The treasure basket

One of the things the Husbeast and I have found fit well with our natural approach to parenting is the Montessori set of ideals for how to treat a child (if you're unfamiliar with the Montessori method, here is a brief explanation, although it can really be summed up with three words: "follow the child").

Since the BabyBeast is sitting up so well on his own now (he's had a month to practice it, and has nearly perfected it), I decided it was definitely time to introduce his treasure basket. It's not nearly as flashy as it sounds. A treasure basket is simply a basket (or box) with a few interesting items. The idea is to give them 'treasures' that will stimulate their brains, simple items that you can find lying about the house or yard. Meg, a fellow Montessori mommy, posted about her own son's treasure basket, and the post is definitely worth a look (if only for her fantastic photos).

The BabyBeast's basket currently contains a hand-carved wooden spoon, a nearly empty bottle of sesame seeds, some metal measuring spoons, a knitted pot holder, a rough washcloth, and a plastic brush with soft bristles. He's spent the last couple days exploring each item until he practically has them memorized, and I'm already watching to see what items I should switch out, which ones he seems less interested in.



It's delightful to be able to sit back and relax, and watch the BabyBeast lose himself in exploration of things that I definitely take for granted every day. He reminds me to take it easy, to look deeper at things that I might otherwise dismiss.

It's the little things

The little things get you through the day when there's a newborn in your life, I find. And I mean the very little things.

The little fingers...


The little chin...


The instance of a sudden little arm-jig...


Of course, the little things also have the tendency to throw your life off. Like the shoes that fit just fine before you got pregnant, and somehow seem to've shrunk one size while they lazed away in the closet waiting for your return. I'd tell myself that it's just an excuse to go shoe shopping, but I have no intention of taking the baby out of the house until he's six weeks old. While I'm sure he's getting plenty of immunities from my breastmilk, I'm just not too keen on the idea of taking him out into the general Unwashed Masses just yet.

Besides, I have yet to figure out how to get the Moby on and the baby in the Moby without feeling like I'm either
A) wrapped by a boa constrictor OR
B) about to have a newborn slide down my belly, across my thigh and off my (still bare because i haven't gone shoe shopping) foot to land somewhere across the living room.

Yes, I have the little Moby booklet for how-to-wrap-yourself-and-still-be-able-to-breathe, but at this point it seems as if the baby is entirely too floppy to be of any help when I'm inserting him. It's like trying to do a samba with a partner who took a couple Valiums to 'take the edge off;' you know how it's supposed to look and how it's supposed to work, and yet somehow bits keep flopping out all over the place and you end up getting sweaty and flushed trying to make it all come out right. Not to mention the judges watching from the sidelines are frowning more and more each time your floppy companion's head lolls alarmingly to one side and you have to use you chin to prop it back up while trying to figure out what to do with their left arm.

I'm not even going to touch on breastfeeding in the Moby. Yes, my breasts are big, but I just don't see how I'm going to manage to lift one of them up to my collarbone to get it near enough to the baby's mouth to tickle his lips.

To delay the building scream of frustration, I'll just keep thinking of the little things... little fingers. Little toes. Little nose.