For a long time now, nursing has been called "Pillow," in reference to the essential item used for comfortable nursing. At home, Finn has a special pillow with an identifiable pillow case. It's just a regular, down bed pillow, but it's only used for nursing, for the most part. The specialized nursing pillows really didn't do much for me. One wound up being more of a neck support for Pete when he would sleep with Finn, and the other we used when Finn was just getting the hang of sitting up--it was a little extra support for when he played on the floor. I donated them both ages ago.
I didn't bring Pillow because we had enough to carry, and when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter to Finn which pillow he uses. Pillow really means Boob, and I always have those. Here at the house, though, in mixed company, I started to refer to it as quiet time, and it's stuck. Finn quickly began to ask for "quiet time," and now it mostly means, "I need a break from all this. Let's go upstairs and do something else. Maybe we will read or play a game on the iPad. Maybe we will look out the window, I just need fewer stimuli."
It's advanced mood recognition, as far as I am concerned. Many, many adults don't understand when they have had enough and instead of taking a break become sulky, childish, or just plain mean. I know I have done it. Now I have a new code phrase to use: Quiet time. It's better than "I have to go 'Number 2.'"
Yesterday was a big, fat party. My in-laws' extended family is large and gregarious. Kind of like seagulls. I like sea gulls. They are graceful and attractive, diverse and interesting, but when you get too many of them in one place, it can be overwhelming. I dealt with it by cooking. I am making family dinner tonight (Pete said, "We should make dinner. You should make chicken enchiladas."), and of course, I have big plans, so I started two days ago by putting together a corn salsa. Then yesterday, I did the tomatillo sauce and the chicken filling. Tonight, I have to assemble them, make rice, and also do up some fish tacos. Hey, we're at the beach, so there has to be fish. It's not like Cape Cod is famous for its succulent, wild-caught chickens.
Last night, as I hung out in the kitchen, putting together the chicken, I got to talk to many people, but in shifts, as they came through and asked me what the heck I was doing. I think that because the dining room table was positively groaning under the weight of a million chicken wings, the largest tub of potato salad I have ever seen (Seriously, you could have bathed a baby in there), hot dogs, hamburgers, salad, cakes, and bars, they were perhaps questioning my sanity. They may have questioned it even further when I said I was working on Monday's dinner, but sanity is a relative thing in most families, so I don't think it matters all that much.
Today, we are vacationing much lighter, with just the immediate family, so it's very quiet. We spent some time on the beach, though the last few days of churning seas have left it completely blanketed in sea weed. Finn wanted to move some sand around, and we also managed to show him a couple of small crabs, a live scallop, and a few other neat things deposited close to shore by the wind and waves.