The Cheese Stands Alone

Sexism starts early in life.

I clad my baby in a brand of diapers that are adorned with cartoon characters. I use this brand because it offers decent leak protection and a nice little rewards program that lets me donate diapers to others.

These diapers are unisex. Some brands have a color-coded differentiation for boys and girls, which I find unfortunate. Can we give their genitals some time to actually develop before we cover them in pink and blue? Excuse me, pink OR blue.

But my brand may be worse. My brand isn't just telling babies that boys and girls are different, these diapers implicitly state that boys are better than girls.

The male cartoon characters are sometimes featured solo on the diaper, but the female characters appear only with their respective male partner or in a group. They never get to stand on their own.

It's fine for a baby girl to have Mickey Mouse smiling over her hooha, but it would be intolerable for a baby boy to wear a diaper with Minnie Mouse batting her eyelashes right over his pee-pee. Right?

No, this isn't right. This is how we indoctrinate our children right from the beginning that boys are supposed to be strong and independent and girls are supposed to be supportive and cooperative. Those all are good things to be, certainly, but when we start parsing them out on a gender basis we make the dividing line thicker and more damaging than it needs to be.

What's most troubling to me is that it's OK for a girl to wear boy things but not OK for a boy to wear girl things. Girls in overalls are cute but boys in a tutu are unacceptable.

Let's be quite clear: It's unacceptable not because it's just different but because it lessens the boy, it sucks away his manhood, it turns him into a weak girl. If a girl wants to step up and play with the big boys, that's admirable. But for a boy to parade around in a Minnie Mouse diaper would be an anathema.

I like it that girls and boys are different. I celebrate many of those differences in my womanhood, and I honor many of those differences in the manhood of my husband, male family members and other men I know. But none of those elements are harmful to the other person, none rob the other of basic personhood.

It boils down to girls being inferior to boys. When girls wear boy clothes, it's as if they are bettering themselves into being boys. When boys wear girl clothes, it's as if they are lowering themselves into being girls. It's acceptable for a girl to be like a boy because that is the ultimate way of being a person. It's unacceptable for a boy to be like a girl because that is giving up the best for just OK.

Damn shame, really. I'm kind of glad whenever Max poops all over it.

Now This Is Really Working from Home

It's been a little over two weeks since I quit my job at the newspaper, and I'm finally getting around to doing all those things that I said I would do now that I'm not offering sacrifices of time and sanity to the altar of journalism.

Like write my first Mommy Remix blog post in two months.

Maybe I needed a longer break from writing than I anticipated. Maybe I underestimated how much more time I would be spending with my family. Maybe I wanted to be out of the public eye for a little while.

I do want to reconnect with the blogosphere. Frankly, I need some adult engagement other than the residents of "Sesame Street."

I have been fortunate to recognize some affirmation here and there that my husband and I made the right choice in me quitting my job and him continuing to go out to sea to support our family financially. I went to the doctor today and when the nurse asked the litany of questions at the beginning, including how many days I had felt despair or worry or anxiety, I was thrilled to answer "none" when I know my answer would have been quite different just a month ago.

To keep on the worry-free track, I'm not going to sweat explaining my decision in a blog post.

I will share that I am glad I pushed through that time when the reporting position I took to "work from home" was so overwhelming just because it was new, and that I didn't quit when I was flailing (and never home, by the way.) I am confident that there will be a media job for me in the future, when Max is older and Gabe is on his own and when I have energy again for a career as demanding as one in newspaper.

I also will share that it's an odd thing to give up the clout of being in the media, the vanity of seeing my name in print, the real and measurable effect I can have for a wide range of people by telling their stories.

And to be a housewife? There is a fear of becoming dependent on my husband, of being marginalized, of making a mistake.

But each day that has gone by has brought a new little victory, even if it was just getting the laundry done. I suppose I always managed to get the laundry done before, but all of my chores feel easier now. I especially love doing them without the burden of a story deadline hanging over my head all the time.

I love cuddling Max in the morning and not feeling guilty that I hadn't checked my work email yet. I love being able to go wherever I want, even on short notice, because I don't have to cover some assignment at a certain time. I love, love, love getting to spend all that extra time with my husband before he went out to sea.

My gratitude for him is boundless. He even bought me a brand new car. I think we're both getting a little kick out of him taking such good care of us right now. We'll just enjoy it for as long as it can last.

One Rotten Sugar Plum at 'Nutcracker'

With a 7-month-old baby and a 16-year-old teenager in our family, the holidays are an interesting spectrum of joy.

We're celebrating all of Max's "first" moments while we're encouraging Gabe to begin appreciating the traditions from a cultured adult perspective. And like all parenting moments, there are a few exasperated sighs mixed in with all of the laughter and smiles.

On Saturday night, we took Gabe to the Toledo Ballet's performance of "The Nutcracker" at the Stranahan Theater. Dan helped him tie his necktie and advised him on when to button and unbutton his sports coat, and he got more practice at holding open doors for his mother. Gabe agreed to pose with me and a dancer dressed as the titular character with an amazing lack of I'm-too-cool-for-that attitude.

The performance was stunning. Dan especially liked the well-choreographed opening scenes, and Mary Carmen Catoya as the Snow Queen was a marvel. The clever stage trick of "flying" the young angels was a nice touch, and 101.5 morning host Rick Woodell was hysterical as Mother Ginger. The show was a lovely mix of traditional en pointe and innovative gymnastics.

Now, here's the downer. I understand "The Nutcracker" is a magnet for families with young children. It's a fantastic children's story, after all. And with the amount of children in the cast, it's likely that a third of the audience were relatives. I actually enjoyed the occasional exclamation of amazement, a question about why a character was doing something, or even a plaintive request to be boosted for a better view.

What I could not tolerate was the running commentary of the little girl seated behind me. She apparently was familiar with the show and had to announce every scene with precocious authority, as well as complain when things weren't happening fast enough for her. She was sitting with her Nana, who deserves her own scolding for engaging this child in casual conversation throughout the entire performance.

I know the difference between children who have age-appropriate attention spans or even other challenges that mean they don't have the same aptitudes or social skills of typical children, and children who are badly behaved brats. First clue is that the little urchin kept wedging her patent leather-encased foot between the seat and back of my chair, poking me right in my behind even after I twice shoved her foot away with my hand. Second clue is that she asked her grandmother to tell her the time, repeatedly and at a moment Nana was busy, and when she was told she did not say thank you but instead replied, "Well, why did I have to ask you eight times?"

At that point my son's jaw dropped and he exchanged a look with me that pretty much confirmed we both knew he would be mangled if he ever spoke to me like that.

A very young girl next to us played with her stuffed kitty and cuddled into the seat when she got tired. Two lovely girls sitting in front of us politely engaged with us when their dad was telling us about seeing a man propose to a woman out in the lobby. An entire gaggle of children nearby sat in their bow ties and frilly dresses and simply enjoyed the ballet.

People, please teach your children some decorum if you are going to take them to the theater. It's never too early -- or too late. Nana and her rotten sugar plum have their work cut out for them, though.

Fat Baby Clothes

I'd like to start a clothing line called Fat Baby.

A sister tells me Chunky Monkey would be more appealing, particularly in this society where being fat is such an anathema. But perhaps being more honest and accepting in the label will help society get over its skinny-ass self.

I have a fat baby. Max's weight gain is approved by our pediatrician, he eats normal amounts, and everyone stops in their tracks to marvel at how cute he is, so he isn't "fat" in an unhealthy way. But yes, he has several arm rolls, and his drumstick legs nearly got eaten on Thanksgiving.

My in-laws always call Max "fat baby." I bristled at first, especially because Mom weighs about 90 pounds soaking wet, but I eventually relaxed into it as a term of endearment.

What is frustrating is how tightly most of his clothes fit. Six months old, Max is wearing outfits labeled 12 and 18 months. He didn't fit into hardly any of the cute 3- or 6-month clothing that I got at my shower or on one of my own hormonal shopping sprees.

I know those labels mean next to nothing, but 6 to 18 seems a big jump. Depending on the material, the clothes sometimes are too long in the sleeve or leg, but at least they have generous enough inseams to fit around those chubby arms and legs.

I can't believe how tight some of the clothing is. Who are these scrawny babies who fit into these things?

The above sister theorizes that since much of our textiles come from areas of the world where children are indeed longer and thinner, there is an inherent design or manufacturing standard that doesn't accommodate western babies.

I got pretty mad at Heidi Klum about it. I love watching "Project Runway," and they're always talking about how "real women" look and dress, so I was expressly disappointed to by a long-sleeved onesie and a cardigan from her baby clothes line only to have Max scream in protest as I tried to shove him into them. The items looked OK on the hanger but I didn't realize how tight the arm holes were before purchasing them. At least I got to keep the cute felted hangers.

So, it's up to me to start a clothing line that has fabric allowances in the clothes where they should be. And fercrissakes, maybe some socks that are snug on the foot but big enough to go over the moo-juice-fed calves.

Maybe I won't call it Fat Baby. Rockin' the Rolls? Thunder Tots? Ewes Not Fat, Ewes Just Fluffy?

Just Fluffy, for short.

Daddy Ashore

Daddy takes Max for a little motorcycle ride in the village park.

After four long months, my husband has returned from sea.

One hundred and twenty-eight days have gone by since he last saw his infant son. His jaw-dropping, eye-widening smile when he came down the escalator at the airport and saw us standing there was worth every minute.

Max got a lot bigger since he was 2 months old. He wasn't ever a scrawny thing, but he has plumped up into a chubby chunk of absolute cuteness and several arm rolls. And he can sit up on his own and stand on your lap and babble away, which are amazing to a man who remembers him only crying, eating and pooping.

Baby and daddy adjusted to each other quite well. I'd like to think Max actually remembers him, but it's hard to tell and really doesn't matter.

It probably helps that every night I played for Max a voice mail Dan left for him and that I showed him one of our wedding pictures in which Dan is kissing me, saying, "That's Daddy! See Daddy? That's your daddy!"

Max is a happy, interactive baby, and he had Daddy enamored pretty quickly. He must have said, "Look at that smile!" a dozen times the first night home.

The next day, we put the baby in the stroller and did our village rounds, including the post office, hardware, bakery, and dollar mart. This time we added the park, and we both delighted in Max's little feet clapping away as Daddy pushed him in the baby swing.

We still have some things to work out. A minor one is that Dan isn't used to how baby things multiply like baby rabbits and spread all over the house. If he has a better solution, he can knock himself out. But most parents accept a certain level of it and deal with it.

A major one is that Max was still co-sleeping with me in our bed. I had made significant progress in Max sleeping in his crib for his naps, but we never got around to a different nighttime routine. He is still nursing a few times a night, and he rests best when he's cuddled up next to me.

But since Dan has been working aboard a ship for 128 straight days, standing a midwatch that gives him only a few hours of sleep here and there, his first night home was going to be spent in his own bed.

Max slept contentedly the first few hours in his own crib -- some pretty vital hours for a husband and wife to be alone in their bed after being parted for four months -- but protested mightily when I tried to put him back in there after a nursing session.

I gave it a good hour, and then gave up and took him into the guest bed and spent the rest of the night with him in there. I didn't sleep well at all.

But there's always a transition period, no matter the time away. This time is special because it's the first one coming back to a son who is older and bigger and different, but there will be more of those times to come.

For now, we'll all just sleep when and where we can. I'm the only one awake, keyed up after seeing the new James Bond movie for our date night. Max is still asleep in his downstairs playpen where my mother laid him, and Dan is curled up in the big chair asleep with his dog.

My plan is to wait until Max rusltes, take him upstairs, nurse him back to sleep, and conk out with him in his bed. Shh ... don't wake Dan.