this should be easy, right?  It's actually kind of tough when you can only use the materials provided.  Happyboy, who had been hesitant, realized he could use a toy dragon as a character and immediately began designing a funky cut-up water bottle chair.  Punkgirl did not like this.  Being the older child, I think she thought it should come much more easily for her, but she was stumped.  There was a mini meltdown, which frustrated both of us.  At twelve years old, Punkgirl is still a master of the mini-meltdown--it just doesn't involve tantrums like it did when she was little.  There is an icy silence, followed by retreat from the family, followed by a few grunts and frustrated howls in the privacy of her room.  I often am at a loss as to whether to ignore these outbursts or meet them head on, and sometimes I do lose out to my own sense of frustration--after all, it's supposed to be challenging but fun, and as an ex-teacher you tend to expect yourself to be able to engage your children without all the nonsense!! 

     I took a few deep breaths and decided not to screech back at her, but the only thing that got her back to the table was the conversation that this was supposed to be fun, and the reward was the chance to go to a neighborhood playground cookout, complete with a dj and prizes, the kind of thing Coffeeguy and I generally shy away from in the heat.  

     In the end, she took herself a little less seriously, and didn't worry as much that her little brother was finishing faster, accusing her of copying his designs, and boasting that he would surely get more "likes" than her.  I explained carefully that I was posting them together, and that they needed 25 likes combined.  Once she realized they wouldn't be in competition against each other, their efforts were pretty darned admirable, and the resulting cookout was surprisingly kind of fun!  (The other added incentive was a chance to win 'chore bucks'--which they can trade in to get out of a chore here and there.)  

     So my question today--Suck at home Moms...do you encourage competition? And how do you handle jealousy and the occasional mini-meltdown?

Bub Crawl

     Some days are just meant to suck.  I spent last night getting up every three hours to breastfeed Rose, who proceeded to drink barely enough to fill her tummy but insisted on soothing her teething by clamping down hard enough to cause pain.  At 4 am, when I usually would pump, I crawled back into bed to catch a few more minutes.

     Of course a few minutes meant I woke up three hours later--exactly when Rose woke up.  I fed her again, but she wanted to play and make screechy noises instead.  Then she proceeded to look at Coffeeguy and say "Dada" over and over again. It's maddening how we do all this extra work, suffer through nipple pain, plugged ducts, milk all over...and they are linguistically pre-conditioned to say "Dada" first.  Disgusted with the unfairness of it I decided to leave her with the half-awake Coffeeguy while I hunted down my pumping kit.

     It's a miracle of the human system that breast milk is made for your baby.  Literally for them, as in their supply and demand decides how much you make, their presence (or lack thereof) makes the milk flow faster or slower.  It's incredible, but it also means that while pumping, distractions are not a good thing.  Try pumping in a room with two Tweens.  It doesn't matter how many times I explain the way it works to Happyboy and Punkgirl, they see my Rose-less body and are so happy to have me to themselves that they launch into stories of everything that has happened to them or interested them in the last 10-12 years.  Any other time, I would listen with attention, but all I can think of while I am pumping is "please stop talking.  Rose Rose Rose Rose."  It doesn't usually work, and I'm lucky if I get a scant two ounces after pumping both breasts.

     I could move the pump into the bedroom, but Coffeeguy has the same mammary--er, memory problems as my dear children.  I end up trying to drown out politics or funny stories on Facebook.

     So this morning I was fed up, and frustrated, and when Coffeeguy handed me a tea I took it and ran.  I closed my bedroom door, sat down, and proceeded to enjoy a nice hot cup with no distractions.  It lasted two minutes.

     All three non-baby relatives called me to the other room, come quick!  As I sighed and walked in the room, they all clamored to tell me that Rose had crawled.  My baby had crawled, and while I am home with her every day, she waited for that one moment of escape to show off a new trick.  It was as if she was punishing me for finding that minute alone!

     She refused to do it again, no matter the incentive.  I stand rebuked.

The Man Said Boobie.

     I generally never breastfeed in public--not so much because of my discomfort but because I really don't like making other people uncomfortable.  Just as I don't want a stranger teaching my kids about sex education, I don't want to teach someone else's kid about breastfeeding and body parts.  Since Rose is a very particular eater, I literally have to bare my breast and walk with her splayed sideways across my body, her chubby little legs sticking across my hip and her belly pressed to mine.  It's not conducive for discreet feeding, in any way, shape or form, and her tendency to pop off mid-feed and send a nipple flying leaves very little to the imagination.  So I pretty much stay home, or I bring a bottle along, or I ask the person whose house I am in if I can use another room to breastfeed.  It has worked out fairly well in Rose's five months, and I've only had to give her a soy bottle on very rare occasions.

     My mother's house is like an oasis in the desert of breastfeeding-suitable venues.  She has a long hallway, so if I'm trying to be discreet enough to not embarrass my brothers I can use the hall to walk back and forth in relative privacy. On my brother's birthday, I was just worn out enough from the emotional turmoil of missing him that I sat down in the empty dining room to feed Rose.  I put a small receiving blanket over my breast and part of Rose's head, and by some great miracle she didn't throw it off in annoyance (as she usually does.)  I was feeding her pleasantly, chatting with Coffeeguy (who had come in to keep me company), when my eldest brother's step-granddaughter toddled into the room. We'll call her Little Pip, and she's a cutie, about 2 or 3 years old, with giant brown eyes and curly hair.  

     Little Pip noticed the legs sticking out of the blanket, and conversation ensued...it went something like this:

LP:  Where's the baby?

Me:  Right here.  

LP:....I want to hold her.

Me:  She's eating right now.

LP: (Looking at the blanket, brow furrowed.). I wanna feed her.

Me:  Uh, you can't feed her, because, uh, there's no bottle.

LP:  (Furrowed brow remains, she looks around the table.) I don't see her bottle.

Me:  I know, honey, there isn't a bottle.

LP:  Well I want to feed her.  Can I feed her?

Me:  Um, you can't feed her honey, because there's no bottle.

LP:  (Looking slightly annoyed) What she's eating?

Me:  ....Milk...

LP:  There's no bottle.  Where's the milk?

Me: (to Coffeeguy) Help?

Coffeeguy:  There's no bottle because the milk is in the boobie.

LP:  (long stare)....Ok.

She toddles away.  Coffeeguy waits a beat, then light dawns.

Coffeeguy:  She's going to tell someone "the man said boobie to me", isn't she?

Me:  Yup.

Coffeeguy.  "The man said boobie to me, and the lady showed me."

Me:  Yup.

I think I'll stick to breastfeeding at home again.