"I have bad news and I have worse news," the man on the telephone said.
It was the furniture store calling to tell me that the dresser I'd bought for Thing 2 was on backorder until August. The worse news, he said, was the bookshelf I'd ordered for Ittybit was discontinued and it wouldn't be coming at all.
"That's it? That's not a big deal," I said calmly. It was the morning of the day Thing 2 would be born, and I was trying to rest. With all the angst and worry over last-minute potential health issues for the new baby -- a enlarged kidney discovered in a 36-week ultrasound, and a forewarning that such anomalies are considered markers for Down syndrome -- it was obvious to me, the lack of furniture doesn't rise to the level of "bad" anything. (Unless of course the dresser or bookcase falls on you, and then THAT WOULD be bad.)
I was nervous -- that was true -- but I was also ready. After opening up and telling people about our worries, I got a crash course in kindness. People from all over sent word that they were praying for us and thinking about us and about Thing 2.
Then there was something I didn't expect to happen: A reader sent me an article from the New York Times that looked into the change in our communities since the medicine has made leaps and bounds in prenatal detection of chromosomal abnormalities such as Trisomy 21 or Down syndrome.
The article claimed that roughly 90 percent of mothers who are given this information early on abort the fetus. It makes sense, but it also does something else. It changes the face of our society. With fewer children born with Down syndrome, there will likely be implications such as fewer services available to those individuals as well as a shrinking social circle.
I'm not sure which made me more melancholy: that we could have a special needs child in a few hours or that this child's circle of support would be shrinking from year to year.
It's not that I'd want my child to have difficulties, no parent does. But I know that none of us gets through this life without disappointments, situations we can't control and hardships. Down syndrome, after all, isn't the worst diagnosis one could have. There are hardships, for sure, but ultimately it just means a different kind of life.
We all make decisions for ourselves and our families based on so many different little bits of information. So yes, I was nervous. I was worried. I wanted the best possible outcome, like all parents do.
In the childbirth center, my doctor prepared me for everything that could happen: The kidlet could be perfectly fine and join us directly in the recovery room or he might have some problems that would require him to be sent to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit; there was also the possibility that we still wouldn't have all the answers we wanted to have when he was born, but that no one would keep any information from me.
The important thing was that no matter what happened, he was going to be getting the best care and that ultimately he would be happy and he would be loved.
I took a deep breath and let it out. No turning back now.
And when the good doctors brought him screaming and kicking into the world, the high-risk pediatrician checked him over and pronounced him healthy and definitely "NOT" a Down syndrome baby.
We had all the assurances we needed.
And then our red-faced boy peed on the doc's stethoscope. His father was so proud.
The naming contest will continue through the month of June. Please continue to send your entries to sconnally@troyrecord.com or mail it to The Record, 501 Broadway, Troy, NY 12180.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Smiling all the while
I am a worrier.
Some people call me a hypochondriac, but I just think I’m extremely sensitive to minute physical changes.
Of course, you get to a certain point in all things — especially pregnancy — when you let your guard down and you begin to relax. The inevitable will happen, ready or not.
Having everybody constantly telling you "it won't be long now," for some has a universally calming effect – like Xanax. For folks like me, though, it just sets off alarms.
As I left the house for my 36-week doctor’s appointment, complete with a special womb-with-a-view monitoring of Thing 2, I had that icky feeling. That creepy, crawly, I-hate-the-late-term-appointments feeling: Something always goes wrong.
It was a familiar routine: I waited in the office for the ultrasound, reading Martha Stewart's instructions on making your own heart-shaped candy box. (This will be helpful, I think, if I ever lose my mind or decide to drive myself crazy next Valentine’s Day.)
I chat with the ultrasound technician as she scans around taking measurements. She notes that Thing 2 has moved into a head-down position, and shares my confusion over why anyone cares since the kid is going to be hatched anyway. She measures the head, legs and other body parts, which I think look more like pockets of clouds than parts of kid.
"He's really taking up every spare space there is," she laughs.
She takes a fuzzy picture of his face, and rips it from the machine handing it to me saying everything looks good. I go back to the lobby to wait for her report, which I carry to the next doctor upstairs.
I peek at the contents of my file while I climb three flights. Numbers, dates, ratios ... it seems as if I'm trying to read assembly instructions in Greek.
I’ve been through this before. There is nothing out of the ordinary.
When my name is called I go into the exam room. The doctor shakes my hand and introduces herself. We’ve not met yet. She smiles and looks at the chart.
"Well it looks like there's a dilation of one of the baby's kidneys. What we tend to do in this instance is have the baby looked at by a neonatologist after it's born to determine a course of action. It's difficult to say at this point what the significance is. ... surgery could be warranted or it maybe something that will resolve itself. ... "
Blink. Blink. Blink.
"What? What? Surgery? Watchful waiting? What?"
Her whole demeanor changed when she realized this was all new to me.
"Have you had all normal ultrasounds before?"
"Yes. Normal. Every single one has been normal."
I left the office with my head spinning. The only thing I could hold onto was the words "try not to worry" and some vague recollection of a friend whose children had been diagnosed similarly.
"This is not the end of the world. This is not the worst news you could get," I tell myself as I dodge cars and ignore traffic safety as I head back to the office.
I do the exact opposite of what one should do when I get back to my desk. I consult Dr. Google to find out what this means. I select university medical Web site information and read summaries. I come up with a 14-letter name for the condition and perform a Web search on that.
Then I call on my friends to see what they have to say.
Mostly they tell me I should be prepared for years of visits and tests with a specialist. Be ready for the smiling faces of people telling you scary things. Be ready to ask questions but try not to worry.
"Ninety percent of the time it's no big deal, but doctors follow everybody. They have to cover their butts," said a mom of a 2 ½ year old with the condition, who has gotten by with no intervention as yet. "The hardest part," she explained, "is when the doctors, who see this all the time, tell you nonchalantly, 'this could be nothing, it could lead to kidney failure or it could require surgery'."
Or, in my case, having "you realize this is a marker for Down syndrome?" thrown in for good measure.
It's never easy to convey potentially bad news, I realize, but I wish they'd take a moment to notice I am just a mom whose emotions are all intertwined with the child attached to a wonky kidney.
Some people call me a hypochondriac, but I just think I’m extremely sensitive to minute physical changes.
Of course, you get to a certain point in all things — especially pregnancy — when you let your guard down and you begin to relax. The inevitable will happen, ready or not.
Having everybody constantly telling you "it won't be long now," for some has a universally calming effect – like Xanax. For folks like me, though, it just sets off alarms.
As I left the house for my 36-week doctor’s appointment, complete with a special womb-with-a-view monitoring of Thing 2, I had that icky feeling. That creepy, crawly, I-hate-the-late-term-appointments feeling: Something always goes wrong.
It was a familiar routine: I waited in the office for the ultrasound, reading Martha Stewart's instructions on making your own heart-shaped candy box. (This will be helpful, I think, if I ever lose my mind or decide to drive myself crazy next Valentine’s Day.)
I chat with the ultrasound technician as she scans around taking measurements. She notes that Thing 2 has moved into a head-down position, and shares my confusion over why anyone cares since the kid is going to be hatched anyway. She measures the head, legs and other body parts, which I think look more like pockets of clouds than parts of kid.
"He's really taking up every spare space there is," she laughs.
She takes a fuzzy picture of his face, and rips it from the machine handing it to me saying everything looks good. I go back to the lobby to wait for her report, which I carry to the next doctor upstairs.
I peek at the contents of my file while I climb three flights. Numbers, dates, ratios ... it seems as if I'm trying to read assembly instructions in Greek.
I’ve been through this before. There is nothing out of the ordinary.
When my name is called I go into the exam room. The doctor shakes my hand and introduces herself. We’ve not met yet. She smiles and looks at the chart.
"Well it looks like there's a dilation of one of the baby's kidneys. What we tend to do in this instance is have the baby looked at by a neonatologist after it's born to determine a course of action. It's difficult to say at this point what the significance is. ... surgery could be warranted or it maybe something that will resolve itself. ... "
Blink. Blink. Blink.
"What? What? Surgery? Watchful waiting? What?"
Her whole demeanor changed when she realized this was all new to me.
"Have you had all normal ultrasounds before?"
"Yes. Normal. Every single one has been normal."
I left the office with my head spinning. The only thing I could hold onto was the words "try not to worry" and some vague recollection of a friend whose children had been diagnosed similarly.
"This is not the end of the world. This is not the worst news you could get," I tell myself as I dodge cars and ignore traffic safety as I head back to the office.
I do the exact opposite of what one should do when I get back to my desk. I consult Dr. Google to find out what this means. I select university medical Web site information and read summaries. I come up with a 14-letter name for the condition and perform a Web search on that.
Then I call on my friends to see what they have to say.
Mostly they tell me I should be prepared for years of visits and tests with a specialist. Be ready for the smiling faces of people telling you scary things. Be ready to ask questions but try not to worry.
"Ninety percent of the time it's no big deal, but doctors follow everybody. They have to cover their butts," said a mom of a 2 ½ year old with the condition, who has gotten by with no intervention as yet. "The hardest part," she explained, "is when the doctors, who see this all the time, tell you nonchalantly, 'this could be nothing, it could lead to kidney failure or it could require surgery'."
Or, in my case, having "you realize this is a marker for Down syndrome?" thrown in for good measure.
It's never easy to convey potentially bad news, I realize, but I wish they'd take a moment to notice I am just a mom whose emotions are all intertwined with the child attached to a wonky kidney.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
What's in your Mouskatoolbox?
If you have the misfortune of suffering through Playhouse Disney’s "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" on Sunday mornings (like I do) you already know that when our mouse hero has a dilemma he needs only the shrill voice of a toddler yelling "Oh Toodles!" to make a special toolbox appear and the troubles disappear.
Inside this computer-animated helpdesk are usually three Mouskatools and a Mystery Mouskatool that, when called upon in the correct order, will solve all of the show's plot predicaments.
Of course if these were real-life situations the tools would be useless, but the large-eyed, big-headed small fries staring into the black hole of the picture tube don't know this because in the magical world of Mickey Mouse a glue stick is all that’s needed to glue the keys back onto a broken piano, a catcher's mitt will indeed capture an "oooey gooey fish" bouncing around in a rowboat and a watering can is all that is required to make flowers grow.
But what tool do you call on when you open a kitchen drawer and the BIGGEST FIELD MOUSE you've ever seen comes scampering out and disappears under the stove?
Let's just say that if I were writing for the show there would be a few changes.
First, the mouse would NOT be the hero.
I don’t have too much empathy for any fictional rodents, no matter how sweet and cuddly and human-like, when I find half-eaten packets of cocoa; an empty bag of mini marshmallows, and tubes of green, purple and black frosting (but not the red) licked clean along with the tell-tale evidence in the bottom of my baking drawer.
Secondly, there would also be a lengthy discussion about food choices. Because aside from turning up his whiskers at the red-dye frosting, the animal ransacking our kitchen chose only the most sugar-laden items in the cache, leaving bags of raw almonds, walnuts and cashews completely untouched.
"Arrrrgh!"
"What mama?" Ittybit asks and I jump back from the cabinet.
"There is a mouse in the house," I say as I point to the place where I saw the revolting creature dart under the appliances.
"Oh, man," she exclaims, mimicking my displeasure but feeling the excitement of a new adventure as she throws herself down on the floor and peers under the range. "Where did he go?"
"Probably to tell all his friends that the jig is up, the die's been cast and there's a new sheriff in town," I say as I plan for the final changes in my clubhouse storyline. ... the tools in the new and improved Mouskatoolbox would have teeth — sharp, pointy, deadly teeth.
Although I'm not afraid of mice, I don't want to share my baking supplies with them, nor do I want to risk the slim potential for anyone in our household to contract haute virus by allowing the uninvited guests to continue to raid our non-perishables.
It's quite a shift from my mouse-loving days as a child. Standing over a mouse-gnawed mess, I couldn't be further from the kid I was who wouldn't speak to her own father for three days after he dispatched a mouse in the basement with a spring trap and a chunk of bacon.
Here I am, decades later, openly hoping the little critter suffers its demise with a fitting case of diabetes or a grotesque battle with gout before it meets its end in a silvery trap.
But my daughter is just like the "me" I was way back when ...
"You can't kill it. It's a living thing," she protests.
I intercept her as she heads for the drawer, presumably to paw through the debris where the mayhem took place. I call for assistance, asking her dad to take her to the park so I can clean up the mouse mess. He tells me he'll clean it up, but I'm beyond the point in the program where I can let it go. Since cleaning is easier than preschooler wrangling, I continue with my storyline and gather the supplies.
The tools that await me in my Mouskatool box include a vacuum cleaner, disinfectant and paper towels. I'm assuming the tools in the dad's tool box will include a series of dreadfully effective mousetraps and a shovel. Of course in my version, if all else fails, the Mystery Mouskatool would be howitzer.
Needless to say, the episode I'm working on will have to air on HBO following the Sopranos, but it would be worth it just for the "R" rating.
Inside this computer-animated helpdesk are usually three Mouskatools and a Mystery Mouskatool that, when called upon in the correct order, will solve all of the show's plot predicaments.
Of course if these were real-life situations the tools would be useless, but the large-eyed, big-headed small fries staring into the black hole of the picture tube don't know this because in the magical world of Mickey Mouse a glue stick is all that’s needed to glue the keys back onto a broken piano, a catcher's mitt will indeed capture an "oooey gooey fish" bouncing around in a rowboat and a watering can is all that is required to make flowers grow.
But what tool do you call on when you open a kitchen drawer and the BIGGEST FIELD MOUSE you've ever seen comes scampering out and disappears under the stove?
Let's just say that if I were writing for the show there would be a few changes.
First, the mouse would NOT be the hero.
I don’t have too much empathy for any fictional rodents, no matter how sweet and cuddly and human-like, when I find half-eaten packets of cocoa; an empty bag of mini marshmallows, and tubes of green, purple and black frosting (but not the red) licked clean along with the tell-tale evidence in the bottom of my baking drawer.
Secondly, there would also be a lengthy discussion about food choices. Because aside from turning up his whiskers at the red-dye frosting, the animal ransacking our kitchen chose only the most sugar-laden items in the cache, leaving bags of raw almonds, walnuts and cashews completely untouched.
"Arrrrgh!"
"What mama?" Ittybit asks and I jump back from the cabinet.
"There is a mouse in the house," I say as I point to the place where I saw the revolting creature dart under the appliances.
"Oh, man," she exclaims, mimicking my displeasure but feeling the excitement of a new adventure as she throws herself down on the floor and peers under the range. "Where did he go?"
"Probably to tell all his friends that the jig is up, the die's been cast and there's a new sheriff in town," I say as I plan for the final changes in my clubhouse storyline. ... the tools in the new and improved Mouskatoolbox would have teeth — sharp, pointy, deadly teeth.
Although I'm not afraid of mice, I don't want to share my baking supplies with them, nor do I want to risk the slim potential for anyone in our household to contract haute virus by allowing the uninvited guests to continue to raid our non-perishables.
It's quite a shift from my mouse-loving days as a child. Standing over a mouse-gnawed mess, I couldn't be further from the kid I was who wouldn't speak to her own father for three days after he dispatched a mouse in the basement with a spring trap and a chunk of bacon.
Here I am, decades later, openly hoping the little critter suffers its demise with a fitting case of diabetes or a grotesque battle with gout before it meets its end in a silvery trap.
But my daughter is just like the "me" I was way back when ...
"You can't kill it. It's a living thing," she protests.
I intercept her as she heads for the drawer, presumably to paw through the debris where the mayhem took place. I call for assistance, asking her dad to take her to the park so I can clean up the mouse mess. He tells me he'll clean it up, but I'm beyond the point in the program where I can let it go. Since cleaning is easier than preschooler wrangling, I continue with my storyline and gather the supplies.
The tools that await me in my Mouskatool box include a vacuum cleaner, disinfectant and paper towels. I'm assuming the tools in the dad's tool box will include a series of dreadfully effective mousetraps and a shovel. Of course in my version, if all else fails, the Mystery Mouskatool would be howitzer.
Needless to say, the episode I'm working on will have to air on HBO following the Sopranos, but it would be worth it just for the "R" rating.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Chiropracty is the new black
"That's definitely a foot," the doctor laughs as she pushes on the left side of my abdomen. "And I think he's moved into position," she muses. "I would say his head is definitely engaged now."
Last time I was here -- a week ago -- she wasn't sure which end was up: the rump end or the head end.
She pushes on my side ligaments and pelvic bones, rocking them back and forth. I struggle to keep from laughing.
"Oh my, that tickles."
Curled up like a pretzel, she cracks my back from each side.
"O.K. That's it for today. You're good to go."
I hand over my co-payment check and head for the car, feeling an inch taller.
It's official: Chiropracty is the new black.
As the daughter of a nurse, there’s always been something about "the alternative" medical practices that I’ve never really trusted.
"I don't care if there's three million years of ancient wisdom behind it, there is no way in this lifetime anyone is going to stick pins in me."
I've listened, and tried to keep my eyes from rolling upward, as friends and family have told me all about the amazing results they've experienced with acupuncture, acupressure, aromatherapy, biofeedback, botanicals, kinesiology, chiropracty, massage therapy, reflexology and even primal scream therapy until I've wanted to scream.
It also didn't help that I once went to a chiropractor at the insistence of my husband, who has chronic low back pain and apparently wanted me to share in the joy of adjustment. I'll admit, the mobility I experienced after the visit was more than I'd thought possible. But the next day I woke up in the worst pain EVER. EVER!
Pain is bad: very, very bad. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
"Your body always wants to go back to where it's been," the doctor assured me as I walked back into the office sideways, like a crab, with my chin seemingly cemented to my shoulder.
In a few more visits, I was back to where I started: standing upright, pain free and feeling fine.
No more alternatives for me, I decided. Even though I've since experienced massage therapy and reiki with pleasing results, I will not be converted. I grudgingly get a massage, feel great for three days and never make another appointment. Reiki was the same. It just relaxed me to the point of not caring whether I ever made another appointment again.
Feeling good is one thing … having to make an appointment to feel even better seems, I don’t know, overly self-indulgent maybe?
So when I got up from my desk one day and felt my right hip slide over in protest, shooting sharp pain around the region like a pinball, I called the obstetrician.
"Unfortunately, it's a normal part of pregnancy, especially when you start to 'pop' out," she said. "Your center of gravity gets all out of whack. Very common in second pregnancies," she says, offering only time as a cure. "Once the baby comes you'll feel better."
Now I've put up with heartburn, leg cramps, pregnancy rashes, the dreaded tired and the indignities of having "cankles" connecting my feet to my legs, but another six weeks of near debilitating pain would not do. I was going to have to seek an alternative.
I swallowed hard and called a chiropractor who specializes in pregnancy adjustments, justifying it in my head the whole time.
All my friends are doing it, and insurance kind of covers it so it can't REALLY be all THAT alternative right?
After only one visit I was feeling better but still worried about the dreaded "snap back." I walked around that whole weekend like an octogenarian on ice. The discomfort gradually moved back to the neighborhood during the course of the week, but only now it seemed to be a new and more agreeable tenant.
A few visits later, however, and I'm feeling so fine I'd considering naming the kid after her.
I know I'll probably revert to my old "I'd-like-massage-therapy-if-they-didn't-have-to-touch-me" self, but I've got to say I'm so glad there are alternatives, even if I'm usually to pig-headed to try them.
Last time I was here -- a week ago -- she wasn't sure which end was up: the rump end or the head end.
She pushes on my side ligaments and pelvic bones, rocking them back and forth. I struggle to keep from laughing.
"Oh my, that tickles."
Curled up like a pretzel, she cracks my back from each side.
"O.K. That's it for today. You're good to go."
I hand over my co-payment check and head for the car, feeling an inch taller.
It's official: Chiropracty is the new black.
As the daughter of a nurse, there’s always been something about "the alternative" medical practices that I’ve never really trusted.
"I don't care if there's three million years of ancient wisdom behind it, there is no way in this lifetime anyone is going to stick pins in me."
I've listened, and tried to keep my eyes from rolling upward, as friends and family have told me all about the amazing results they've experienced with acupuncture, acupressure, aromatherapy, biofeedback, botanicals, kinesiology, chiropracty, massage therapy, reflexology and even primal scream therapy until I've wanted to scream.
It also didn't help that I once went to a chiropractor at the insistence of my husband, who has chronic low back pain and apparently wanted me to share in the joy of adjustment. I'll admit, the mobility I experienced after the visit was more than I'd thought possible. But the next day I woke up in the worst pain EVER. EVER!
Pain is bad: very, very bad. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
"Your body always wants to go back to where it's been," the doctor assured me as I walked back into the office sideways, like a crab, with my chin seemingly cemented to my shoulder.
In a few more visits, I was back to where I started: standing upright, pain free and feeling fine.
No more alternatives for me, I decided. Even though I've since experienced massage therapy and reiki with pleasing results, I will not be converted. I grudgingly get a massage, feel great for three days and never make another appointment. Reiki was the same. It just relaxed me to the point of not caring whether I ever made another appointment again.
Feeling good is one thing … having to make an appointment to feel even better seems, I don’t know, overly self-indulgent maybe?
So when I got up from my desk one day and felt my right hip slide over in protest, shooting sharp pain around the region like a pinball, I called the obstetrician.
"Unfortunately, it's a normal part of pregnancy, especially when you start to 'pop' out," she said. "Your center of gravity gets all out of whack. Very common in second pregnancies," she says, offering only time as a cure. "Once the baby comes you'll feel better."
Now I've put up with heartburn, leg cramps, pregnancy rashes, the dreaded tired and the indignities of having "cankles" connecting my feet to my legs, but another six weeks of near debilitating pain would not do. I was going to have to seek an alternative.
I swallowed hard and called a chiropractor who specializes in pregnancy adjustments, justifying it in my head the whole time.
All my friends are doing it, and insurance kind of covers it so it can't REALLY be all THAT alternative right?
After only one visit I was feeling better but still worried about the dreaded "snap back." I walked around that whole weekend like an octogenarian on ice. The discomfort gradually moved back to the neighborhood during the course of the week, but only now it seemed to be a new and more agreeable tenant.
A few visits later, however, and I'm feeling so fine I'd considering naming the kid after her.
I know I'll probably revert to my old "I'd-like-massage-therapy-if-they-didn't-have-to-touch-me" self, but I've got to say I'm so glad there are alternatives, even if I'm usually to pig-headed to try them.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A magician for all seasons
The conjurer was cunning. Dressed in khaki slacks and a checked shirt, he didn’t much look like a magician at all.
His act was missing all the glitz and glam of a David Copperfield extravaganza not to mention the over-the-top theatrics of David Blaine's protracted feats of strength. Instead he had only comedy store props — like the wonky wands he generously handed out to every pint-sized assistant in the room.
To the initiated there was nothing special about the resort entertainer’s talents.
But to the uninitiated there was nothing but enchantment in his dime store tricks and sleight of hand.
"Who will assist me with this next trick?" he asked as all the chubby little hands in the audience stood at attention. One by one each junior conjurer took turns holding a wand, saying a magic word and pulling something unexpected out of some container previously shown to be empty.
When it was Ittybit's turn, the magic man produced two foam rabbits and held them up for all to see. He squished them into his hands and transferred them to hers. She looked so serious as he said the magic words … "Ipso, Upso, Grandilillyposo!!!" She dutifully tossed out the foam die-cuts to reveal a bunch of tiny bunnies had miraculously taken the place of the two original yellow silhouettes.
"WOW!!" she exclaimed, proud of her own happenstance talent. "Could there be more?" she wondered.
"Come closer, children. I have something to show you," the magician called.
As the kids crowded around he pulled a red kerchief from his shirt pocket. With a flourish, he juggled the tissue-y gauze from hand to hand before he began stowing the little prize precisely into a closed fist. The room was silent as he wiggled his fingers and opened his hands to show the hanky’s disappearance.
A second later he pulls the red cloth from the previously emptied hand.
And that’s when the magician steered off course ... "Let me show you how it's done."
I could feel my own eyes bulge. Was he REALLY going to reveal the "magic?"
The adults scooted closer to the edge of their chairs.
Sure we all thought we knew where this was going. We had all seen this trick dozens if not hundreds of times, but we’d all simply accepted that there WAS a trick to it and let it go without detailed explanation.
And that's when he took off his thumb. ...
"If you will direct your attention to my left thumb you will see that it is slightly longer than my right. Inside is where I've hidden the handkerchief. Holding the false finger in one hand, you put the cloth in with the other. Once you are done stuffing the cloth into it, you push your own thumb into it and just keep your hands moving ..."
You would think that such a revelation would be a let down. It would turn magic into a cheap parlor trick and the enchantment would be lost.
And yet, each kid took a turn at the sleight of hand. And each kid made magic happen.
Of course, that was his point: Anyone can make magic.
Later that evening, on our way to the resort's dining room, I noticed a man tuning a distinctive wood piano, getting ready to play a little dinner music. It was the magician.
As his fingers closed around the tools of the trade and he gave the wire a little turn, he let me in on another little secret.
"Hey, I saw that you signed up for the 7 a.m. yoga class ... I teach that group, so I'll see you tomorrow."
Magic indeed.
His act was missing all the glitz and glam of a David Copperfield extravaganza not to mention the over-the-top theatrics of David Blaine's protracted feats of strength. Instead he had only comedy store props — like the wonky wands he generously handed out to every pint-sized assistant in the room.
To the initiated there was nothing special about the resort entertainer’s talents.
But to the uninitiated there was nothing but enchantment in his dime store tricks and sleight of hand.
"Who will assist me with this next trick?" he asked as all the chubby little hands in the audience stood at attention. One by one each junior conjurer took turns holding a wand, saying a magic word and pulling something unexpected out of some container previously shown to be empty.
When it was Ittybit's turn, the magic man produced two foam rabbits and held them up for all to see. He squished them into his hands and transferred them to hers. She looked so serious as he said the magic words … "Ipso, Upso, Grandilillyposo!!!" She dutifully tossed out the foam die-cuts to reveal a bunch of tiny bunnies had miraculously taken the place of the two original yellow silhouettes.
"WOW!!" she exclaimed, proud of her own happenstance talent. "Could there be more?" she wondered.
"Come closer, children. I have something to show you," the magician called.
As the kids crowded around he pulled a red kerchief from his shirt pocket. With a flourish, he juggled the tissue-y gauze from hand to hand before he began stowing the little prize precisely into a closed fist. The room was silent as he wiggled his fingers and opened his hands to show the hanky’s disappearance.
A second later he pulls the red cloth from the previously emptied hand.
And that’s when the magician steered off course ... "Let me show you how it's done."
I could feel my own eyes bulge. Was he REALLY going to reveal the "magic?"
The adults scooted closer to the edge of their chairs.
Sure we all thought we knew where this was going. We had all seen this trick dozens if not hundreds of times, but we’d all simply accepted that there WAS a trick to it and let it go without detailed explanation.
And that's when he took off his thumb. ...
"If you will direct your attention to my left thumb you will see that it is slightly longer than my right. Inside is where I've hidden the handkerchief. Holding the false finger in one hand, you put the cloth in with the other. Once you are done stuffing the cloth into it, you push your own thumb into it and just keep your hands moving ..."
You would think that such a revelation would be a let down. It would turn magic into a cheap parlor trick and the enchantment would be lost.
And yet, each kid took a turn at the sleight of hand. And each kid made magic happen.
Of course, that was his point: Anyone can make magic.
Later that evening, on our way to the resort's dining room, I noticed a man tuning a distinctive wood piano, getting ready to play a little dinner music. It was the magician.
As his fingers closed around the tools of the trade and he gave the wire a little turn, he let me in on another little secret.
"Hey, I saw that you signed up for the 7 a.m. yoga class ... I teach that group, so I'll see you tomorrow."
Magic indeed.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
How to tell if you need retail therapy
Repeat after me: Don't get attached to things. Let things attach to you. Say it again with me.
You can't go to Target and swing a cat without hitting a pregnant woman.
The red and white bulls-eye, I suppose, just reels them in with their funky finds for new moms.
So it seems a little strange that I should be avoiding the place. It has to be pregnancy related.
I’ll admit that during the 15-month pregnancy drought, which finally ended in September, I'd tried to steer clear of the Midwest-Mecca of multi-department merchandising for just that reason. All those burgeoning bellies just made me feel down in the dumps.
Whatever incidental hunk of junk I sought could probably be found on the Internet, I told myself. "Shipping schmipping, at least I'd never have to bump into a baby bump again."
But recently I've felt its aisles, filled with brightly colored merchandise, closing in on me again.
With only a month to go, I feel as if Newton’s third law of motion -- For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction – is guiding me into a quagmire of retail inertia. I feel as if I'm in the scope of the bulls-eye, surrounded by other women staking claim to the aisle's precious real estate, happily stocking up for their own impeding arrivals.
Do I clean the old carseat or buy a new one?
If a buy a new one, will it help me avoid tennis elbow I suffered through most of 2004 and 2005?
But standing in the happy glow of Target’s offerings, all I see is more stuff. ... More stuff to add to the stuff I’ve already acquired and can't manage. More stuff to be unpackaged, stored, repackaged and recycled. More stuff that will wind up abandoned in closets.
I need to snap out of it. I have to get retail therapy.
So I let my fingers do the clicking and decide I am going to fling the old baby pack and buy a sling.
For Ittybit, we used an adjustable front pack, similar to the much touted BABY BJÖRN, but half the price. It was wonderful for about four or five months, until she doubled her birth weight and caused my back to protest. It was also cumbersome to put on. Straps and buckles had to be adjusted and readjusted every time.
This time I knew I wanted something that I could just put on and go. Something that seemed fool proof. Something that wouldn't make me want to throw the baby out with the proverbial bathwater. But here I am balking at the median $60 price tag. So as is my way, I found an agreeable alternative -- a Peanut Shell baby sling from a company called Goo-Ga Style, Inc. in the clearance/discontinued item page of its online shop.
When it came in the mail I was so excited I practically chewed through the weather resistant mailing pouch to get at it. In the process I unfolded the precisely folded sling and stood in the kitchen with what resembled a brightly colored, gigantic fabric Cheerio.
"I am never going to figure this out," I lamented as I remembered the ALL SALES FINAL deal that made the price so attractive.
"I found a pocket! ... NO, the baby is DEFINITELY NOT fitting in there."
I looked at the picture on the brochure ... "how do they ..."
I folded it up, put it back in the bag and walked away.
"Maybe it's too small. It looks to small. What was I thinking? I am not that small."
I returned to the table a few minutes later -- unable to give up on the puzzle -- and I extract the sling again. This time I tried folding it in and slipping it over my shoulder. ... "Ahhhh. Maybe? ... Nope. It's upside-down."
I turn it inside out and try again. "There! That's IT! I've got it."
But then I wonder: "OK, I've got it on, but how to I get the baby in there? Maybe I should test this on a doll."
So off I go, looking for the most baby-like toy in Ittybit's collection. I settle for Elmo.
"Mama? What are you doing?"
"I'm just testing the new baby gear out on the little monster."
"Does it fit?"
"Yes, I think it does."
"Well ... daddy can be pretty, too."
"What do you mean?"
"If daddy wore that he'd be pretty, too."
I've no doubt he'd look mighty purdy in this, but I have a confession: The Peanut Sling so comfee I may just wear Elmo around the house until there's a suitable replacement. And by then, who knows, maybe my aversion to Target will have gone the way of sciatica and heartburn. Maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and buy the new carseat after all.
You can't go to Target and swing a cat without hitting a pregnant woman.
The red and white bulls-eye, I suppose, just reels them in with their funky finds for new moms.
So it seems a little strange that I should be avoiding the place. It has to be pregnancy related.
I’ll admit that during the 15-month pregnancy drought, which finally ended in September, I'd tried to steer clear of the Midwest-Mecca of multi-department merchandising for just that reason. All those burgeoning bellies just made me feel down in the dumps.
Whatever incidental hunk of junk I sought could probably be found on the Internet, I told myself. "Shipping schmipping, at least I'd never have to bump into a baby bump again."
But recently I've felt its aisles, filled with brightly colored merchandise, closing in on me again.
With only a month to go, I feel as if Newton’s third law of motion -- For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction – is guiding me into a quagmire of retail inertia. I feel as if I'm in the scope of the bulls-eye, surrounded by other women staking claim to the aisle's precious real estate, happily stocking up for their own impeding arrivals.
Do I clean the old carseat or buy a new one?
If a buy a new one, will it help me avoid tennis elbow I suffered through most of 2004 and 2005?
But standing in the happy glow of Target’s offerings, all I see is more stuff. ... More stuff to add to the stuff I’ve already acquired and can't manage. More stuff to be unpackaged, stored, repackaged and recycled. More stuff that will wind up abandoned in closets.
I need to snap out of it. I have to get retail therapy.
So I let my fingers do the clicking and decide I am going to fling the old baby pack and buy a sling.
For Ittybit, we used an adjustable front pack, similar to the much touted BABY BJÖRN, but half the price. It was wonderful for about four or five months, until she doubled her birth weight and caused my back to protest. It was also cumbersome to put on. Straps and buckles had to be adjusted and readjusted every time.
This time I knew I wanted something that I could just put on and go. Something that seemed fool proof. Something that wouldn't make me want to throw the baby out with the proverbial bathwater. But here I am balking at the median $60 price tag. So as is my way, I found an agreeable alternative -- a Peanut Shell baby sling from a company called Goo-Ga Style, Inc. in the clearance/discontinued item page of its online shop.
When it came in the mail I was so excited I practically chewed through the weather resistant mailing pouch to get at it. In the process I unfolded the precisely folded sling and stood in the kitchen with what resembled a brightly colored, gigantic fabric Cheerio.
"I am never going to figure this out," I lamented as I remembered the ALL SALES FINAL deal that made the price so attractive.
"I found a pocket! ... NO, the baby is DEFINITELY NOT fitting in there."
I looked at the picture on the brochure ... "how do they ..."
I folded it up, put it back in the bag and walked away.
"Maybe it's too small. It looks to small. What was I thinking? I am not that small."
I returned to the table a few minutes later -- unable to give up on the puzzle -- and I extract the sling again. This time I tried folding it in and slipping it over my shoulder. ... "Ahhhh. Maybe? ... Nope. It's upside-down."
I turn it inside out and try again. "There! That's IT! I've got it."
But then I wonder: "OK, I've got it on, but how to I get the baby in there? Maybe I should test this on a doll."
So off I go, looking for the most baby-like toy in Ittybit's collection. I settle for Elmo.
"Mama? What are you doing?"
"I'm just testing the new baby gear out on the little monster."
"Does it fit?"
"Yes, I think it does."
"Well ... daddy can be pretty, too."
"What do you mean?"
"If daddy wore that he'd be pretty, too."
I've no doubt he'd look mighty purdy in this, but I have a confession: The Peanut Sling so comfee I may just wear Elmo around the house until there's a suitable replacement. And by then, who knows, maybe my aversion to Target will have gone the way of sciatica and heartburn. Maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and buy the new carseat after all.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Happy Mother's Day! How about a contest?
BUT FIRST ... A word from our sponsors ...
DEAR EXILED IN TOYLAND READERS ... In case you weren't aware, Exiled in Toyland is a place where I've been personally archiving a column I write for a local newspaper, The Record. Up until recently it has been corporate policy to upload only a few items to our official web presence. Since that edict has changed, my columns will now be published every week here.
I hope you will come on over and visit at my "day job," where you can enter the "official" baby-naming contest and browse around.
*****
Desperation can make you do strange things.
Like many women in my condition, I've been on the lookout for the perfect baby name.
Not the name that will go on the birth certificate, mind you. Miraculously the selection of the official designation has been relatively easy. It actually took up residence in my head the moment the ultrasound technician clued me in that Thing 2 was a boy.
No, I'm looking for something to use as a nom de plume here in these pages (and over at Ittybit's & Pieces).
You know, 'cause I have my priorities: A name is just a name but a nickname out in cyberspace lasts forever. So here I am obsessing over a name that fits well with "Ittybit" but doesn't make the kid seem as if he was an afterthought, affixed into the masthead with Scotch tape.
Ittybit and ...
I've got nothing.
Up until now I've stolen rather unabashedly from Theodor Geisel and his "Cat in the Hat" classic when referring to the kidlet swimming around in my gene pool. But when push comes to caesarian section sometime mid-June, I know a real fake name will have to be substituted.
But still, with the pressure on and the heat moving to the front burner, a suitable silly subtitle hasn't been forthcoming.
What's a mother to do?
Well, this mother consulted baby name books and Web sites, and watched movie credits roll past with more concentration than she spent on the movie’s plot. Unsuccessful, I waded through countless children's stories, looking for literary characters that would make snappy names. I started looking a products in stores, wondering if perhaps a name would jump out at me.
Hmmmmm. How about Ittybit and Tums? Nope. 'Not gonna do it.'
Then I took the passive approach. I waited for suggestions, hoping for intervention. When none showed up in my inbox, I wandered onto the Internet.
There I was, Googling for pet names when I stumbled across Pet Name Finder.
"This is promising," I thought as I typed my answers into the pop-up menus, pausing just before I clicked the send button. "Maybe an actual name for a pet will be the ticket."
To my surprise, though, the name that the computer came up with for my fictional fido was the EXACT one I'd had my heart set on for the child's given name.
So, OK, I have a name suitable for a child (or a pet), but I still don't have a pet name that rolls off the tongue and plays nicely with Ittbit. (Let’s face it, making sure the kidlets play nice is what it's all, right?)
With all my options running out, I'm doing what I should have done in the first place. Begging.
And that's where you come in, dear readers. I need your collective expertise, your naming acumen and most of all your At-least-I'm-sleeping-eight-hours-per-night minds.
I don't care how you do it. You can consult tea leaves or the stars or your loveable (but not so with-it) Aunt Marge, but send me your entries for Thing 2's nom de plume and a completely biased and arbitrary decision could make you a winner.
What you win will be determined, but I promise you won't be asked to change diapers.
To submit a entry: Write to me at The Record, 501 Broadway, Troy NY, 12108; email sconnally@troyrecord.com or fax 518.270.1202. Include your name, address and phone number with your submission. The deadline for entries is June 15. A winner will be announced when Thing 2 arrives.
DEAR EXILED IN TOYLAND READERS ... In case you weren't aware, Exiled in Toyland is a place where I've been personally archiving a column I write for a local newspaper, The Record. Up until recently it has been corporate policy to upload only a few items to our official web presence. Since that edict has changed, my columns will now be published every week here.
I hope you will come on over and visit at my "day job," where you can enter the "official" baby-naming contest and browse around.
Desperation can make you do strange things.
Like many women in my condition, I've been on the lookout for the perfect baby name.
Not the name that will go on the birth certificate, mind you. Miraculously the selection of the official designation has been relatively easy. It actually took up residence in my head the moment the ultrasound technician clued me in that Thing 2 was a boy.
No, I'm looking for something to use as a nom de plume here in these pages (and over at Ittybit's & Pieces).
You know, 'cause I have my priorities: A name is just a name but a nickname out in cyberspace lasts forever. So here I am obsessing over a name that fits well with "Ittybit" but doesn't make the kid seem as if he was an afterthought, affixed into the masthead with Scotch tape.
Ittybit and ...
I've got nothing.
Up until now I've stolen rather unabashedly from Theodor Geisel and his "Cat in the Hat" classic when referring to the kidlet swimming around in my gene pool. But when push comes to caesarian section sometime mid-June, I know a real fake name will have to be substituted.
But still, with the pressure on and the heat moving to the front burner, a suitable silly subtitle hasn't been forthcoming.
What's a mother to do?
Well, this mother consulted baby name books and Web sites, and watched movie credits roll past with more concentration than she spent on the movie’s plot. Unsuccessful, I waded through countless children's stories, looking for literary characters that would make snappy names. I started looking a products in stores, wondering if perhaps a name would jump out at me.
Hmmmmm. How about Ittybit and Tums? Nope. 'Not gonna do it.'
Then I took the passive approach. I waited for suggestions, hoping for intervention. When none showed up in my inbox, I wandered onto the Internet.
There I was, Googling for pet names when I stumbled across Pet Name Finder.
"This is promising," I thought as I typed my answers into the pop-up menus, pausing just before I clicked the send button. "Maybe an actual name for a pet will be the ticket."
To my surprise, though, the name that the computer came up with for my fictional fido was the EXACT one I'd had my heart set on for the child's given name.
So, OK, I have a name suitable for a child (or a pet), but I still don't have a pet name that rolls off the tongue and plays nicely with Ittbit. (Let’s face it, making sure the kidlets play nice is what it's all, right?)
With all my options running out, I'm doing what I should have done in the first place. Begging.
And that's where you come in, dear readers. I need your collective expertise, your naming acumen and most of all your At-least-I'm-sleeping-eight-hours-per-night minds.
I don't care how you do it. You can consult tea leaves or the stars or your loveable (but not so with-it) Aunt Marge, but send me your entries for Thing 2's nom de plume and a completely biased and arbitrary decision could make you a winner.
What you win will be determined, but I promise you won't be asked to change diapers.
To submit a entry: Write to me at The Record, 501 Broadway, Troy NY, 12108; email sconnally@troyrecord.com or fax 518.270.1202. Include your name, address and phone number with your submission. The deadline for entries is June 15. A winner will be announced when Thing 2 arrives.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
What light through yonder window breaks?
My daughter comes into our bedroom almost every morning at 6 a.m., stands by MY side of the bed and claps her hands twice.
I startle awake. Gone are the days when she’d stand there and stare at me until my eyes would open without the added joy of my heart jumping into my throat.
Now she’s become The Clapper.
Of course, it won't surprise me in the least if one of these mornings her usual routine causes the lights to blaze, the television to roar to life and the coffee maker to start perking. It's just the way the house is wired now that my husband — a gadget and techno-geek — has been doing home repairs.
Slowly, (emphasis on S-L-O-W) my husband is transforming our barn into a home. In the years we've lived in this rambling abode, he's rebuilt rotted decks, replaced some old doors and windows, reconstructed entire rooms, installed wood floors and new kitchen cabinets. He's even framed out an area for a luxury spa bathroom and purchased the decadent air-jet tub, where, once installed, I plan on moving all of my Earthly possessions.
Although the overall appearance is one of little progress since none of the projects started HAS in fact BEEN completed hitherto, the list of changes made during the last seven years is nothing short of impressive nevertheless.
Of course I tell him the work he does is appreciated, but I'm careful not to gush. After all, I do want moldings someday so I can't have him resting on his laurels. I also like to reserve the right to gloat on his jack-of-all-trades shortcomings just for kicks.
For instance take the aforementioned lighting. In most homes you don’t have to think about turning on the bathroom or bedroom lights. You flip a switch and the room comes into focus under the glare of energy-saving compact florescent luminosity.
Not in our house. Some folks find programming their VCR impossible? I have trouble working our lights.
Whenever we have guests I practically have to hand them a manual on how to work the lights:
"Ok. If you need to use the bathroom, remember to turn on the track lights in the dining room first. They are on the same circuit and the bathroom lights won’t turn on without the dining room lights on. … And if you turn on the hall lights and they go off by themselves don't worry, it's nothing. Just turn them back on, making sure the switch that is all the way to the left is turned on first. Oh. ... and the light over the bed works on a remote control. If you can't get it to come on you'll have to go to the main panel on the wall and see that the switch is pressed DOWN then press the sensor to the right seven times until the little green lights on the left side of the switch glow."
Even my husband's bedside table has a contraption that allows his lowly lamp to be transformed into a resplendent "natural alarm clock," which, unfortunately, I haven't learned how to operate. I often curse his name as I struggle to turn the thing off a half hour after the light fooled him into thinking being awakened at 4 a.m. is actually "natural."
After I pull myself out of bed and grope around for the plug and end my suffering, all I can think about is Shakespeare ... "so this is what he meant by 'But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?' I bet some grumpy wife threw her husband's 'natural light' alarm clock out of the window when she couldn't figure out how to turn it off.
I startle awake. Gone are the days when she’d stand there and stare at me until my eyes would open without the added joy of my heart jumping into my throat.
Now she’s become The Clapper.
Of course, it won't surprise me in the least if one of these mornings her usual routine causes the lights to blaze, the television to roar to life and the coffee maker to start perking. It's just the way the house is wired now that my husband — a gadget and techno-geek — has been doing home repairs.
Slowly, (emphasis on S-L-O-W) my husband is transforming our barn into a home. In the years we've lived in this rambling abode, he's rebuilt rotted decks, replaced some old doors and windows, reconstructed entire rooms, installed wood floors and new kitchen cabinets. He's even framed out an area for a luxury spa bathroom and purchased the decadent air-jet tub, where, once installed, I plan on moving all of my Earthly possessions.
Although the overall appearance is one of little progress since none of the projects started HAS in fact BEEN completed hitherto, the list of changes made during the last seven years is nothing short of impressive nevertheless.
Of course I tell him the work he does is appreciated, but I'm careful not to gush. After all, I do want moldings someday so I can't have him resting on his laurels. I also like to reserve the right to gloat on his jack-of-all-trades shortcomings just for kicks.
For instance take the aforementioned lighting. In most homes you don’t have to think about turning on the bathroom or bedroom lights. You flip a switch and the room comes into focus under the glare of energy-saving compact florescent luminosity.
Not in our house. Some folks find programming their VCR impossible? I have trouble working our lights.
Whenever we have guests I practically have to hand them a manual on how to work the lights:
"Ok. If you need to use the bathroom, remember to turn on the track lights in the dining room first. They are on the same circuit and the bathroom lights won’t turn on without the dining room lights on. … And if you turn on the hall lights and they go off by themselves don't worry, it's nothing. Just turn them back on, making sure the switch that is all the way to the left is turned on first. Oh. ... and the light over the bed works on a remote control. If you can't get it to come on you'll have to go to the main panel on the wall and see that the switch is pressed DOWN then press the sensor to the right seven times until the little green lights on the left side of the switch glow."
Even my husband's bedside table has a contraption that allows his lowly lamp to be transformed into a resplendent "natural alarm clock," which, unfortunately, I haven't learned how to operate. I often curse his name as I struggle to turn the thing off a half hour after the light fooled him into thinking being awakened at 4 a.m. is actually "natural."
After I pull myself out of bed and grope around for the plug and end my suffering, all I can think about is Shakespeare ... "so this is what he meant by 'But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?' I bet some grumpy wife threw her husband's 'natural light' alarm clock out of the window when she couldn't figure out how to turn it off.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Rad mommy ... I mean Bad MOMMY!
Apparently I've lost my moral compass. I know I had one. It was here somewhere, buried under the stacks of unopened junk mail in the kitchen, or perhaps mingling with the detritus in the disaster area I call my purse.
But according to officials at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children (or MCA-UCC for you acronym lovers) where Ittybit attends classes twice weekly, it is gone and I am officially a menace.
A hipster mom. A woman woefully bereft of common sense. I may already be on some early education watch list.
I'm going to say it all started because Ittybit learned to dress herself, and has apparently adopted my penchant for the color black and silly, decadent things that conservative, mommy types who live in the suburbs shouldn't enjoy.
In her self-chosen black Little Girl Big Attitude T-shirt, accessorized with Jolly Roger emblazoned legwarmers covering her exposed arms, we groove to pop tunes and hip-hop in the car; she asks for Bank Job by the "Naked Old Ladies" and sings Black Eyed Peas’ "Let's Get It Started," at the tops of her lungs.
Now, it's not that we didn't try the kid stuff. I suffered through The Wiggles and Barney just like every parent of every tot in the Western hemisphere. I even came to love Elmo despite his red furry insistence on referring to himself in the third person, but Ittybit moved along to our Dave Matthews CDs as easily as I followed to my folks into Folk.
It wasn't intentional. It was pure luck. To have her actually prefer my musical preferences to those of her peers seemed nothing short of miraculous.
But when she takes off her coat in the brightly painted pre-school, and the prim and proper teachers notice the skull and crossbones-knitted woolens warming her arms, two words that never would have occurred to me at this juncture become abundantly clear: DRESS CODE. And listed prominently under the heading "INAPPROPRIATE" would be the Jolly Roger.
Mind you, I saw an inkling of this strict adherence to suitability the last time I showed up at the decorous academy to do my part by assisting with snacks and tripping over myself and the many tiny chairs. Ms. Cuthbert had asked ittybit, as is her custom on a child's "special day," to recite how many people live at her house.
"Mommy, Daddy and MAD-O-LINE the dog ... Maggie dog used to live there, too. But she died. She's buried in the backyard. ..."
"OH KAY" sings Ms. Cuthbert with the distinct tone of uncertain surprise one might have when unexpected unpleasantness escapes its moors. "Moving right along ..."
As a parent teaching their toddler to accept death as a part of life, and as a woman who believes we are fast becoming a society that can't see the forest for all the trees as we try to clear cut to our moral high ground, I find myself wishing that I could muster some righteous indignation. Just enough to show my distain for prejudice based on outward appearances.
I want to rail against how we’ve all come to fear things that are not bathed in sweetness and light, cuteness and bows; and the thinking that the wildest hair color or the wackiest clothing is a dangerous thing.
Skeletons, after all, have a prominent place in medical and anatomical education, too don’t they? Well? Don't they?
The thoughts in my head become as shrill as a scream. But then I realized I signed up for this. By becoming a parent I had willingly joined a club with strange rules and customs and members who have different ways of seeing the world, let alone chart its course. And as a new community member, I'd have to navigate the waters with care so as not to sink the ship. Even though I still see no harm in a pint-sized pirate, I also see no reason to shiver the timbers. Not just yet, anyway.
But according to officials at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children (or MCA-UCC for you acronym lovers) where Ittybit attends classes twice weekly, it is gone and I am officially a menace.
A hipster mom. A woman woefully bereft of common sense. I may already be on some early education watch list.
I'm going to say it all started because Ittybit learned to dress herself, and has apparently adopted my penchant for the color black and silly, decadent things that conservative, mommy types who live in the suburbs shouldn't enjoy.
In her self-chosen black Little Girl Big Attitude T-shirt, accessorized with Jolly Roger emblazoned legwarmers covering her exposed arms, we groove to pop tunes and hip-hop in the car; she asks for Bank Job by the "Naked Old Ladies" and sings Black Eyed Peas’ "Let's Get It Started," at the tops of her lungs.
Now, it's not that we didn't try the kid stuff. I suffered through The Wiggles and Barney just like every parent of every tot in the Western hemisphere. I even came to love Elmo despite his red furry insistence on referring to himself in the third person, but Ittybit moved along to our Dave Matthews CDs as easily as I followed to my folks into Folk.
It wasn't intentional. It was pure luck. To have her actually prefer my musical preferences to those of her peers seemed nothing short of miraculous.
But when she takes off her coat in the brightly painted pre-school, and the prim and proper teachers notice the skull and crossbones-knitted woolens warming her arms, two words that never would have occurred to me at this juncture become abundantly clear: DRESS CODE. And listed prominently under the heading "INAPPROPRIATE" would be the Jolly Roger.
Mind you, I saw an inkling of this strict adherence to suitability the last time I showed up at the decorous academy to do my part by assisting with snacks and tripping over myself and the many tiny chairs. Ms. Cuthbert had asked ittybit, as is her custom on a child's "special day," to recite how many people live at her house.
"Mommy, Daddy and MAD-O-LINE the dog ... Maggie dog used to live there, too. But she died. She's buried in the backyard. ..."
"OH KAY" sings Ms. Cuthbert with the distinct tone of uncertain surprise one might have when unexpected unpleasantness escapes its moors. "Moving right along ..."
As a parent teaching their toddler to accept death as a part of life, and as a woman who believes we are fast becoming a society that can't see the forest for all the trees as we try to clear cut to our moral high ground, I find myself wishing that I could muster some righteous indignation. Just enough to show my distain for prejudice based on outward appearances.
I want to rail against how we’ve all come to fear things that are not bathed in sweetness and light, cuteness and bows; and the thinking that the wildest hair color or the wackiest clothing is a dangerous thing.
Skeletons, after all, have a prominent place in medical and anatomical education, too don’t they? Well? Don't they?
The thoughts in my head become as shrill as a scream. But then I realized I signed up for this. By becoming a parent I had willingly joined a club with strange rules and customs and members who have different ways of seeing the world, let alone chart its course. And as a new community member, I'd have to navigate the waters with care so as not to sink the ship. Even though I still see no harm in a pint-sized pirate, I also see no reason to shiver the timbers. Not just yet, anyway.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Prevention may not be the cure
I've heard it a million times: "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." But lately I've been wondering if that ounce of prevention doesn’t also equal a metric ton of unnecessary angst?
If you've followed the news at all during the last decade, you’re probably aware of the billions of ailments and hardships we can prevent by eating the right foods, getting the right exercise, getting the proper amount of rest and moving to the right neighborhood ... or being born to the right parents ... or jumping around on our left foot while tugging at our right ear.
Sorting it all out isn't even the biggest problem, although it probably doesn't help that the "Good" list includes coffee, sunlight, red wine, chocolate and sex for their anti-oxidant and stress relieving properties — all of which may also be found prominently on the "Bad" list, presumably for their cardiac weakening and carcinogenic properties, too.
Maybe it's just coincidence that since the advent of safety campaigns such as "Loose Lips Sinks Ships," to "Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires," we've seen a collective increase in American anxiety.
Is it possible that the idea that we can effectively stop bad things from happening has turned prevention into avoidance and pushed us all into a state of undue anxiety?
Perhaps it's a bit of a leap or an over simplification, but I keep asking myself what has changed since I was a kid and the answer I keep coming up with is fear.
Improvements are everywhere:
*Car seats are safer
*Footwear for kids is better
*Cribs and toys are better designed
*Getting the word out on hazards is instantaneous and fixes are just as speedy.
And yet we'll say "the world is a different place" today as easily as we said an "ounce of prevention ..." yesterday.
We've all seen stories of children abducted from their own homes or on their way to school, and we put ourselves in the place of the victim. But no matter that numbers indicate stranger kidnappings are statistically insignificant, we can only wrap our minds around the fear and the possibility of preventing a tragedy even if we can't do it.
This week, and the many weeks that follow, will be especially difficult to keep from speculating how things went so wrong as the nation mourns the tragic horror that took place on the campus of Virginia Tech on Monday.
How could anyone look around them and see reason for hope? How do we keep from retreating further from the world and each other? And yet we must. We must move forward.
For doesn't it seem strange that very bad things continue to befall us, despite our continuing to meet tragedy with legislation? Or despite the fact that kids aren't allowed to be without parental supervision anymore? The playgrounds in my neighborhood are always empty of the kids I would have known in my suburban pre-adolescence: Kids who showed up after school with their gloves and their bats and wondered who wanted to play pitch and catch. Kids who wouldn't go home until their mother's called or darkness ended the game. Instead there are huge playfields and droves of parents trucking their uniformed children from one league game to the next, setting up the tailgate of their minivan with Gatorade and low-fat snacks, and yaking on the cell phone during play.
Despite all my digging in of heels and refusing to believe the world has changed for the worse, I fall into the trap of such ill-perception myself.
Anxiety is always the first emotion to appear as I drive my family sedan on the windy, back roads I used to ride my ten-speed Schwinn an unhelmeted five miles alone. What ifs start coming like mad. What if a driver didn’t see me; what if there was an accident; what if I just disappeared.
I wonder how my parents were able to let me go. How I will let Ittybit go? But then I realize, sadly, I probably won’t have to let her go: There won’t be anyone for her to meet if I did. All of her friends will be at soccer games with their moms or dance lessons or gymnastics after school.
The playgrounds will still be empty.
If you've followed the news at all during the last decade, you’re probably aware of the billions of ailments and hardships we can prevent by eating the right foods, getting the right exercise, getting the proper amount of rest and moving to the right neighborhood ... or being born to the right parents ... or jumping around on our left foot while tugging at our right ear.
Sorting it all out isn't even the biggest problem, although it probably doesn't help that the "Good" list includes coffee, sunlight, red wine, chocolate and sex for their anti-oxidant and stress relieving properties — all of which may also be found prominently on the "Bad" list, presumably for their cardiac weakening and carcinogenic properties, too.
Maybe it's just coincidence that since the advent of safety campaigns such as "Loose Lips Sinks Ships," to "Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires," we've seen a collective increase in American anxiety.
Is it possible that the idea that we can effectively stop bad things from happening has turned prevention into avoidance and pushed us all into a state of undue anxiety?
Perhaps it's a bit of a leap or an over simplification, but I keep asking myself what has changed since I was a kid and the answer I keep coming up with is fear.
Improvements are everywhere:
*Car seats are safer
*Footwear for kids is better
*Cribs and toys are better designed
*Getting the word out on hazards is instantaneous and fixes are just as speedy.
And yet we'll say "the world is a different place" today as easily as we said an "ounce of prevention ..." yesterday.
We've all seen stories of children abducted from their own homes or on their way to school, and we put ourselves in the place of the victim. But no matter that numbers indicate stranger kidnappings are statistically insignificant, we can only wrap our minds around the fear and the possibility of preventing a tragedy even if we can't do it.
This week, and the many weeks that follow, will be especially difficult to keep from speculating how things went so wrong as the nation mourns the tragic horror that took place on the campus of Virginia Tech on Monday.
How could anyone look around them and see reason for hope? How do we keep from retreating further from the world and each other? And yet we must. We must move forward.
For doesn't it seem strange that very bad things continue to befall us, despite our continuing to meet tragedy with legislation? Or despite the fact that kids aren't allowed to be without parental supervision anymore? The playgrounds in my neighborhood are always empty of the kids I would have known in my suburban pre-adolescence: Kids who showed up after school with their gloves and their bats and wondered who wanted to play pitch and catch. Kids who wouldn't go home until their mother's called or darkness ended the game. Instead there are huge playfields and droves of parents trucking their uniformed children from one league game to the next, setting up the tailgate of their minivan with Gatorade and low-fat snacks, and yaking on the cell phone during play.
Despite all my digging in of heels and refusing to believe the world has changed for the worse, I fall into the trap of such ill-perception myself.
Anxiety is always the first emotion to appear as I drive my family sedan on the windy, back roads I used to ride my ten-speed Schwinn an unhelmeted five miles alone. What ifs start coming like mad. What if a driver didn’t see me; what if there was an accident; what if I just disappeared.
I wonder how my parents were able to let me go. How I will let Ittybit go? But then I realize, sadly, I probably won’t have to let her go: There won’t be anyone for her to meet if I did. All of her friends will be at soccer games with their moms or dance lessons or gymnastics after school.
The playgrounds will still be empty.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
A second pregnancy unlike the first
A friend of mine recently relayed a story about how, at 27 weeks gestation with her second child, she'd attended her first prenatal yoga class and nearly cried at the thought of how this time around she hadn't been taking care of herself.
How is it possible, she wondered, that it had taken so long to check in with herself and connect with the newbie? Just one hour a week, that's all she needed.
That's what it's been like for me this whole winter. The weeks just seem to fly by, bringing with them one niggling sickness after another. From one head cold to a stomach ailment and right back to nasty head cold, I've been coping since November with this cyclical suffering.
If it weren't for monthly obstetrics appointments I'm sure I'd forget I was pregnant at all. I can't help but feel sad that I haven't been as present with Thing 2 as I was with Ittybit. I haven't enjoyed it as well, either.
If I say that aloud I instantly feel the cold gazes of women and the incredulous looks from their menfolk. To many of them, enjoying pregnancy is a contradiction in terms. No one is supposed to take pleasure in the discomforts of weight gain and other Kafkaesque changes our bodies go through during fetal incubation.
But I readily admit that I am one of those oddballs who LOVES being pregnant.
For the most part, I feel fine if not better than I normally do during my regular, single-serve existence.
Even the not-so-nice parts -- the heartburn, nosebleeds and itchy skin -- are merely momentary inconveniences easily explained and easily set aside. I know it's the pregnancy that causes it, and as such I can let it go. No worries.
With Ittybit I attended my regular, weekly yoga class religiously; I went to the gym after work three days a week and walked my legs tired on the treadmill; I took time most every morning to follow Shiva Rea's lead on a prenatal exercise tape I vowed would become a staple in my life, even after the pregnancy was over, because I enjoyed its flow.
But my life is markedly different this time around. I come straight home from work, feeling the weight of guilt for having spent so much time away. Every weekend is set aside for "Mommy" time.
"Me" time is what I steal late at night and early in the morning, and cheat my husband out of whenever I get the chance. Me time is for writing about HER, and processing photographs of HER life, and checking in with other moms to reassure myself that I'm at least getting a quarter of it right.
That's the ME I've become. A mother. And not even an efficient one at that. Every morning I pat myself on the back for being able to get out of the house with a kid who's only partially dressed and fed a mere 20 minutes past the time I'd really wanted to leave.
What pains me, though, isn't the "ME" time I'm missing. It's the "HE" time.
I've been making due by keeping score during the morning and evening kickfest game that the inside of my belly has become. I lift my shirt and look down in amusement as one quadrant of my blue-veined abdomen jumps and squirms, seemingly passing some plaything to another area of the field.
I may not feel as if I'm in this game, but at least I'm cheering it on.
... That's what I tell myself, anyway.
*****
Note: I'd like to thank MommasWorld for nominating this site for a Bloggers Choice Award
The thought makes me swoon.
How is it possible, she wondered, that it had taken so long to check in with herself and connect with the newbie? Just one hour a week, that's all she needed.
That's what it's been like for me this whole winter. The weeks just seem to fly by, bringing with them one niggling sickness after another. From one head cold to a stomach ailment and right back to nasty head cold, I've been coping since November with this cyclical suffering.
If it weren't for monthly obstetrics appointments I'm sure I'd forget I was pregnant at all. I can't help but feel sad that I haven't been as present with Thing 2 as I was with Ittybit. I haven't enjoyed it as well, either.
If I say that aloud I instantly feel the cold gazes of women and the incredulous looks from their menfolk. To many of them, enjoying pregnancy is a contradiction in terms. No one is supposed to take pleasure in the discomforts of weight gain and other Kafkaesque changes our bodies go through during fetal incubation.
But I readily admit that I am one of those oddballs who LOVES being pregnant.
For the most part, I feel fine if not better than I normally do during my regular, single-serve existence.
Even the not-so-nice parts -- the heartburn, nosebleeds and itchy skin -- are merely momentary inconveniences easily explained and easily set aside. I know it's the pregnancy that causes it, and as such I can let it go. No worries.
With Ittybit I attended my regular, weekly yoga class religiously; I went to the gym after work three days a week and walked my legs tired on the treadmill; I took time most every morning to follow Shiva Rea's lead on a prenatal exercise tape I vowed would become a staple in my life, even after the pregnancy was over, because I enjoyed its flow.
But my life is markedly different this time around. I come straight home from work, feeling the weight of guilt for having spent so much time away. Every weekend is set aside for "Mommy" time.
"Me" time is what I steal late at night and early in the morning, and cheat my husband out of whenever I get the chance. Me time is for writing about HER, and processing photographs of HER life, and checking in with other moms to reassure myself that I'm at least getting a quarter of it right.
That's the ME I've become. A mother. And not even an efficient one at that. Every morning I pat myself on the back for being able to get out of the house with a kid who's only partially dressed and fed a mere 20 minutes past the time I'd really wanted to leave.
What pains me, though, isn't the "ME" time I'm missing. It's the "HE" time.
I've been making due by keeping score during the morning and evening kickfest game that the inside of my belly has become. I lift my shirt and look down in amusement as one quadrant of my blue-veined abdomen jumps and squirms, seemingly passing some plaything to another area of the field.
I may not feel as if I'm in this game, but at least I'm cheering it on.
... That's what I tell myself, anyway.
Note: I'd like to thank MommasWorld for nominating this site for a Bloggers Choice Award
The thought makes me swoon.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Return to the valley of the dolls
I hate McDonalds.
With the fire of a thousand suns does this hatred burn in my soul. Hate, I tell you. H-A-T-E.
I didn't have such a remarkable odium for the place until Ittybit was born and the lure of easy pancake breakfasts on the run attracted me like a mackerel to a live anchovy.
Because, you see, my failure as a mother is directly and concretely measured by the number of times we visit "Old MacDonald" each week instead of firing up the stove.
This week I'm 0 for 5.
However, this week, and until April 19th, it's not laziness and an inability to subvert the "cheese and whine" that's steering my car to the formidable Golden Arches – it's a fear of the warning: "while supplies last."
You see the Alexander Doll Company, makers of Madame Alexander dolls, has again teamed up with the fast food giant. This year the Happy Meal giveaway is one of eight, 4 ½-inch Wizard of Oz-themed dolls.
While I can resist the remarkably fragrant hotcakes and sausage biscuit sandwiches, and can forgo Big Macs and Chicken McNuggets completely, I can't pass up the toys. For decades I have had an addiction to the cutesy things all wrapped in plastic that Mickey D's been putting in its Happy Meals.
I'm so hooked, in fact, that the one thing I regret about my New Zealand honeymoon was passing up an opportunity to visit a makeshift Happy Meal toy museum in a little drinkwater town, which boasted a million exhibits.
Until this latest promotion, though, I was able to resist temptation. The weird aliens and My Little Ponies didn't reach out and grab me with their wily plastic charms. I successfully adhered to a self-imposed rule of "only on days when the pancake batter runs out," usually a planned occurrence once a week.
But this Madame Alexander thing — this nostalgic trip back to childhood, a behind-the-glass plaything, something to admired more than played with — is too seductive. I NEED to collect all eight.
And that's what they want me to do. They want me to indulge my inner child while I indulge hers. They want to indulge the little girl hiding in the pockets of my maternity wear who, as a child, coveted the super expensive baby dolls, the only purpose of which is for decorating beds. These dolls, mothers would explain, are not for touching. They are not for dragging around by the hair. They are special.
My childhood Madame Alexander Doll – "Beth" from the Little Women series – is still in its original box in my parent's bedroom closet. It was stored there throughout my childhood, taken down once in a while and shown to me so I could 'ooh and ah' at its beauty.
It was a little like the Lionel train set in my father's collection that came out each Christmas and circled the tree. The only difference was that we got to play with the train eventually once my dad had given us the refresher course on model train engineering, which usually lasted at least a week and included various tests in the art of breaking and reversing.
Now it was my turn.
When I opened the bag to dispense the breakfast fare and complementary toy and saw the doll staring up at me I froze. It was Dorothy. I threw the napkins over the package and hauled out the hotcakes.
She was so famished she forgot about the toy prize, and my greedy self decided not to remind her. "That doll is special," I thought with the squinty eyes calculation.
Eventually she remembered the loot and out of the package it came. She named her new doll "Pollycina, her crunchy doll" and immediately "combed" her hair into a do remarkably similar to an ’80s-era Flock of Seagulls look.
I watched in horror, but I knew what I had to do. As soon as I dropped her off at the sitter's house I had a date with a drive-thru.
With the fire of a thousand suns does this hatred burn in my soul. Hate, I tell you. H-A-T-E.
I didn't have such a remarkable odium for the place until Ittybit was born and the lure of easy pancake breakfasts on the run attracted me like a mackerel to a live anchovy.
Because, you see, my failure as a mother is directly and concretely measured by the number of times we visit "Old MacDonald" each week instead of firing up the stove.
This week I'm 0 for 5.
However, this week, and until April 19th, it's not laziness and an inability to subvert the "cheese and whine" that's steering my car to the formidable Golden Arches – it's a fear of the warning: "while supplies last."
You see the Alexander Doll Company, makers of Madame Alexander dolls, has again teamed up with the fast food giant. This year the Happy Meal giveaway is one of eight, 4 ½-inch Wizard of Oz-themed dolls.
While I can resist the remarkably fragrant hotcakes and sausage biscuit sandwiches, and can forgo Big Macs and Chicken McNuggets completely, I can't pass up the toys. For decades I have had an addiction to the cutesy things all wrapped in plastic that Mickey D's been putting in its Happy Meals.
I'm so hooked, in fact, that the one thing I regret about my New Zealand honeymoon was passing up an opportunity to visit a makeshift Happy Meal toy museum in a little drinkwater town, which boasted a million exhibits.
Until this latest promotion, though, I was able to resist temptation. The weird aliens and My Little Ponies didn't reach out and grab me with their wily plastic charms. I successfully adhered to a self-imposed rule of "only on days when the pancake batter runs out," usually a planned occurrence once a week.
But this Madame Alexander thing — this nostalgic trip back to childhood, a behind-the-glass plaything, something to admired more than played with — is too seductive. I NEED to collect all eight.
And that's what they want me to do. They want me to indulge my inner child while I indulge hers. They want to indulge the little girl hiding in the pockets of my maternity wear who, as a child, coveted the super expensive baby dolls, the only purpose of which is for decorating beds. These dolls, mothers would explain, are not for touching. They are not for dragging around by the hair. They are special.
My childhood Madame Alexander Doll – "Beth" from the Little Women series – is still in its original box in my parent's bedroom closet. It was stored there throughout my childhood, taken down once in a while and shown to me so I could 'ooh and ah' at its beauty.
It was a little like the Lionel train set in my father's collection that came out each Christmas and circled the tree. The only difference was that we got to play with the train eventually once my dad had given us the refresher course on model train engineering, which usually lasted at least a week and included various tests in the art of breaking and reversing.
Now it was my turn.
When I opened the bag to dispense the breakfast fare and complementary toy and saw the doll staring up at me I froze. It was Dorothy. I threw the napkins over the package and hauled out the hotcakes.
She was so famished she forgot about the toy prize, and my greedy self decided not to remind her. "That doll is special," I thought with the squinty eyes calculation.
Eventually she remembered the loot and out of the package it came. She named her new doll "Pollycina, her crunchy doll" and immediately "combed" her hair into a do remarkably similar to an ’80s-era Flock of Seagulls look.
I watched in horror, but I knew what I had to do. As soon as I dropped her off at the sitter's house I had a date with a drive-thru.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Role reversal
I am not a morning person. I used to be a morning person. I think. But 11 months of midnight, two a.m. and 4 a.m. feedings – not to mention the subsequent Internet addiction that followed as I furiously searched "Sleeping Through The Night" and found dozens of moms like myself trolling the Web at all hours looking for small shards of useless advice -- has robbed me of my early-morning zeal.
Gone are the 6 a.m. walks with the dogs and the-greet-the-dawn yoga classes with television gurus.
These days my husband wakes me up at the crack of daylight and tells me "If you want a shower, now's the time." Meaning I've got at least 20 minutes before he's got to hit the road.
So under the pulsating needles of hot spray, I linger for as long as I can possibly manage before my skin turns all pruny and the water turns icy.
It's a test of strength really; his strength.
If I stay lost in the steam of the shower, I muse, maybe he’ll have managed to wrestle Ittybit into her clothes. If I rinse and repeat just once more, maybe he'll have managed to get her to choke down a few bites of cereal or a purse-sized portion of pancakes.
It's not often that it happens this way, but when the universe aligns and I emerge from the shower to find a little girl already dressed in her Wednesday best and sporting a big-old milk moustache as she bellies up to a plate of cottage cheese waffles, I think I should probably buy a lottery ticket because this is my lucky day.
Of course the decadence of it all goes straight to my head as I take more time to get ready for work. I'm even so bold as to check my e-mail messages and the New York Times Web site before relieving him of toddler duty.
When that happens I notice there's enough time to indulge Ittybit in an online video game filled with dancing bears and jumping squirrels before I have to coax her into the car seat.
The husband frowns at me as we sit calmly on the couch, giggling as the animated squirrel misses the berries and falls of the window ledge for the gazillionth time. "This is really hard," she says, commiserating.
"Could you at least clean up the kitchen a little before you go," he asks with a familiar sigh. It's the mantra of the one worker, one slacker household.
I turn off the computer and tell Ittybit we’ve got to get a move on. As she pulls on her coat, I grudgingly gather dishes from the table, depositing them into the dishwasher, and clear the counter of the breakfast debris. I apply some spray cleaner to the globs of pancake batter on the stove and wipe.
It occurs to me that this day, of all days, has felt like a role reversal. For the briefest of moments I understand what it feels like to be the proverbial dad. To have someone taking care of the nitty gritty of everyday life because, let's face it, during this window of development all roads usually lead to mom. ...
I want MOM to read to me.
I want MOM to help me get dressed.
I DON’T want DADDY to make me breakfast.
MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMMAMA ... .
By the time I've grabbed my own coat, Ittybit is halfway down the stairs and headed to the car as her father is heading up the stairs, having forgotten his keys.
"Hey, is your mom on her way?"
"No. She's just wasting water."
Gone are the 6 a.m. walks with the dogs and the-greet-the-dawn yoga classes with television gurus.
These days my husband wakes me up at the crack of daylight and tells me "If you want a shower, now's the time." Meaning I've got at least 20 minutes before he's got to hit the road.
So under the pulsating needles of hot spray, I linger for as long as I can possibly manage before my skin turns all pruny and the water turns icy.
It's a test of strength really; his strength.
If I stay lost in the steam of the shower, I muse, maybe he’ll have managed to wrestle Ittybit into her clothes. If I rinse and repeat just once more, maybe he'll have managed to get her to choke down a few bites of cereal or a purse-sized portion of pancakes.
It's not often that it happens this way, but when the universe aligns and I emerge from the shower to find a little girl already dressed in her Wednesday best and sporting a big-old milk moustache as she bellies up to a plate of cottage cheese waffles, I think I should probably buy a lottery ticket because this is my lucky day.
Of course the decadence of it all goes straight to my head as I take more time to get ready for work. I'm even so bold as to check my e-mail messages and the New York Times Web site before relieving him of toddler duty.
When that happens I notice there's enough time to indulge Ittybit in an online video game filled with dancing bears and jumping squirrels before I have to coax her into the car seat.
The husband frowns at me as we sit calmly on the couch, giggling as the animated squirrel misses the berries and falls of the window ledge for the gazillionth time. "This is really hard," she says, commiserating.
"Could you at least clean up the kitchen a little before you go," he asks with a familiar sigh. It's the mantra of the one worker, one slacker household.
I turn off the computer and tell Ittybit we’ve got to get a move on. As she pulls on her coat, I grudgingly gather dishes from the table, depositing them into the dishwasher, and clear the counter of the breakfast debris. I apply some spray cleaner to the globs of pancake batter on the stove and wipe.
It occurs to me that this day, of all days, has felt like a role reversal. For the briefest of moments I understand what it feels like to be the proverbial dad. To have someone taking care of the nitty gritty of everyday life because, let's face it, during this window of development all roads usually lead to mom. ...
I want MOM to read to me.
I want MOM to help me get dressed.
I DON’T want DADDY to make me breakfast.
MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMMAMA ... .
By the time I've grabbed my own coat, Ittybit is halfway down the stairs and headed to the car as her father is heading up the stairs, having forgotten his keys.
"Hey, is your mom on her way?"
"No. She's just wasting water."
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Living in a godless house ...
We live in a godless house.
That's not to say we don't have spirituality or values we want to impart to our children, just that they don't happen to include a supreme being.
We've always said that we will let Ittybit decide for herself what to believe about organized religion. It's a philosophy we understand parents of a certain age and upbringing to have harbored for at least a generation. We grew up with many kids whose spiritual search lead from Atheism to Zionism, and who eventually found something that best spoke to them.
Spirituality in our humble abode is more of a life tenet than dogma. Be good for goodness’ sake is our unspoken motto, and instead of church sermons our Sunday ritual has been sitting cross-legged or running around barefooted in a yoga studio with other moms and kid: a bendable play date.
It had occurred to me that Ittybit would learn things from other people that I don't agree with. I know my beliefs hold only so much weight and only for so long until I have to let them go and they evolve into her beliefs and her understandings -- beliefs that might be completely different from my own.
The last thing I wanted to do was raise a child who is intolerant of other people, and yet it seems that's just what I’m doing when I intervene on matters of fact when it comes to "faith."
I had envisioned explaining that we believe a certain "thing" and how that may differ from what others believe; diligently trying not to instill a prejudice that others' beliefs might be wrong. Of course I also envisioned these conversations taking place sometime in the not-foreseeable-future, say about the time she was trying to hit me up for the keys to the car or a raise in allowance.
But when a tired-of-being-cold preschooler, strapped into her car seat for our long Sunday drive, asked me to tell her "when God was going to bring spring" I had to pull the car over.
All of a sudden there seemed to be a definite right and a definite wrong.
I didn't really expect her to understand, but I didn't expect big, fat, painful tears either.
And there it is -- a clash of faith.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
More tears and sobs -- so many in fact that I can barely make out the words that punctuate them.
How can I explain science to a preschooler? She neither understands nor cares how the universe works, but who's to say we can't start now? If God can personify faith, why can’t someone else personify science?
What we need, I think, is a woman. A strong woman who symbolizes all the wonders embodied in the natural world but who will recede in time, allowing science to stretch its wings and eventually leave the nest.
She was quiet for a time. She turned to look out the window and dried her tears.
The car was silent as I pulled back onto the road and drove a while longer.
When I checked the rearview mirror I saw the corners of her mouth turn up suddenly.
That's not to say we don't have spirituality or values we want to impart to our children, just that they don't happen to include a supreme being.
We've always said that we will let Ittybit decide for herself what to believe about organized religion. It's a philosophy we understand parents of a certain age and upbringing to have harbored for at least a generation. We grew up with many kids whose spiritual search lead from Atheism to Zionism, and who eventually found something that best spoke to them.
Spirituality in our humble abode is more of a life tenet than dogma. Be good for goodness’ sake is our unspoken motto, and instead of church sermons our Sunday ritual has been sitting cross-legged or running around barefooted in a yoga studio with other moms and kid: a bendable play date.
It had occurred to me that Ittybit would learn things from other people that I don't agree with. I know my beliefs hold only so much weight and only for so long until I have to let them go and they evolve into her beliefs and her understandings -- beliefs that might be completely different from my own.
The last thing I wanted to do was raise a child who is intolerant of other people, and yet it seems that's just what I’m doing when I intervene on matters of fact when it comes to "faith."
I had envisioned explaining that we believe a certain "thing" and how that may differ from what others believe; diligently trying not to instill a prejudice that others' beliefs might be wrong. Of course I also envisioned these conversations taking place sometime in the not-foreseeable-future, say about the time she was trying to hit me up for the keys to the car or a raise in allowance.
But when a tired-of-being-cold preschooler, strapped into her car seat for our long Sunday drive, asked me to tell her "when God was going to bring spring" I had to pull the car over.
All of a sudden there seemed to be a definite right and a definite wrong.
"Honey, God doesn't bring spring. ... The seasons come based on the Earth's tilt and it’s rotation around the sun."
I didn't really expect her to understand, but I didn't expect big, fat, painful tears either.
"God does bring the spring … and the summer! He. Does. Bring. The. Seasons. So-and-so says he does."
And there it is -- a clash of faith.
"Well, honey, some people believe God is responsible for the creation of everything on Earth and in the universe, and that he sets things into motion, but we know that the seasons occur as a result of the Earth’s position in the solar system. It's nature.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
More tears and sobs -- so many in fact that I can barely make out the words that punctuate them.
"GOD BRINGS THE SUMMER. GOD BRINGS THE SPRING, I KNOW HE DOES."
How can I explain science to a preschooler? She neither understands nor cares how the universe works, but who's to say we can't start now? If God can personify faith, why can’t someone else personify science?
What we need, I think, is a woman. A strong woman who symbolizes all the wonders embodied in the natural world but who will recede in time, allowing science to stretch its wings and eventually leave the nest.
"Honey, let's just say, for now, that Mother Nature ushers in spring. She walks with spring around the globe to wherever it's going."
She was quiet for a time. She turned to look out the window and dried her tears.
The car was silent as I pulled back onto the road and drove a while longer.
When I checked the rearview mirror I saw the corners of her mouth turn up suddenly.
"Ittybit? How are you doing? Are you OK?"
"Yes, Mama. I'm fine. I'm just going to wait for Mother Nature to bring spring."
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Good night, Maggie dog, sleep tight
Last summer, a friend of mine in the publishing bidness asked me to work on a photographic children's book with him. I would provide the photographs and he would write the text.
It would be all about my dogs — Madeline and Maggie.
His idea was simple:
"Take about 48 photographs of them playing together, spread them out on a table and we'll come up with a story about "Best Friends."
I stopped cold, realizing that with all the photographs I've taken over the years there are very few of the "Wonder Twins" together. Ok, they're not twins and we are actually a step-family. My husband came to the relationship with Maggie and I showed up with Madeline. And it was a rough start.
Maggie, two years older than Madeline (who, incidentally, we refer to as Jerk Monkey Hose Dog for her pranks and antics), would have nothing to do with the little pest for quite a while. She'd snap and growl and slink away to anywhere that would be puppy free. Maggie always seemed mature beyond her years ... for a Lab.
My friend's request also made me realize that even if I could get the girls to play together — my first babies, the furry loves of my life — are not as photogenic as they once were. They have bumps and skinny haunches, puffy bellies and graying fur. Though they are still beautiful to us, the industry might not agree. And too soon these creatures will be only a memory.
"That's even better," he said jovially. "We'll do a children's book about coping with the loss of a pet."
As I looked over at Ittybit as she splashed in the pool, it dawned on me that the past two years have really brought about an amazing transformation of our entire family, fuzzy members especially. They have gone from being standoffish and frightened of the pink little bundle that made all kinds of strange noises to being watchful and proud.
"Oooh, this is even better," says my friend. "I see morning show bookings in our future."
But we never got started. We never laid out those pictures on a table before we had to lay our dear Maggie to rest. A few weeks after the idea was hatched, a trip to the veterinarian revealed the old girl had a tumor filling one lung. He gave her eight weeks.
She lasted nearly eight months longer. For eight months she followed our girl around, slept in her room and seemed to perk up every time she heard her little voice call her name: Maggie dog ... Maggie.
I'd almost forgotten how sick she was; how little time was left. She still lumbered up and down the stairs, eating voraciously, and draging hers and all bowls of dinner-time giveaways away from her adopted sibling, who, incidentally, seemed to be gaining the weight poor Maggie was losing.
And just like that, Maggie just stopped eating. She stopped sleeping at Ittybit's bedside and spent more time outdoors, eerily staring in the direction of the place my husband had decided to lay her to rest.
Our regular vet doesn’t make house calls, so I pestered my husband to ask an imposition of a friend (and veterinarian) to make a long trip out of his way (and on his day off) to make sure her last sight on Earth was a view of home.
Ittybit and I went out for cake and bacon (kid cravings?) during Maggie's final treatment.
I worried how Ittybit would take the news. We'd been explaining what was happening all along, but I knew none of us would ever be prepared for the hole that such a large dog creates when they leave their families.
We talked about how Maggie would be gone when we got home.
It was a shock to see how much more prepared she was than I.
"Mama, don't cry. I'm not sad. Maggie's OK now."
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Empty nesting
Nesting. How I hate that word.
For me it conjures up the image of some corybantic crow fruitlessly frittering around a nest, getting nowhere and next to nothing accomplished, as she waits for the egg to drop.
It's something quaint that only the female does; a force of nature that can be neither denied nor explained. We all just chalk it up to hormones and let it go at that.
Not me. The first time around I seemed to have missed that portion of the pregnancy.
When Ittybit was busy baking, we were renovating the house (or I should more accurately say my husband was busy ripping out walls and putting in floors) -- reconstructing our two-bedroom flat into a three-bedroom abode fit for a family.
Since I was that furibund creature flapping with nowhere to fly, I plunked myself down on the couch and watched back-to-back episodes of "Trading Spaces," "Design on a Dime" and "While You Were Out."
Nesting wasn't in my nature.
We had a hand-me-down cradle, some hand-me-down clothes and lots of gifts pouring in. I wasn't concerned with furnishings and other kiddy accoutrements because there wasn't a finished room to put them in anyway. The most involved I got in decorating the room that would be hers (11 months after her birth) was choosing the paint color and selecting a carpet. What more could I do?
I might have had a little of the urge to clean right before the contractions started clamping down on me, but then the husband and our dogs tracked in mud and snow, and threw their clothes on the floor, or dribbled water from the bowl, and all my efforts disappeared like magic.
I’ve heard people say that the first child changes your life, turns it upside down and inside out in a dramatic way, but that the second child just slips in during an intermission and quietly becomes part of the drama.
Often, they’ll say the frantic need to ready the nursery and gather supplies for the newbie gets lost in the chores of everyday life. The newness and need to do something — anything — while you wait just isn't there to the same degree since it was the first child who stole the show.
Yet for me, it's as if the process has been reversed. Since we found out Thing 2 is a boy, I seem to have a need to get ready. The room that he will call his own is little more than a closet with sliding doors and no windows. There is just enough room for a bed and a dresser and a few shelves.
The challenge of fitting as much as I can in a small space has filled my head with dread.
Oddly, my craving for television design shows hasn’t returned. Instead the urge to declutter my own closets and organize Ittybit’s has reared its ugly head. In addition to disappearing neglected toys and outgrown or threadbare clothes, I've delivered trunk loads of items to Goodwill, purchased new hangers, shelves and chests of drawers, and even devised elaborate plans for storing off-season attire in a more organized way.
Everything on table and countertops either finds of permanent home or finds itself at the bottom of the trash, hidden under orange peels and coffee grounds so that it's demise will remain unnoticed.
With each toss, I remind myself: less is more. But somehow it still just feels as if I'm merely flapping.
I imagine its all just preparation for when I'm ready to tackle decorating the baby's new closet ... er ... room.
For me it conjures up the image of some corybantic crow fruitlessly frittering around a nest, getting nowhere and next to nothing accomplished, as she waits for the egg to drop.
It's something quaint that only the female does; a force of nature that can be neither denied nor explained. We all just chalk it up to hormones and let it go at that.
Not me. The first time around I seemed to have missed that portion of the pregnancy.
When Ittybit was busy baking, we were renovating the house (or I should more accurately say my husband was busy ripping out walls and putting in floors) -- reconstructing our two-bedroom flat into a three-bedroom abode fit for a family.
Since I was that furibund creature flapping with nowhere to fly, I plunked myself down on the couch and watched back-to-back episodes of "Trading Spaces," "Design on a Dime" and "While You Were Out."
Nesting wasn't in my nature.
We had a hand-me-down cradle, some hand-me-down clothes and lots of gifts pouring in. I wasn't concerned with furnishings and other kiddy accoutrements because there wasn't a finished room to put them in anyway. The most involved I got in decorating the room that would be hers (11 months after her birth) was choosing the paint color and selecting a carpet. What more could I do?
I might have had a little of the urge to clean right before the contractions started clamping down on me, but then the husband and our dogs tracked in mud and snow, and threw their clothes on the floor, or dribbled water from the bowl, and all my efforts disappeared like magic.
I’ve heard people say that the first child changes your life, turns it upside down and inside out in a dramatic way, but that the second child just slips in during an intermission and quietly becomes part of the drama.
Often, they’ll say the frantic need to ready the nursery and gather supplies for the newbie gets lost in the chores of everyday life. The newness and need to do something — anything — while you wait just isn't there to the same degree since it was the first child who stole the show.
Yet for me, it's as if the process has been reversed. Since we found out Thing 2 is a boy, I seem to have a need to get ready. The room that he will call his own is little more than a closet with sliding doors and no windows. There is just enough room for a bed and a dresser and a few shelves.
The challenge of fitting as much as I can in a small space has filled my head with dread.
Oddly, my craving for television design shows hasn’t returned. Instead the urge to declutter my own closets and organize Ittybit’s has reared its ugly head. In addition to disappearing neglected toys and outgrown or threadbare clothes, I've delivered trunk loads of items to Goodwill, purchased new hangers, shelves and chests of drawers, and even devised elaborate plans for storing off-season attire in a more organized way.
Everything on table and countertops either finds of permanent home or finds itself at the bottom of the trash, hidden under orange peels and coffee grounds so that it's demise will remain unnoticed.
With each toss, I remind myself: less is more. But somehow it still just feels as if I'm merely flapping.
I imagine its all just preparation for when I'm ready to tackle decorating the baby's new closet ... er ... room.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
We interrupt the weekday peace and quiet with this unexpected announcement ...
i obsess has bestowed on this here "blog" and it's weekly offerings a Thinking Blogger Award. It's some happy "share the love" token thought up by some brainiac over at The Thinking Blog
I'm terribly honored that the designation came from her, a blogger whose writing I drool over.
And so, as is the custom of this particular bloggy meme, and without further ado, and in no particular order, here are my nods to bloggers who always make me think:
The Mad Momma
Little Bald Doctors
Mean Girl to the Rescue
Gingajoy
Half of the Sky
Go pick up your awards, peeps. You deserve them.
Via con heuvos then ... until Sunday.
UPDATE: Unbeknownst to either of us, Gingajoy and I were nominating each other at the same time. How's that for great minds thinking alike?
I'm terribly honored that the designation came from her, a blogger whose writing I drool over.
And so, as is the custom of this particular bloggy meme, and without further ado, and in no particular order, here are my nods to bloggers who always make me think:
The Mad Momma
Little Bald Doctors
Mean Girl to the Rescue
Gingajoy
Half of the Sky
Go pick up your awards, peeps. You deserve them.
Via con heuvos then ... until Sunday.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Zen and the art of prenatal maintenance
Circling the block for the seventh time, waiting for the gods of parking to smile down on my green trash-strewn sedan, it hits me: My mind is finally blank, the zen I've been dreaming of.
But I can hardly remember why I'm here let alone obsessing over the lack accessible spaces. With each turn of the wheel, each pass of the same neighborhood, my reasons for being in this very place eludes me.
At this point I'm just circling. If a car came careening out of a space right in front of me, I'd probably take no notice and continue my laps.
Yoga and meditation couldn't accomplish in a dozen years what a growing level of human chorionic gonadotropin -- that's hCG to you medical types -- could pull off in a matter of days: What the Zen Buddhists call 'No mind.'
But this isn't what I would call enlightenment.
I imagine that the 'No Mind' enlightenment promises has very little to do with a mind unencumbered by facts and figures; a mind that can't remember any more telephone numbers or its own wedding anniversary. The enlightened mind, I believe, has more to do with a being able to witness without judging and let go; a mind that is aware but unconcerned.
Pregnancy mind is just blank. And not a good blank, either. It's the kind of blank that the FCC has been vigilantly leveling heavy fines against: The blankity-blank-blank blank!
Pregnancy mind wakes you up at 2:30 a.m. to warn you that "very bad things" are going to happen and then goes cackling away while you obsess for the next several months. Pregnancy mind forgets everything you struggle to remember, save for doctors' appointments and Skor bars hidden in the kitchen last October. It keeps you from sleeping or (depending on the model) from staying awake. Pregnancy mind wanders about unleashed.
It's as if my real mind has taken a vacation without me. I imagine it's lolling on some island off the Pacific Rim, slurping Mai Thais through a straw; eating unpasteurized cheeses and reading Dostoyevskii, while its pregnant equivalent is on a diet of saltines and decaffeinated tea and can't even focus on reading the return address labels on incoming mail.
My vacationing mind, I imagine, is thumbing its proverbial nose in my pregnant mind's direction; asking its cabana boy to deliver a fresh cocktail as I try to remember where I put my keys.
It's all too much really. The pressure of remembering to send Ittybit out into the world each morning complete with shoes and socks is weighing on me.
On good days we arrive at the sitter's house without lunches, sneakers and sippy cups. These days I'm lucky if I remember to bring Ittybit.
The stress of it doesn't help. It's similar to finding an all-day parking spot downtown on a weekday; because waits at the doctors’ office, unfortunately, require such a time commitment.
I'm trying to let it go. I'm trying to realize as I drive around in search of a blank slot in which to dock my car, willing one into existence is futile. The more I want it, the less likely it is to appear. It's like the pregnancy itself: the more I wanted it the more it seemed impossible. When I had just about given up hope, there it was.
Now if I can just remember where I parked the car.
But I can hardly remember why I'm here let alone obsessing over the lack accessible spaces. With each turn of the wheel, each pass of the same neighborhood, my reasons for being in this very place eludes me.
At this point I'm just circling. If a car came careening out of a space right in front of me, I'd probably take no notice and continue my laps.
Yoga and meditation couldn't accomplish in a dozen years what a growing level of human chorionic gonadotropin -- that's hCG to you medical types -- could pull off in a matter of days: What the Zen Buddhists call 'No mind.'
But this isn't what I would call enlightenment.
I imagine that the 'No Mind' enlightenment promises has very little to do with a mind unencumbered by facts and figures; a mind that can't remember any more telephone numbers or its own wedding anniversary. The enlightened mind, I believe, has more to do with a being able to witness without judging and let go; a mind that is aware but unconcerned.
Pregnancy mind is just blank. And not a good blank, either. It's the kind of blank that the FCC has been vigilantly leveling heavy fines against: The blankity-blank-blank blank!
Pregnancy mind wakes you up at 2:30 a.m. to warn you that "very bad things" are going to happen and then goes cackling away while you obsess for the next several months. Pregnancy mind forgets everything you struggle to remember, save for doctors' appointments and Skor bars hidden in the kitchen last October. It keeps you from sleeping or (depending on the model) from staying awake. Pregnancy mind wanders about unleashed.
It's as if my real mind has taken a vacation without me. I imagine it's lolling on some island off the Pacific Rim, slurping Mai Thais through a straw; eating unpasteurized cheeses and reading Dostoyevskii, while its pregnant equivalent is on a diet of saltines and decaffeinated tea and can't even focus on reading the return address labels on incoming mail.
My vacationing mind, I imagine, is thumbing its proverbial nose in my pregnant mind's direction; asking its cabana boy to deliver a fresh cocktail as I try to remember where I put my keys.
It's all too much really. The pressure of remembering to send Ittybit out into the world each morning complete with shoes and socks is weighing on me.
On good days we arrive at the sitter's house without lunches, sneakers and sippy cups. These days I'm lucky if I remember to bring Ittybit.
The stress of it doesn't help. It's similar to finding an all-day parking spot downtown on a weekday; because waits at the doctors’ office, unfortunately, require such a time commitment.
I'm trying to let it go. I'm trying to realize as I drive around in search of a blank slot in which to dock my car, willing one into existence is futile. The more I want it, the less likely it is to appear. It's like the pregnancy itself: the more I wanted it the more it seemed impossible. When I had just about given up hope, there it was.
Now if I can just remember where I parked the car.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Changing of the Gardasil
I can't believe I'm standing with uber-conservative fundamentalist Christians on the topic of Merck's new wonder drug, even if our reasons may differ.
Since June when a federal advisory panel voted unanimously to recommend all girls and women ages 11 to 26 receive Merck's new vaccine for the virus that causes genital warts, Gardasil, which in clinical studies proved to prevent cervical cancers by preventing infection from four strains of the human papilloma virus, I have been waiting for government entities to mandate its use.
Merck, before abruptly halting it's lobbying efforts Tuesday, quietly poured money into pushing its revolutionary new drug -- which, for the record, costs $360 for the three-shot regimen needed for effectiveness -- on state legislatures across the country, hoping they will mandate the costly prevention for all girls beginning at age 11.
The drug company won't say how much it spent on this endeavor, but one might imagine such non-disclosure could mean the grand total is a boatload. Why just imagine, if even a small percentage of states pass measures to require parents vaccinate their girl children against HPV, the company stands to have a lucrative payday ... at least until its patent runs out or until the drug is approved for our boy children and the process starts all over again.
Now it seems New York is on the bandwagon, with legislators calling for laws to do just that: make it imperative that all girls get the series before they become sexually active.
Let me just get a few things off my chest:
BUT ...
I suppose there are still choices I could make. I could pull my kid from school and take her education on at home. Sure, I could fight the good fight and buck the laws of man. But should I have to, especially where medical decisions are concerned?
I think it's wonderful that this discovery has been made. I think it's a valuable health care tool that all people -- even boys when the drug is approved for use in the other 49 percent of our population -- should seriously consider. Like many have said, I believe there are more pros than cons in giving it to children.
However I wonder if Gardasil, in its current $360 form, will be made available to the developing world and those marginalized by inadequate medical coverage, where the need is arguably the greatest? Even in this country, doctors are reportedly not stocking the vaccine because they say insurers* aren’t reimbursing them appropriately.
I know this issue may one day go the way of seat belts, the infant car seat and, most recently, the ban of trans fats in NYC restaurants, but I can't help but want government to make its recommendations, decide such discoveries are worth funding for those least likely to afford it, and then step off and let folks make their own decisions.
And to tell you the truth, I'd just feel a lot better if a single drug company didn't stand to reap the benefit of a government mandate. I keep wondering why the rush? Where's the fire?
Seriously, if our government can require this for girls ages 11 and older why can't they require drug manufacturers make some concessions, too. Like lower the price? Oh, yeah, our government isn’t allowed to negotiate for lower drug costs; silly me.
Since June when a federal advisory panel voted unanimously to recommend all girls and women ages 11 to 26 receive Merck's new vaccine for the virus that causes genital warts, Gardasil, which in clinical studies proved to prevent cervical cancers by preventing infection from four strains of the human papilloma virus, I have been waiting for government entities to mandate its use.
Merck, before abruptly halting it's lobbying efforts Tuesday, quietly poured money into pushing its revolutionary new drug -- which, for the record, costs $360 for the three-shot regimen needed for effectiveness -- on state legislatures across the country, hoping they will mandate the costly prevention for all girls beginning at age 11.
The drug company won't say how much it spent on this endeavor, but one might imagine such non-disclosure could mean the grand total is a boatload. Why just imagine, if even a small percentage of states pass measures to require parents vaccinate their girl children against HPV, the company stands to have a lucrative payday ... at least until its patent runs out or until the drug is approved for our boy children and the process starts all over again.
Now it seems New York is on the bandwagon, with legislators calling for laws to do just that: make it imperative that all girls get the series before they become sexually active.
Let me just get a few things off my chest:
I know that HPV is the most common sexually transmitted disease in the world, and particularly devastating to underdeveloped and impoverished nations.
I believe Merck's vaccine is safe and effective.
I fully expect Ittybit to get this vaccine when she turns 11, even if I have to pay out of pocket for it (currently most insurance WILL* cover this preventive measure).
I think the idea that HPV can be completely prevented by morally responsible living is akin to sticking one’s head in the sand.
I think that discovering that cancer can be caused by a virus is INCREDIBLY exciting for the future of medical research.
BUT ...
Do I want government telling me how to raise my child?
What if I were afraid of the repercussions of vaccines on cognitive development?
What if I was convinced of anecdotal accounts of parents who believed their kids were adversely affected by inoculations instead of peer-reviewed research showing no link between childhood vaccinations and autism?
What if *shudder* I believed in my heart of hearts that giving her the shot would be akin to giving her the keys to a lifetime of debauchery and moral decay?
In short, what if I were someone else?
I suppose there are still choices I could make. I could pull my kid from school and take her education on at home. Sure, I could fight the good fight and buck the laws of man. But should I have to, especially where medical decisions are concerned?
I think it's wonderful that this discovery has been made. I think it's a valuable health care tool that all people -- even boys when the drug is approved for use in the other 49 percent of our population -- should seriously consider. Like many have said, I believe there are more pros than cons in giving it to children.
However I wonder if Gardasil, in its current $360 form, will be made available to the developing world and those marginalized by inadequate medical coverage, where the need is arguably the greatest? Even in this country, doctors are reportedly not stocking the vaccine because they say insurers* aren’t reimbursing them appropriately.
I know this issue may one day go the way of seat belts, the infant car seat and, most recently, the ban of trans fats in NYC restaurants, but I can't help but want government to make its recommendations, decide such discoveries are worth funding for those least likely to afford it, and then step off and let folks make their own decisions.
And to tell you the truth, I'd just feel a lot better if a single drug company didn't stand to reap the benefit of a government mandate. I keep wondering why the rush? Where's the fire?
Seriously, if our government can require this for girls ages 11 and older why can't they require drug manufacturers make some concessions, too. Like lower the price? Oh, yeah, our government isn’t allowed to negotiate for lower drug costs; silly me.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Asking all the wrong questions
Last month TODAY show host Meredith Vieira asked Web log diarist Melissa Summers of Suburban Bliss, on live television, to explain the difference between a mom and a babysitter when it came to drinking on the job.
She wanted to know why the double standard: If you wouldn't let a babysitter drink while they were watching your children why would you?
And the gloves came off.
All over the Internet mothers wielded pitchforks and demanded blood. Many of them ask why the media is so insistent on holding mothers at arms length and dropping them in a pit together to see which of them survives the rumble?
Vieira's question comparing moms to babysitters came out of a puff piece about women who gather together at play dates and simultaneously pop the cork on a bottle of wine. It turned into a debate, led by Vieira and flanked by "expert" Dr. Janet Taylor, about whether mothers should drink at all in the presence of their children (unless of course there's a man around, or in the event of a neighborhood/backyard barbecue ... you know, where men might be socializing, too). That to do so would not only be modeling bad behavior, but also jeopardizing the health and well being of the children.
The reasoning? Just in case these silly women all get schnockered, a kid falls on his head and requires a trip to the emergency room. Lordy, who would be able to drive?
I've been watching the backlash with some degree of humor.
Are they serious? They were not talking about bringing a bottle of vodka to Mommy and Me. They were talking about a single glass of wine while the kids are tearing up the yard. Who would worry about that? Would you not call an ambulance in the case of a REAL emergency anyway?
But I know there are people out there whose lives have been indelibly marked by ravages of alcoholism, and they are applauding the segment.
They say social drinking in this country is horribly misunderstood. That folks don’t really understand their own tolerance, no matter what they think it to be.
That in fact, statistically, 1 in 10 people has a problem with alcohol and doesn’t even know it.
And when you know this, why would you risk having any amount of alcohol when you are driving the kids around.
I still don't think asking a mother to define the difference between herself and a babysitter when it comes to "drinking" on the job is a fair question. Being a mom shouldn't be considered a job as much as a part of life. Alcohol is a legal substance, sold in restaurants, bars and other places where driving to and from is necessary. The same question would never be asked of a man who takes junior to the ballgame and washes down his hotdog with a beer. NBC wouldn’t film a story about such an outing.
And I think that when we are talking moderation, the issue really shouldn't be such a lightning rod. One glass of wine when combined with an hour and a meal or snack does not a health hazard make.
But perhaps the fairer question would have been How do you KNOW what your tolerance is and that you haven’t exceed it? And if you see someone exceed their limit what would you do?
It might have even added emphasis if the barrage of questions included the more personal "Have you EVER drank more than you intended?"
Those are fair questions.
This month Albany County Legislator Ann Comella reportedly refused a limousine ride home after a night out at a bar. Instead she got into her car, drove the wrong way on Alternate Route 7, crashed into another motorist and died.
She wasn’t caring for children at the time, but she was drinking socially. And apparently she thought she was in fine shape to drive.
Those are the questions we should be asking ourselves –- women and men, mothers and fathers -- every time we set out to just have one drink.
She wanted to know why the double standard: If you wouldn't let a babysitter drink while they were watching your children why would you?
And the gloves came off.
All over the Internet mothers wielded pitchforks and demanded blood. Many of them ask why the media is so insistent on holding mothers at arms length and dropping them in a pit together to see which of them survives the rumble?
Vieira's question comparing moms to babysitters came out of a puff piece about women who gather together at play dates and simultaneously pop the cork on a bottle of wine. It turned into a debate, led by Vieira and flanked by "expert" Dr. Janet Taylor, about whether mothers should drink at all in the presence of their children (unless of course there's a man around, or in the event of a neighborhood/backyard barbecue ... you know, where men might be socializing, too). That to do so would not only be modeling bad behavior, but also jeopardizing the health and well being of the children.
The reasoning? Just in case these silly women all get schnockered, a kid falls on his head and requires a trip to the emergency room. Lordy, who would be able to drive?
I've been watching the backlash with some degree of humor.
Are they serious? They were not talking about bringing a bottle of vodka to Mommy and Me. They were talking about a single glass of wine while the kids are tearing up the yard. Who would worry about that? Would you not call an ambulance in the case of a REAL emergency anyway?
But I know there are people out there whose lives have been indelibly marked by ravages of alcoholism, and they are applauding the segment.
They say social drinking in this country is horribly misunderstood. That folks don’t really understand their own tolerance, no matter what they think it to be.
That in fact, statistically, 1 in 10 people has a problem with alcohol and doesn’t even know it.
And when you know this, why would you risk having any amount of alcohol when you are driving the kids around.
I still don't think asking a mother to define the difference between herself and a babysitter when it comes to "drinking" on the job is a fair question. Being a mom shouldn't be considered a job as much as a part of life. Alcohol is a legal substance, sold in restaurants, bars and other places where driving to and from is necessary. The same question would never be asked of a man who takes junior to the ballgame and washes down his hotdog with a beer. NBC wouldn’t film a story about such an outing.
And I think that when we are talking moderation, the issue really shouldn't be such a lightning rod. One glass of wine when combined with an hour and a meal or snack does not a health hazard make.
But perhaps the fairer question would have been How do you KNOW what your tolerance is and that you haven’t exceed it? And if you see someone exceed their limit what would you do?
It might have even added emphasis if the barrage of questions included the more personal "Have you EVER drank more than you intended?"
Those are fair questions.
This month Albany County Legislator Ann Comella reportedly refused a limousine ride home after a night out at a bar. Instead she got into her car, drove the wrong way on Alternate Route 7, crashed into another motorist and died.
She wasn’t caring for children at the time, but she was drinking socially. And apparently she thought she was in fine shape to drive.
Those are the questions we should be asking ourselves –- women and men, mothers and fathers -- every time we set out to just have one drink.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Things could be worse ...
At the risk of sounding all cheese and whine I will be listing some of the things that have happened during the last month or so that could have (and in some instances did, albeit ever so briefly) send me over the edge. Help yourself:
1. Sleep. Not getting any.
When I'm not typing away furiously, making all kinds of notes and records for some nebulous future -- wherein Ittybit will grow up, read all this drivel and extol the virtues of her dear old mum to the treetops -- I am trying go get her to accept her human need for shut-eye: namely the eight-hour-interval, non-disrupted sleep with a side of REM if-you-please kind of slumber.
It's been a kind of one step forward, two steps back sort of dance.
While I pine for the luxury of sleeping in that enormous bed I once foolishly mocked, I've been practicing for a future career in the circus, performing various coil-like contortions from the cramped confines of a toddler bed for a combined total of three hours (at least twice) per evening, in a probably ill-advised effort to coax her to sleep.
If this continues much longer I fear I will require constant chiropracty, or at the very least a change in bedroom furniture for the little insomniac. I wonder if they make king-sized toddler beds?
2. Baby? What Baby?
Oh sure Thing 2 is doing swimmingly so far. ... But the Heartburn is back. I was expecting its grand return in two months but it surprised me with only a two-week respite followed by that familiar burning sensation when I sit up, lie down, lean over, drink water, eat anything or just think about any of the previous activities for even the briefest lengths of time.
And not only has gestational Heartburn made its return, it's brought with it a new friend: Nasal Congestion. So Burns and Phlegm are best buds, and are working on creating a tri-part alliance with my arch nemesis, Insomnia.
This is not what I had in mind when I envisioned a Bundle of Joy. This would be JOY without the J.
3. Child care. ... What are you gonna do?
So it turns out my perfect childcare situation just got a little less perfect. The woman I have referred to here as “The Other Mother” reminded me that she’s only got so much room in her unregistered house for tots. And this new one … isn’t going to fit.
*Cue metallic horror film sound effects.
In a matter or seconds I went from happily pregnant, working mother providing health insurance and a stable income to her growing family, to the fear of being on the brink of financial ruin because finding an infant daycare placement is akin to finding a needle in a haystack.
So while that drama is still unfolding, the initial panic has subsided thanks in part to the holding out of hope that there is a daycare facility out there willing to take a smart-alecky toddler who thinks monsters are the next best thing to puppy dogs ... even if it breaks my heart to break up the party.
In my best Scarlet O'Hara way, "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."
4. If you don't stop, I'm pulling this car over
That thumping sound that I was ignoring from mile marker 34 of Interstate 787 to mile marker 44, when the car started to disco, was indeed a blowout.
This was no mere flat party but a pieces-of-rubber-littering-the-highway kind of bash.
I could complain that it was the coldest day of the year, and that I dreaded having to walk on the treacherous highway to safety and a phone, seeing as how I never did replace the cell phone’s car charger since it broke last month –- but I didn't even have the chance to feel the least bit sorry for myself.
No sooner had I stepped from the car after digging out my hat and mittens -- and cobbling together enough juice from the broken charger to get even the smallest of small signals -- than the brilliant flashing lights of the Help Truck pulled up behind me.
In 10 minutes I was back on the road, headed to the tire shop.
I have to say, it's a little disconcerting for a person like me not to have enough time to worry about all the what-ifs.
1. Sleep. Not getting any.
When I'm not typing away furiously, making all kinds of notes and records for some nebulous future -- wherein Ittybit will grow up, read all this drivel and extol the virtues of her dear old mum to the treetops -- I am trying go get her to accept her human need for shut-eye: namely the eight-hour-interval, non-disrupted sleep with a side of REM if-you-please kind of slumber.
It's been a kind of one step forward, two steps back sort of dance.
While I pine for the luxury of sleeping in that enormous bed I once foolishly mocked, I've been practicing for a future career in the circus, performing various coil-like contortions from the cramped confines of a toddler bed for a combined total of three hours (at least twice) per evening, in a probably ill-advised effort to coax her to sleep.
If this continues much longer I fear I will require constant chiropracty, or at the very least a change in bedroom furniture for the little insomniac. I wonder if they make king-sized toddler beds?
2. Baby? What Baby?
Oh sure Thing 2 is doing swimmingly so far. ... But the Heartburn is back. I was expecting its grand return in two months but it surprised me with only a two-week respite followed by that familiar burning sensation when I sit up, lie down, lean over, drink water, eat anything or just think about any of the previous activities for even the briefest lengths of time.
And not only has gestational Heartburn made its return, it's brought with it a new friend: Nasal Congestion. So Burns and Phlegm are best buds, and are working on creating a tri-part alliance with my arch nemesis, Insomnia.
This is not what I had in mind when I envisioned a Bundle of Joy. This would be JOY without the J.
3. Child care. ... What are you gonna do?
So it turns out my perfect childcare situation just got a little less perfect. The woman I have referred to here as “The Other Mother” reminded me that she’s only got so much room in her unregistered house for tots. And this new one … isn’t going to fit.
*Cue metallic horror film sound effects.
In a matter or seconds I went from happily pregnant, working mother providing health insurance and a stable income to her growing family, to the fear of being on the brink of financial ruin because finding an infant daycare placement is akin to finding a needle in a haystack.
So while that drama is still unfolding, the initial panic has subsided thanks in part to the holding out of hope that there is a daycare facility out there willing to take a smart-alecky toddler who thinks monsters are the next best thing to puppy dogs ... even if it breaks my heart to break up the party.
In my best Scarlet O'Hara way, "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."
4. If you don't stop, I'm pulling this car over
That thumping sound that I was ignoring from mile marker 34 of Interstate 787 to mile marker 44, when the car started to disco, was indeed a blowout.
This was no mere flat party but a pieces-of-rubber-littering-the-highway kind of bash.
I could complain that it was the coldest day of the year, and that I dreaded having to walk on the treacherous highway to safety and a phone, seeing as how I never did replace the cell phone’s car charger since it broke last month –- but I didn't even have the chance to feel the least bit sorry for myself.
No sooner had I stepped from the car after digging out my hat and mittens -- and cobbling together enough juice from the broken charger to get even the smallest of small signals -- than the brilliant flashing lights of the Help Truck pulled up behind me.
In 10 minutes I was back on the road, headed to the tire shop.
I have to say, it's a little disconcerting for a person like me not to have enough time to worry about all the what-ifs.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Be careful what you wish for ...
"Do you want to know what you're having?"
I could barely stop myself as the 'YES!' threatened to gush out, giving me no time to prepare for the answer.
"You know?" I asked lamely, stalling for time, as if the ultrasound technician was playing a cruel trick on me.
Last time around we barely found out what variety we'd be having by the end of the third trimester. Ittbit lashed out violently at the wand of power even before the woman behind the monitor ever reached for the jelly. She drew up her legs and hid from view, refusing to play nice.
But this kid, it would appear, has no problem showing off.
Still my head wanted more time. I wanted to consider all the possibilities Thing 2 would offer, and all the implications that could come into play. I wanted more time to wonder and less time to plan.
A girl would mean they could share her Taj Mahal-sized bedroom, clothes and a bond that only sisters can know. A boy would mean food in the house would FINALLY get eaten and The Dad would no longer feel adrift in a sea of XX chromosomes (even the two dogs are female).
But a girl could mean the potential for hurtful comparisons and competition. And a boy would mean our lopsided house would have to yield its pitiful guest bedroom (a place we laughingly refer to as a guest prison for its cell-like size and windowless views) to the second born. In other words, the kid will get robbed.
Not the least of my concerns was the first born's own desire to have herself a sister in the second born.
From the moment I told her she was going to be a big sister she’s been talking about her sister. I've reminded her that it very well could be a boy, and she gives me the look of concern; like any moment someone in a white coat is going to come and take me away. "No. I'm having a sister."
Time was ticking away. For the lady in the lab coat only milliseconds had passed, but for me it seemed an eternity. I had to know. I couldn't endure some notation on a report, filed away in a folder with my name on it, hidden from me. I loathe surprises.
"Yes! Yes! I want to know."
She turned the screen a little more in the direction of my craning neck and pointed. "Those are definitely boy parts."
I can barely describe the emotions that swept through me. I was unexpectedly elated, worried and nervous. I spent the rest of the day wondering how was I going to tell Ittybit?
Just come out with it. Honesty is the best policy.
"Honey, I found out today you're having a brother."
Her eyes exploded into tears. "But I don't want a brother," she wailed.
I scooped her up and told her the upside. "Oh honey, a brother is a wonderful thing. It's really better than a sister. You won't have to share your room, you won’t have to share your best girl toys. It will be wonderful, you'll see."
"But I don't want sister either," she cried. "I don't want a brother OR a sister."
"But honey, remember we talked about this?"
"Yes, but I wanted a BABY."
"Well that's good, because that's what we're getting. I promise."
And with that she stopped crying and smiled.
"Oh, OK. Can I have some more peanut butter?"
I could barely stop myself as the 'YES!' threatened to gush out, giving me no time to prepare for the answer.
"You know?" I asked lamely, stalling for time, as if the ultrasound technician was playing a cruel trick on me.
Last time around we barely found out what variety we'd be having by the end of the third trimester. Ittbit lashed out violently at the wand of power even before the woman behind the monitor ever reached for the jelly. She drew up her legs and hid from view, refusing to play nice.
But this kid, it would appear, has no problem showing off.
Still my head wanted more time. I wanted to consider all the possibilities Thing 2 would offer, and all the implications that could come into play. I wanted more time to wonder and less time to plan.
A girl would mean they could share her Taj Mahal-sized bedroom, clothes and a bond that only sisters can know. A boy would mean food in the house would FINALLY get eaten and The Dad would no longer feel adrift in a sea of XX chromosomes (even the two dogs are female).
But a girl could mean the potential for hurtful comparisons and competition. And a boy would mean our lopsided house would have to yield its pitiful guest bedroom (a place we laughingly refer to as a guest prison for its cell-like size and windowless views) to the second born. In other words, the kid will get robbed.
Not the least of my concerns was the first born's own desire to have herself a sister in the second born.
From the moment I told her she was going to be a big sister she’s been talking about her sister. I've reminded her that it very well could be a boy, and she gives me the look of concern; like any moment someone in a white coat is going to come and take me away. "No. I'm having a sister."
Time was ticking away. For the lady in the lab coat only milliseconds had passed, but for me it seemed an eternity. I had to know. I couldn't endure some notation on a report, filed away in a folder with my name on it, hidden from me. I loathe surprises.
"Yes! Yes! I want to know."
She turned the screen a little more in the direction of my craning neck and pointed. "Those are definitely boy parts."
I can barely describe the emotions that swept through me. I was unexpectedly elated, worried and nervous. I spent the rest of the day wondering how was I going to tell Ittybit?
Just come out with it. Honesty is the best policy.
"Honey, I found out today you're having a brother."
Her eyes exploded into tears. "But I don't want a brother," she wailed.
I scooped her up and told her the upside. "Oh honey, a brother is a wonderful thing. It's really better than a sister. You won't have to share your room, you won’t have to share your best girl toys. It will be wonderful, you'll see."
"But I don't want sister either," she cried. "I don't want a brother OR a sister."
"But honey, remember we talked about this?"
"Yes, but I wanted a BABY."
"Well that's good, because that's what we're getting. I promise."
And with that she stopped crying and smiled.
"Oh, OK. Can I have some more peanut butter?"
Sunday, January 28, 2007
It's a fact: Moms are just better than Dads
There are times, as a MOM, when my head threatens to explode. I imagine great forces of steam and flames, emanating from my ears, will burn away all that remains of the aftermath.
It may not be pretty but at least it's efficient.
Now my experience may differ, but DADS, I've noticed, don't seem to have the same theatrical prowess. They are missing that certain je ne sais quoi ...
Case in point: As I'm trying to find my keys, recall the 15 things I will be forgetting (two of which I will return for; the remainder to haunt me all day) and pack up the car without neglecting to secure Ittybit into the carseat, all I want to do is give her the bag of M & Ms she’s been howling for these past 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, he tells her he's taking her to the car, and all crying and shenanigans stop. She wraps her arms around his neck and all is well with the world again.
Given all this suffering, all this juggling and tri-part negotiations, I'm at a loss. With hardly a word, my husband — THE DAD — has been getting the lion’s share of our little moppet’s attentions lately.
It used to be that if he could keep her from hanging from my left leg as I dragged my now numb, useless appendage from room to room, I was happy. I didn't care if he was teaching her to play with matches so long as I could fold clothes and get a shower.
But it turns out his trick is much more conservative.
HE JUST SAYS NO.
I swear it's as if I'm living in a reproduction of the Regan Whitehouse.
When she tells him she doesn't want to take a bath, he tells her it’s not an option.
When she tells him she doesn't want to go to bed, he tells her she can go to bed with or without reading four books.
I must admit, he gets results. While he's guiding her through the process of put her own shoes on, I'm tripping over the dogs and chasing her around the house trying to wrestle her to the ground and keep her feet still long enough to wiggle them into boots with silly faces staring back at me.
"But oh how smoothly things run when you are away," I think to myself, willing there to be a mute button for the morning mayhem; willing Kraft dinner to be placed on the government's list of best foods for a well-rounded nutrition; and dreaming that one day the surgeon general will come out and say kids who are bribed with candy are six times more likely to win the Nobel Prize in mathematics.
I mean, how do you think I get her into the car most mornings? The intrinsic happiness that comes from knowing her mother is pleased with her behavior? The realization that SHE is the child and I am the adult, and what the adult says goes?
Oh ye, silly believer of fairy tale endings.
I get her into the car with chocolate. Copious amounts of chocolate.
Oh sure we may get the same results, he and I. We both wind up with a clean child, who's well rested and strapped into the car ready to begin her day. But it's the attitude I dislike.
I hate the smugness: So what if HE can manage to get her hair washed and combed and into her pajamas before the Late, Late, Late Show ever starts? So what if he MAKES her put her shoes and socks on by herself on the mornings HE dresses her? At least when I help her dress her shoes are ON the correct feet, I grumble to myself.
Seriously, how many kids go to their college lecture halls wearing their pajamas inside out or slippers on the wrong feet because they didn't learn to dress themselves when they were tots?
Never mind, don't answer that.
Oh ... the hypocrisy.
It may not be pretty but at least it's efficient.
Now my experience may differ, but DADS, I've noticed, don't seem to have the same theatrical prowess. They are missing that certain je ne sais quoi ...
Case in point: As I'm trying to find my keys, recall the 15 things I will be forgetting (two of which I will return for; the remainder to haunt me all day) and pack up the car without neglecting to secure Ittybit into the carseat, all I want to do is give her the bag of M & Ms she’s been howling for these past 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, he tells her he's taking her to the car, and all crying and shenanigans stop. She wraps her arms around his neck and all is well with the world again.
Given all this suffering, all this juggling and tri-part negotiations, I'm at a loss. With hardly a word, my husband — THE DAD — has been getting the lion’s share of our little moppet’s attentions lately.
It used to be that if he could keep her from hanging from my left leg as I dragged my now numb, useless appendage from room to room, I was happy. I didn't care if he was teaching her to play with matches so long as I could fold clothes and get a shower.
But it turns out his trick is much more conservative.
HE JUST SAYS NO.
I swear it's as if I'm living in a reproduction of the Regan Whitehouse.
When she tells him she doesn't want to take a bath, he tells her it’s not an option.
When she tells him she doesn't want to go to bed, he tells her she can go to bed with or without reading four books.
I must admit, he gets results. While he's guiding her through the process of put her own shoes on, I'm tripping over the dogs and chasing her around the house trying to wrestle her to the ground and keep her feet still long enough to wiggle them into boots with silly faces staring back at me.
"But oh how smoothly things run when you are away," I think to myself, willing there to be a mute button for the morning mayhem; willing Kraft dinner to be placed on the government's list of best foods for a well-rounded nutrition; and dreaming that one day the surgeon general will come out and say kids who are bribed with candy are six times more likely to win the Nobel Prize in mathematics.
I mean, how do you think I get her into the car most mornings? The intrinsic happiness that comes from knowing her mother is pleased with her behavior? The realization that SHE is the child and I am the adult, and what the adult says goes?
Oh ye, silly believer of fairy tale endings.
I get her into the car with chocolate. Copious amounts of chocolate.
Oh sure we may get the same results, he and I. We both wind up with a clean child, who's well rested and strapped into the car ready to begin her day. But it's the attitude I dislike.
I hate the smugness: So what if HE can manage to get her hair washed and combed and into her pajamas before the Late, Late, Late Show ever starts? So what if he MAKES her put her shoes and socks on by herself on the mornings HE dresses her? At least when I help her dress her shoes are ON the correct feet, I grumble to myself.
Seriously, how many kids go to their college lecture halls wearing their pajamas inside out or slippers on the wrong feet because they didn't learn to dress themselves when they were tots?
Never mind, don't answer that.
Oh ... the hypocrisy.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
To sleep, perchance, this century
This third year (starting from say August on) has been a struggle. Food she used to eat without complaint sits untouched on her plate, her arms crossed tighter than even her lips are clenched. Baths, never an easy proposition, have become sideshows of trickery and deception, yet none too entertaining. But it is the sleep issue that may put us over the edge.
Since the new bed took up residence in our master bedroom, the idea of sleeping with us, starfish-style -- all spread out from the center -- has taken up residence in Ittybit’s head.
It all starts out good. We begin the bedtime routine: calming down, brushing of teeth, reading of books. Snuggled into her own bed, we give in to the extra story and the calls for water and lights dimmed only so low.
But the needs are endless. First its water, then juice then milk. She didn't really WANT any of these prohibited bedtime beverages; she wasn't hungry, she wasn't thirsty, she was merely stalling.
Eventually our routine got to be worthy of three rings:
PJs = check
Teeth brushed = check
Stories = read three, check
Lights dimmed = check
Monsters sprayed = check
One more story = check
I have to go to the potty = check
Music turned on = check
It's too dark = lights adjusted, check
I want a snack = goldfish procured, check
I want water = check
It's too cold = check
Now it's too hot = check
The monsters came back = spray again
I have to pee again = another trip to the potty, check
I need the hot water bottle ...
“THIS IS THE LAST TIME I'M COMING INTO THIS ROOM,” I warn.
“O.K., mommy,” she agrees, sheepishly.
HOTWATER BOTTLE = check
... Goodnight.
Truly, anyone with the least amount of time on the planet Earth can tell you what's happening here. It doesn't take Dr. Spock to figure it out.
She's testing us and we are failing.
In addition to this extended play of the bedtime routine, every night at midnight or so the monsters wake her up and send her into our room.
The seduction of sleep without the added cold shock of the hallway's hardwood floors makes letting her into bed an irresistible proposition. We tried it. At first she even fell right to sleep. But then, increasingly, she'd become restless. She'd poke and prod and play games.
No matter how cute it seems, no one wants to talk about the dietary needs of the Abominable Snowman at 4 in the morning, let alone having their eyelids raised manually by a restless preschooler.
The last straw was when she woke us four times one night, deciding to go back to her own bed twice.
"That's it! I need sleep. She's just playing now and it has to stop," I stammered as if my husband hadn't already reached this conclusion six weeks ago.
The next day we enacted operation LET’S NOT MAKE A DEAL.
Bath time at 7 (and she gets her hair washed when it needs to be) NO DEALS.
Bedtime starts at 8:30, she must brush her teeth, use the potty and change into pajamas. We read three to four books; she can have water and a hot water bottle and her music but she can not leave her room. NO DEALS.
As expected, the change was met with tears and tantrums.
By the time she fell asleep at 9:30 I was dreading the midnight call, which came early at 11:30 p.m.
I walked her back to bed but she had no intention of staying there, she claimed, with the monsters and dog effluvium.
The old me would have said 'who could blame her' but the new me said, "I'm sorry but that's the way it is, sugar plum. We all have to stay in our own rooms and sleep."
No sooner had I walked away than I could hear her little pajamaed feet following me, screaming as if I'd torn out her toenails.
I brought her back into her room and shut the door, holding it closed. She threw her little self against it and screamed. I imagine, had she been a little bit older, every second word out of her mouth would have been an obscenity. Eventually she calmed down and the bargaining commenced. She wanted the door open.
It seemed time for a new deal. The door would stay open as long as she stayed in her room.
We both went back to bed.
But all was not quiet in the western wing of the house.
She rolled her toys across the floor, tore her clothes from their place in the dresser and began yelling at the top of her lungs: YOU ARE MAKING ME VERY NERVOUS!!!!
When the ride-on-horse came rolling to our door I got up and investigated the damage.
It was less than I thought, but still impressive.
I put her back to bed, kissed her head and said: "That's enough for tonight. We'll talk about this tomorrow."
And with that, the sleep of exhaustion visited us.
It's been three days now and not one incident.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed and sleeping with one eye open.
Since the new bed took up residence in our master bedroom, the idea of sleeping with us, starfish-style -- all spread out from the center -- has taken up residence in Ittybit’s head.
It all starts out good. We begin the bedtime routine: calming down, brushing of teeth, reading of books. Snuggled into her own bed, we give in to the extra story and the calls for water and lights dimmed only so low.
But the needs are endless. First its water, then juice then milk. She didn't really WANT any of these prohibited bedtime beverages; she wasn't hungry, she wasn't thirsty, she was merely stalling.
Eventually our routine got to be worthy of three rings:
Teeth brushed = check
Stories = read three, check
Lights dimmed = check
Monsters sprayed = check
One more story = check
I have to go to the potty = check
Music turned on = check
It's too dark = lights adjusted, check
I want a snack = goldfish procured, check
I want water = check
It's too cold = check
Now it's too hot = check
The monsters came back = spray again
I have to pee again = another trip to the potty, check
I need the hot water bottle ...
“THIS IS THE LAST TIME I'M COMING INTO THIS ROOM,” I warn.
“O.K., mommy,” she agrees, sheepishly.
HOTWATER BOTTLE = check
... Goodnight.
Truly, anyone with the least amount of time on the planet Earth can tell you what's happening here. It doesn't take Dr. Spock to figure it out.
She's testing us and we are failing.
In addition to this extended play of the bedtime routine, every night at midnight or so the monsters wake her up and send her into our room.
The seduction of sleep without the added cold shock of the hallway's hardwood floors makes letting her into bed an irresistible proposition. We tried it. At first she even fell right to sleep. But then, increasingly, she'd become restless. She'd poke and prod and play games.
No matter how cute it seems, no one wants to talk about the dietary needs of the Abominable Snowman at 4 in the morning, let alone having their eyelids raised manually by a restless preschooler.
The last straw was when she woke us four times one night, deciding to go back to her own bed twice.
"That's it! I need sleep. She's just playing now and it has to stop," I stammered as if my husband hadn't already reached this conclusion six weeks ago.
The next day we enacted operation LET’S NOT MAKE A DEAL.
Bath time at 7 (and she gets her hair washed when it needs to be) NO DEALS.
Bedtime starts at 8:30, she must brush her teeth, use the potty and change into pajamas. We read three to four books; she can have water and a hot water bottle and her music but she can not leave her room. NO DEALS.
As expected, the change was met with tears and tantrums.
By the time she fell asleep at 9:30 I was dreading the midnight call, which came early at 11:30 p.m.
I walked her back to bed but she had no intention of staying there, she claimed, with the monsters and dog effluvium.
The old me would have said 'who could blame her' but the new me said, "I'm sorry but that's the way it is, sugar plum. We all have to stay in our own rooms and sleep."
No sooner had I walked away than I could hear her little pajamaed feet following me, screaming as if I'd torn out her toenails.
I brought her back into her room and shut the door, holding it closed. She threw her little self against it and screamed. I imagine, had she been a little bit older, every second word out of her mouth would have been an obscenity. Eventually she calmed down and the bargaining commenced. She wanted the door open.
It seemed time for a new deal. The door would stay open as long as she stayed in her room.
We both went back to bed.
But all was not quiet in the western wing of the house.
She rolled her toys across the floor, tore her clothes from their place in the dresser and began yelling at the top of her lungs: YOU ARE MAKING ME VERY NERVOUS!!!!
When the ride-on-horse came rolling to our door I got up and investigated the damage.
It was less than I thought, but still impressive.
I put her back to bed, kissed her head and said: "That's enough for tonight. We'll talk about this tomorrow."
And with that, the sleep of exhaustion visited us.
It's been three days now and not one incident.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed and sleeping with one eye open.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Proof positive
"So. ... When are you going to make a brother for that little Ittybit of yours?"
That indelicate question is broached more times that you might imagine.
The day we left the hospital with her, still bleary-eyed and shell-shocked, our attending nurse HUGGED me and said: "We'll see you again, I know it."
No. No way. No how. Not me, you won't. I am NOT doing this again. Are you crazy?
I had just spent 24 hours in the most excruciating pain EVER only to have an emergency cesarean section anyway and severe reactions to pain medication. Then three more days in the hospital trying to recover; mostly blind from swollen corneas and one pound heavier than I'd been the entire pregnancy, thanks to a 24-hour saline drip.
Who on Earth would do this again? No thanks. Not me.
A year passed and still the questions came almost daily.
"So, you gonna have another one?"
We had pat answers.
"N. O. We got it right the first time, why tempt fate?"
But of course, the real reasons not to have more are endless: money, space, money, the special-ness of being an only child and of course, money.
Yet, as I believe it is biologically encoded in our genes, Ittybit's slow turning from a baby to a toddler made me rethink the decision. Each outfit she outgrew became a decision I didn't want to make. Should I save this (for what)? Or should I donate it to Goodwill?
Money and the rest of it, especially the part about being an only child, didn't seem important anymore.
In fact the more I thought about her facing a future without a sibling 'round about her age made me regret having waited.
And as luck would have it -- nothing. Fifteen months of nothing. Fifteen months of peeing on $5 bills (the cost of home pregnancy tests) and nothing.
All of a sudden, the questions returned. Even the guy who tries to figure out what part of my car is responsible for the clangy-clang sound that haunts me as I drive was wondering when we'd be making the grandparents grandparents all over again.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tug out my hair and say: "Never you mind. It will probably never happen, and I'll have to be OK with that.' Every time friends would tell me of their happy news, I'd be happy, too, on the outside. But only a little happy on the inside where my thoughts were swirling over the possible end of my own childbearing days.
I wasn't prepared for this. Everyone told me it might take a while, but with Ittybit it was almost instantaneous. When the doctors reaffirmed the potential for delay I scoffed. 'Yeah, I know. It may take a while.' I didn't expect a year to go by without positive results.
I gave up.
When it was time to take down Ittybit’s crib and replace it with a "big-girl" bed, I decided that we'd sell it at a yard sale to the first couple who took a second look. A young couple took it away in a tiny hatchback car for $10.
Ten dollars: The same amount I paid for a pack of home pregnancy tests one month later.
Wouldn’t you know it ... the result was positive.
And for the first time in a long while, I've never been more positive of anything in my life. It feels pretty good.
When we told Ittybit she was going to be a big sister, though, I could see the look of concern knot across her face.
My thoughts immediately went to guilt. Would she feel replaced? Would she be jealous?
I should have known she'd be a little more pragmatic.
"We need a new crib."
That indelicate question is broached more times that you might imagine.
The day we left the hospital with her, still bleary-eyed and shell-shocked, our attending nurse HUGGED me and said: "We'll see you again, I know it."
No. No way. No how. Not me, you won't. I am NOT doing this again. Are you crazy?
I had just spent 24 hours in the most excruciating pain EVER only to have an emergency cesarean section anyway and severe reactions to pain medication. Then three more days in the hospital trying to recover; mostly blind from swollen corneas and one pound heavier than I'd been the entire pregnancy, thanks to a 24-hour saline drip.
Who on Earth would do this again? No thanks. Not me.
A year passed and still the questions came almost daily.
"So, you gonna have another one?"
We had pat answers.
"N. O. We got it right the first time, why tempt fate?"
But of course, the real reasons not to have more are endless: money, space, money, the special-ness of being an only child and of course, money.
Yet, as I believe it is biologically encoded in our genes, Ittybit's slow turning from a baby to a toddler made me rethink the decision. Each outfit she outgrew became a decision I didn't want to make. Should I save this (for what)? Or should I donate it to Goodwill?
Money and the rest of it, especially the part about being an only child, didn't seem important anymore.
In fact the more I thought about her facing a future without a sibling 'round about her age made me regret having waited.
And as luck would have it -- nothing. Fifteen months of nothing. Fifteen months of peeing on $5 bills (the cost of home pregnancy tests) and nothing.
All of a sudden, the questions returned. Even the guy who tries to figure out what part of my car is responsible for the clangy-clang sound that haunts me as I drive was wondering when we'd be making the grandparents grandparents all over again.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tug out my hair and say: "Never you mind. It will probably never happen, and I'll have to be OK with that.' Every time friends would tell me of their happy news, I'd be happy, too, on the outside. But only a little happy on the inside where my thoughts were swirling over the possible end of my own childbearing days.
I wasn't prepared for this. Everyone told me it might take a while, but with Ittybit it was almost instantaneous. When the doctors reaffirmed the potential for delay I scoffed. 'Yeah, I know. It may take a while.' I didn't expect a year to go by without positive results.
I gave up.
When it was time to take down Ittybit’s crib and replace it with a "big-girl" bed, I decided that we'd sell it at a yard sale to the first couple who took a second look. A young couple took it away in a tiny hatchback car for $10.
Ten dollars: The same amount I paid for a pack of home pregnancy tests one month later.
Wouldn’t you know it ... the result was positive.
And for the first time in a long while, I've never been more positive of anything in my life. It feels pretty good.
When we told Ittybit she was going to be a big sister, though, I could see the look of concern knot across her face.
My thoughts immediately went to guilt. Would she feel replaced? Would she be jealous?
I should have known she'd be a little more pragmatic.
"We need a new crib."
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Sometimes I just wish you could tell everyone to shove a sock in it
Our babysitter informed me recently that she was taking the binky away from Ittybit during naps.
It was just a fact. There were no do you want me tos ... or what do you thinks, just that her own binky-addicted daughter was also three when she pulled the plug, and when the screaming frenzy began it made her wish she'd never introduced the thing to begin with.
She’s apparently been waiting for me to tell her the time had come to return the offending device to the "binky fairy" or the "binky mommy," or to whatever corner of hell pacifiers originally hail. She's just been waiting for a "partner."
In other words: I've yet again dropped the ball.
My mother-in-law has been asking for more than a year (on and off, and sweetly) whether this was the year the binky was going to be sent to "Santa."
Remember me folks? The one who walks the path of least resistance? The one who looks around at her office mates and decides not to worry about such things? After all, no one here in cubicle land is sucking away on a binky.
But it's true: She doesn't need it anymore. She doesn't have it in the car. She doesn't take it to school. She doesn't even keep it in her mouth the whole night through.
To everyone's surprise, mine especially, the babysitter reported success. Ittybit showed only brief resistance to the news her beloved "oro (that’s Ittybit for orange) binks" had returned to its mommy. She slept with her tiny lamb pressed against her cheek for the requisite two hours.
And then it was suggested that it was now time for the binky to leave our house, too. (The message was delivered it what I refer to as the "Now-I'm-Not-Telling-You-What-To-Do' speech, which we all know means But-You'd-Be-Foolish-Not-To-Adopt-My-Way-Of-Thinking.) So I decided I'd try it.
That night at bedtime I dropped the bomb. I told her it was time to send the binky back home. Her special binky was needed elsewhere, perhaps on a special assignment, now that she was a big girl.
Instantly, there were tears and sobs of desperation.
"But I'm NOT a big girl, mommy. I'm still a little girl," she wailed.
"Well I think you are a big girl, but how about if we hang on to 'purple binks' until after Santa comes? Then he can take it home."
She agreed, but I'm sure it was the kind of hollow agreement that means she's appeasing the one who can be manipulated. She's biding her time, hoping I'll forget the whole mission.
Really, though, I don't know how to react. I don't know how to feel.
A part of me is angry. Part of me is feeling guilty about being a wimp. But a part of me is tired, too.
I am not a stay-at-home mom. I am reliant on a whole host of other people to help me get from morning to night, and yet my husband and I are ultimately the ones who are raising our daughter.
When I reach down into the core of my beliefs, I always come up with the same thing: I don't think a pacifier is the worst thing in the world for a child, and I don't particularly mind if it helps her get to sleep.
I am reminded about my husband’s need for "white noise," and how I've had to adapt my own sleep habits to compensate for the whirring of the small army of humidifiers and fans that he needs to get some shut-eye.
We all need something right?
I had a sinking feeling that maybe I should have asked Santa to bring me earplugs this year.
Yet the strangest thing happened. Christmas Eve, the last night with the binky came and went, and early in the morning I tiptoed into her room and snatched the pacifier from her parted lips.
When she awoke an hour later she didn't even miss it. That night she cried for a while, but she quickly went to sleep without the plastic plug. Perhaps she was just plumb tuckered from playing with all the loot Santa brought her.
In the week since Christmas, she's alluded to "wanting something in her mouth"” when she's all snuggled in bed, but there are no tears when I tell her it's gone.
Then I got to thinking: maybe I was the one who really needed that binky all along.
It was just a fact. There were no do you want me tos ... or what do you thinks, just that her own binky-addicted daughter was also three when she pulled the plug, and when the screaming frenzy began it made her wish she'd never introduced the thing to begin with.
She’s apparently been waiting for me to tell her the time had come to return the offending device to the "binky fairy" or the "binky mommy," or to whatever corner of hell pacifiers originally hail. She's just been waiting for a "partner."
In other words: I've yet again dropped the ball.
My mother-in-law has been asking for more than a year (on and off, and sweetly) whether this was the year the binky was going to be sent to "Santa."
Remember me folks? The one who walks the path of least resistance? The one who looks around at her office mates and decides not to worry about such things? After all, no one here in cubicle land is sucking away on a binky.
But it's true: She doesn't need it anymore. She doesn't have it in the car. She doesn't take it to school. She doesn't even keep it in her mouth the whole night through.
To everyone's surprise, mine especially, the babysitter reported success. Ittybit showed only brief resistance to the news her beloved "oro (that’s Ittybit for orange) binks" had returned to its mommy. She slept with her tiny lamb pressed against her cheek for the requisite two hours.
And then it was suggested that it was now time for the binky to leave our house, too. (The message was delivered it what I refer to as the "Now-I'm-Not-Telling-You-What-To-Do' speech, which we all know means But-You'd-Be-Foolish-Not-To-Adopt-My-Way-Of-Thinking.) So I decided I'd try it.
That night at bedtime I dropped the bomb. I told her it was time to send the binky back home. Her special binky was needed elsewhere, perhaps on a special assignment, now that she was a big girl.
Instantly, there were tears and sobs of desperation.
"But I'm NOT a big girl, mommy. I'm still a little girl," she wailed.
"Well I think you are a big girl, but how about if we hang on to 'purple binks' until after Santa comes? Then he can take it home."
She agreed, but I'm sure it was the kind of hollow agreement that means she's appeasing the one who can be manipulated. She's biding her time, hoping I'll forget the whole mission.
Really, though, I don't know how to react. I don't know how to feel.
A part of me is angry. Part of me is feeling guilty about being a wimp. But a part of me is tired, too.
I am not a stay-at-home mom. I am reliant on a whole host of other people to help me get from morning to night, and yet my husband and I are ultimately the ones who are raising our daughter.
When I reach down into the core of my beliefs, I always come up with the same thing: I don't think a pacifier is the worst thing in the world for a child, and I don't particularly mind if it helps her get to sleep.
I am reminded about my husband’s need for "white noise," and how I've had to adapt my own sleep habits to compensate for the whirring of the small army of humidifiers and fans that he needs to get some shut-eye.
We all need something right?
I had a sinking feeling that maybe I should have asked Santa to bring me earplugs this year.
Yet the strangest thing happened. Christmas Eve, the last night with the binky came and went, and early in the morning I tiptoed into her room and snatched the pacifier from her parted lips.
When she awoke an hour later she didn't even miss it. That night she cried for a while, but she quickly went to sleep without the plastic plug. Perhaps she was just plumb tuckered from playing with all the loot Santa brought her.
In the week since Christmas, she's alluded to "wanting something in her mouth"” when she's all snuggled in bed, but there are no tears when I tell her it's gone.
Then I got to thinking: maybe I was the one who really needed that binky all along.
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