It happened, Peanuts. It did. Let me just be clear; I knew that it would.
I was not shocked, amazed, or caught unawares with my illusions shattered in pieces by the electronics section. No. I've looked after enough kids that I couldn't bother with the whole "MY child will never" thing (which is the only way most of us can trick ourselves into becoming parents at all. Me? I'm just nuts).
But even if you never deluded yourself into believing it wouldn't happen, or if you had already realized there was a high risk it could be you one day, when it actually happens? Being prepared does not help. It is still just as horrible as you knew it would be. And it was. And it happened today. Our very first Big PUBLIC Tantrum. *sigh*
Not that we've never had a time-out on a curbside. Oh. We have. But this was a real tantrum. A TWO tantrum. She did not throw Herself on the floor, but that might only be because She was confined to a shopping cart, and then- rather immediately- to my vice-like arms.
We were in a store, of course. In a huge warehouse of a store, in the very, very back. Of course. So that I had the lovely experience of walking aaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllll the way down the aisles full of gawking shoppers with a screaming, writhing tazmanian devil. "Oh hi, another shopper. Or you're noticing? Why yes, it's spectacular, isn't it? Found it in aisle seven!"
Out the door, and into the pouring rain. Into the car seat. And (because of the pouring rain) into the car for me too, to listen to the delicate, refined notes of Two climb their way through various octaves and rattle around in my skull.
Shhh, I whispered to my belly. Don't get any ideas in there. I waited without moving, without speaking. Watching the rain and pondering how much fun this will be with another small person added to the mix. Life gets more and more exciting as we go!
Let me tell you. Little One is a sweetheart. She's a good little listener, She's very easygoing, and She is very easily redirected, even when hungry or tired. She's generally a dream of a toddler, especially when we are out and about. But it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter how sweet, how calm and mild or how darling any toddler is, I tell you there is no avoiding it. The public meltdown is pre-programmed into their genetic code. No one knows exactly how or why. But just as their little bodies somehow know when it's time to sprout a new tooth, or finally get grow some hair, the Public Tantrum, too, is In There, waiting to pop out. What can you do?
I had a hot, red-faced moment of actually considering giving Her what She wanted, just to stop the stares. But then, thankfully, I gave myself a nice mental smack in the face and said, "snap out of it, me!" What matters isn't the strangers, what matters is that this was a wonderful opportunity. A teaching moment. A "for future reference, This is not going to work out" moment. So we made our way down the long aisles, alerting everyone to our teaching moment with a nice blaring siren call, and wailed on through the rain and in the car until it sunk in. "Well", Two finally decided, "this isn't really getting me anywhere. And I'm getting tired. Oh well."
We had a nice cuddle and a good, serious chat. And then, despite the fact that we might as well have been wearing name tags that said "Hi! I'm THAT mom!" and "Hi! I'm THAT kid!" on our foreheads, we went right back in the store, back up the long aisles, right where we left off, and started again.
We had not so much as a pout the rest of the day, and it may be that we've got it all out of Her system in one go. Or it may be that we just hit "snooze" on Her little ticking time-bomb.
In the meantime, I feel the same about this as I did about Her first dirty diaper. One the one hand, Ew. Really not pleasant. On the other hand, well. All right then. It may not be Her most flattering moment but, well, at least She's developing normally. I guess there's nothing to do but be thankful for that, deal with the mess, and move on. One day She'll handle Her own poo, and Her own emotions too. And then I'll probably miss the days when She was small enough for me to scoop up in my arms, and carry to the parking lot.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Next We Will Read "The Cat in the Tiara"
While Reading Dr. Suess:
C: "Do you like green eggs and ham? What do you think, Little One? Do YOU like green eggs and ham?"
Little One: "EEeew! Yuck! No, not. Not like this, green egg and ha-am."
C: "No?! You don't like green eggs and ham?!"
Little One (considers the question more carefully): "Umm...um, no Mommy. Not. Sorry."
(perks up as an idea strikes Her) "Ok Mommy! How 'bout this. Maybe, maybe PINK eggs and ha-am! Maybe could like pink ones. Sound 'dea?"*
For the record. I am not teaching Her this stuff. I am not spoon-feeding Her frilly glitter-coated hearts, seriously. It's just...in there.
*"Sound 'dea?" is one of Little One's favorite terms. It's Her contraction for "Does that sound like a good idea?" and frequently used as a bargaining term, along with "No way Jo-se!"
C: "Do you like green eggs and ham? What do you think, Little One? Do YOU like green eggs and ham?"
Little One: "EEeew! Yuck! No, not. Not like this, green egg and ha-am."
C: "No?! You don't like green eggs and ham?!"
Little One (considers the question more carefully): "Umm...um, no Mommy. Not. Sorry."
(perks up as an idea strikes Her) "Ok Mommy! How 'bout this. Maybe, maybe PINK eggs and ha-am! Maybe could like pink ones. Sound 'dea?"*
For the record. I am not teaching Her this stuff. I am not spoon-feeding Her frilly glitter-coated hearts, seriously. It's just...in there.
*"Sound 'dea?" is one of Little One's favorite terms. It's Her contraction for "Does that sound like a good idea?" and frequently used as a bargaining term, along with "No way Jo-se!"
Flexible Flyer
At this point in my pregnancy with Little One, major renovations had been done to prepare the nursery. The decor hand-sewn by my mom, showers were thrown and tags pulled off new clothes. I was staining the crown moulding while I was in labor.
With this one, most of the stuff is just hauled down from the attic, and she'll be sharing a room with Little One so there's no nursery decorating to do. It may be why the nearness of Her due-date hasn't really struck us yet: we're just sort of going about business as usual. And with so much going on with Little One, sometimes we almost forget that something quite huge really is about to happen to this family.
But my last OB appointment, where OB told me to expect Little Miss to make Her entrance (exit?) any time now, sort of gave me a wake up call. Any day now? Really?
And the nesting instinct has gone into hyperdrive.
MUST. PREPARE.
My latest stroke of inspiration/insanity gave me the idea to switch the nursery with the larger guest room, so that there is really space to share a room, and so that I can take pictures down and re-hang them in another room, thus giving an outlet to all this nesting energy. Because the bathtub really can't be scrubbed so often. It can't be good for it.
With the advice of a friend who is a great mom, I decided that now is a better time for this switch than after the baby arrives. So that it can be about Little One, and the baby not be blamed for another big change. Toddlers are infamous for their hatred of change. INfamous.
So I was sort of nervous about bringing up the idea with Little One, especially because I decided to pass Her nice crib along to Her sister; a change on top of a change, orbiting an even bigger change.
But I mentioned it in passing this morning. Then I looked online and found a great toddler bed on Craigslist, and showed Her the picture. She determined that it was a "ballerina big girl" bed, and that She loved it and wanted to "sleep in there, and then jump! And spin! Around around around baller-EEN-a BIG girl bed!" So we picked it up, put it together, cleaned it. All the while, I was waiting for the idea to hit Her that She was being somehow displaced, and preparing myself for the fallout.
But She remained thrilled with the idea all evening, and when J came home and carried it upstairs, She instructed him to put it in the guest room. And told me that She wanted to sleep in it. So we brought in Her blankets and puppy and teddy. At Her insistence, we read stories in there, and then She crawled right in. "So nice, my ballerina bed, mommy," She said yawning. And said goodnight.
And slept, all night, slept in even. I can hardly believe how easy that was, like I couldn't believe how easy it was to take off the rails and make Her crib a "big girl" bed.
I've never seen a toddler quite so flexible and ready to let go of these sort of weight-bearing beams of babyhood. The crib. The nursery. I'm proud of Her for rolling with it all so well; embracing progress and future and newness. I felt a sense of triumph as I shut the door after tucking Her in, and started envisioning all the re-organizing I can do now that She's taken so well to the new room. I felt happy that Little Miss will have had something re-arranged, redecorated, re-done just because of Her, and excited about making the space we have work in a more practical way for our growing family.
And then I passed by Little One's room...Her 'old' room? So carefully thought out, the paint color so much sweeter, the pink and purple curtains making it cozy. I stood in the doorway awhile and the triumph went a little bitter.
I like that room. The nursery. It's special. It's full of memories that smell like Baby and whisper about becoming a Family. The shadows from that window that fell across so many sleepless, blissful nights. Her crib-bed looked so forlorn and empty. The baby kicked.
I turned out the light and shut the door, realizing that maybe the reason I'm so impressed with Little One's happy appetite for change isn't that I'm afraid She isn't ready...but that I'm not.
Change and growing up is hard for toddlers, it is true. But maybe it's even harder on their mothers. It flies by so fast.
With this one, most of the stuff is just hauled down from the attic, and she'll be sharing a room with Little One so there's no nursery decorating to do. It may be why the nearness of Her due-date hasn't really struck us yet: we're just sort of going about business as usual. And with so much going on with Little One, sometimes we almost forget that something quite huge really is about to happen to this family.
But my last OB appointment, where OB told me to expect Little Miss to make Her entrance (exit?) any time now, sort of gave me a wake up call. Any day now? Really?
And the nesting instinct has gone into hyperdrive.
MUST. PREPARE.
My latest stroke of inspiration/insanity gave me the idea to switch the nursery with the larger guest room, so that there is really space to share a room, and so that I can take pictures down and re-hang them in another room, thus giving an outlet to all this nesting energy. Because the bathtub really can't be scrubbed so often. It can't be good for it.
With the advice of a friend who is a great mom, I decided that now is a better time for this switch than after the baby arrives. So that it can be about Little One, and the baby not be blamed for another big change. Toddlers are infamous for their hatred of change. INfamous.
So I was sort of nervous about bringing up the idea with Little One, especially because I decided to pass Her nice crib along to Her sister; a change on top of a change, orbiting an even bigger change.
But I mentioned it in passing this morning. Then I looked online and found a great toddler bed on Craigslist, and showed Her the picture. She determined that it was a "ballerina big girl" bed, and that She loved it and wanted to "sleep in there, and then jump! And spin! Around around around baller-EEN-a BIG girl bed!" So we picked it up, put it together, cleaned it. All the while, I was waiting for the idea to hit Her that She was being somehow displaced, and preparing myself for the fallout.
But She remained thrilled with the idea all evening, and when J came home and carried it upstairs, She instructed him to put it in the guest room. And told me that She wanted to sleep in it. So we brought in Her blankets and puppy and teddy. At Her insistence, we read stories in there, and then She crawled right in. "So nice, my ballerina bed, mommy," She said yawning. And said goodnight.
And slept, all night, slept in even. I can hardly believe how easy that was, like I couldn't believe how easy it was to take off the rails and make Her crib a "big girl" bed.
I've never seen a toddler quite so flexible and ready to let go of these sort of weight-bearing beams of babyhood. The crib. The nursery. I'm proud of Her for rolling with it all so well; embracing progress and future and newness. I felt a sense of triumph as I shut the door after tucking Her in, and started envisioning all the re-organizing I can do now that She's taken so well to the new room. I felt happy that Little Miss will have had something re-arranged, redecorated, re-done just because of Her, and excited about making the space we have work in a more practical way for our growing family.
And then I passed by Little One's room...Her 'old' room? So carefully thought out, the paint color so much sweeter, the pink and purple curtains making it cozy. I stood in the doorway awhile and the triumph went a little bitter.
I like that room. The nursery. It's special. It's full of memories that smell like Baby and whisper about becoming a Family. The shadows from that window that fell across so many sleepless, blissful nights. Her crib-bed looked so forlorn and empty. The baby kicked.
I turned out the light and shut the door, realizing that maybe the reason I'm so impressed with Little One's happy appetite for change isn't that I'm afraid She isn't ready...but that I'm not.
Change and growing up is hard for toddlers, it is true. But maybe it's even harder on their mothers. It flies by so fast.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Cocoa Baby
When this new baby comes- and oh my, but She is coming awfully soon- I'm pretty sure that She will look like this:
Hopefully just the one of Her, though, but still. Because after the amount of chocolate I have consumed in the last few months, there is just no way Her little genes haven't been altered by all that cocoa infusion. I mean, I have always loved chocolate. Mmmmmm....chocolate......
But this is just insane. I think I have a problem. Hello, my name is C, and I have a chocolate problem. I eat it all day. ALL DAY. And. Sometimes in the middle of the night, too.
If I could, I would just melt some down, stick it in an IV bag, and send a direct line in, continuously, all day. With Little One I craved milk, and oranges. But not like this. And since Little One is now allergic to both milk and oranges, I seriously hope I am not dooming the Little Miss to a lifetime without chocolate, because what would be the point Peanuts? What kind of life would that be?!
No, chocolate is necessary. But this much is not good. For example, even though I lost weight during that dreadful first trimester, and even though I gained it slower and got a lot more exercise in the second than I did with Little One, the chocolate has, since it's constant companionship in this last trimester, chunked me up so that I already am heavier than I was when Little One was born, and I'm not even done yet! With being pregnant, or with the brownies and snickers bar in the kitchen!
It's a shame that Little One and I can't trade spots for a while. At the moment, we are rather like Jack Sprat and his rotund wife. One thing is for sure. This baby is going to be born just FULL of sweetness.
Keep 'Em Coming...
 |
| Keep Cookin' Little One! |
Keep those good ideas coming, please!
Today was Her first weight check at the pediatrician's office.
I made the poor tech re-weigh Her three times, and re-zero the scale.
But despite all that good denial- and despite all the bacon fat and ice cream and gravy and cookies and calorie drinks- Little One hasn't gained any weight. In fact, defying all logic, She has apparently lost a pound and a half.
We are hoping that She's just still recovering from the yogurt/allergy fiasco. We'll see.
We've earned some more specialist appointments, but probably no invasive tests for now. Hopefully, by the time Her next check rolls around, She'll have some rolls around too.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
8 Down
Yesterday I went to see the OB for my regular check up.
I've just been popping in every month or so, hearing a heartbeat and chatting a bit with my OB, and then going on with the day. Doing fine, getting bigger, la di da, time to take Little One to a puppetshow.
Really, my OB is super friendly and laid-back, and it's kind of more like a regular coffee-date than a medical appointment. Especially compared with the real medical appointments we've been having for Little One. So you see how my mind just sort of skips over these check ups a bit.
But yesterday, OB said, "Ok! Well we'll have to start meeting every two weeks now, and next time I'll check and see if you're dilating yet!"
And I said, "What."
"....See if I'm....what?!"
Oh. My. Goodness, Peanuts.
Do you see what's happening? Do you know what's going on here?!
There is a BABY coming. SOON. Seriously.
As Little One would say, Holy Mowly.
I've just been popping in every month or so, hearing a heartbeat and chatting a bit with my OB, and then going on with the day. Doing fine, getting bigger, la di da, time to take Little One to a puppetshow.
Really, my OB is super friendly and laid-back, and it's kind of more like a regular coffee-date than a medical appointment. Especially compared with the real medical appointments we've been having for Little One. So you see how my mind just sort of skips over these check ups a bit.
But yesterday, OB said, "Ok! Well we'll have to start meeting every two weeks now, and next time I'll check and see if you're dilating yet!"
And I said, "What."
"....See if I'm....what?!"
Oh. My. Goodness, Peanuts.
Do you see what's happening? Do you know what's going on here?!
There is a BABY coming. SOON. Seriously.
As Little One would say, Holy Mowly.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Help Make Little One Chubby!
Between the two of us, Little One and I might as well move in and live at the hospital.
We were there three days and over 12 hours this week. So fun.
Monday we met with Her fourth team of pediatric specialists, who in turn referred Her to a fifth. I know. She is cute. Everyone wants to keep Her! But when we add in Her regular pediatrician, that's SIX departments following Little One, which is a LOT of follow-up appointments. Throw in monthly (soon to become bimonthly) check ups for the Little Miss and I, we are looking at a many hours in waiting rooms.
The new issue is Little One's, well, littleness. Apparently She hasn't gained any weight since September. Could be She's just small, and has been sick a lot, and will catch up as we go. No problem. But it could be a sign that something isn't right.
So just in case, the doctors all say, they need us to "prove" that Little One can gain weight. If She can, then whether She actually does or not- for now- doesn't really matter too much. But can She? We have been given a month to see.
A month to fatten Her up! The month is up in next week, and if that time goes by and She still hasn't upped the ounces, the Specialists will want to start looking at why. Which would involve even more time at the hospital, and probably some tests that we really, really, really want to avoid. Yuck.
Unfortunately, at Her appointment Monday, the scale let me down by informing us (the creep) that She hasn't gained anything yet. But we're only half-way there, and we came home with a special high-calorie drink that might help us out some.
In the meantime? Little One has been surprised to find and array of foods available to Her that we previously preferred to skip, or at least limit. Like desserts and processed foods. I fed the child packaged onion rings, for heaven's sake. She gets to pour gravy on everything. I have been making Her bacon and using the drippings to fry Her veggies in. Syrup in Her oatmeal, Hersheys in Her milk. Meat, meat, meat.
This task is a bit difficult, because for one thing it goes horribly, terribly against the grain of my parenting instincts. My child has never had a french fry or a chicken nugget. And I am giving Her bacon fat. We're used to apple slices and grapes for snack, not animal cookies and beef jerky. I am working very hard at giving Her whatever it takes to avoid those nasty tests, but I wince EVERY single time I do it. At a typical meal, Little One will eat the broccoli first. I don't want to ruin that yet!
And it's also hard because a lot of the foods that are typically suggested to fatten kids up are dairy products or processed/fast food items that She's allergic to.
"Just put butter in everything She eats" one Specialist advised. Uh huh. Hmm. Yes, well. That's a neat idea, but, see, it would probably kill Her, so it might not be the best choice, in the end. "Try this high-calorie nutrition drink" advised another. It only has a tiny bit of milk protein in it. Yes. But a much much tinier amount was in that yogurt we gave Her, and She was sick for a month.
The tough thing about so many specialists is the increasingly complex nature of the advice we are given, and at the center of it I have to try to make sure that no one forgets that She has issues other than just what they are seeing Her for. I've learned I have to be very careful to second-guess a lot of nutrition advice, because the doctor forgets or doesn't realize that Her allergies are so serious. She's not going to gain weight on something if it makes Her stop breathing. Breathing tends to be sort of at the top of the priority list, I think.
So we are fishing around for suggestions (we got the pour-gravy-on-everything idea from a skinny friend) and scouring Whole Foods for substitutes, and doing the best we can. It's a strange thing to be urging my child to have some more deep-fried anything, but I guess that's the thing about parenting.
No matter what you say you absolutely Will or Will Not do as a parent, you really never know.
The little buggers are full of surprises, and they couldn't possibly care less what your high ideals are.
And so, Dora the Explorer has become a regular visitor in the house, my two-year-old wears pretend make-up, and I pour Hershey syrup into a travel cup. WOW.
This whole experience only reinforces my absolute, number one rule regarding other parents. Which is: (except in super extreme cases where authorities should actually be involved) whatever your first impression, gut reaction, or theoretical objection is- Never Judge.
The kid bopping everyone on the playground over the head may have autism.
The mom ignoring her child's sand-throwing may be two steps from having one of them admitted to the psych ward.
The kid watching a portable DVD at the restaurant might be getting a once-a-year reward for some great achievement.
The one outside in winter without a jacket might not be able to afford one.
The mom shoving rolos into Her toddlers mouth in the checkout line might be in the middle of a diabetic emergency, and the one feeding Her kid bacon and ice cream for breakfast might be told by 6 teams of doctors to do it.
Never judge.
Sometimes parents do things the total opposite of what you think is right, because they plain have a different idea of what is right. And there's plenty of room for differences in opinion in this most subjective of endeavors. But sometimes they might agree with you 100%, and there's just some outside influence causing them to hang up their pious, perfect-parent hat for awhile and just get through whatever it is.
A while ago, Little One and I were walking and saw a 3 or 4 year old having a truly inspired, kicking-screaming tantrum on the sidewalk next to the open door of a minivan. The mother eyed us anxiously and apologetically as we approached. Her face got redder and redder. As we were about to pass by, the fit reached a new level of crazy and the mom- who had been trying every threat, admonition, and plea she could think of- finally pulled something out of Her purse and said "fine! here! here they are! you can have them just GET IN THE CAR!"
She looked up, sort of surprised to see me right there next to her, witnessing her fold. "s-sometimes", she stammered, shamed, almost in a whisper, "I just...I just really need him to get in the car..."
She looked up at me sideways, expecting a condescending smile, sniff, or harsh rebuttal.
I put my hand on her arm and said genuinely, because I meant it, "Any of us who haven't been there already, will soon. We're all making it up as we go."
Anyways, I know I am. In the meantime, I'm enlisting you all in my warped endeavor to add some dimples to those Little One thighs.
Any ideas on how to squeeze some more calories in there?
(Keep in mind they can't have nuts, dairy, eggs, citrus, or strawberry.)
Come on Peanuts, help us get chubby!
We were there three days and over 12 hours this week. So fun.
Monday we met with Her fourth team of pediatric specialists, who in turn referred Her to a fifth. I know. She is cute. Everyone wants to keep Her! But when we add in Her regular pediatrician, that's SIX departments following Little One, which is a LOT of follow-up appointments. Throw in monthly (soon to become bimonthly) check ups for the Little Miss and I, we are looking at a many hours in waiting rooms.
The new issue is Little One's, well, littleness. Apparently She hasn't gained any weight since September. Could be She's just small, and has been sick a lot, and will catch up as we go. No problem. But it could be a sign that something isn't right.
So just in case, the doctors all say, they need us to "prove" that Little One can gain weight. If She can, then whether She actually does or not- for now- doesn't really matter too much. But can She? We have been given a month to see.
A month to fatten Her up! The month is up in next week, and if that time goes by and She still hasn't upped the ounces, the Specialists will want to start looking at why. Which would involve even more time at the hospital, and probably some tests that we really, really, really want to avoid. Yuck.
Unfortunately, at Her appointment Monday, the scale let me down by informing us (the creep) that She hasn't gained anything yet. But we're only half-way there, and we came home with a special high-calorie drink that might help us out some.
In the meantime? Little One has been surprised to find and array of foods available to Her that we previously preferred to skip, or at least limit. Like desserts and processed foods. I fed the child packaged onion rings, for heaven's sake. She gets to pour gravy on everything. I have been making Her bacon and using the drippings to fry Her veggies in. Syrup in Her oatmeal, Hersheys in Her milk. Meat, meat, meat.
This task is a bit difficult, because for one thing it goes horribly, terribly against the grain of my parenting instincts. My child has never had a french fry or a chicken nugget. And I am giving Her bacon fat. We're used to apple slices and grapes for snack, not animal cookies and beef jerky. I am working very hard at giving Her whatever it takes to avoid those nasty tests, but I wince EVERY single time I do it. At a typical meal, Little One will eat the broccoli first. I don't want to ruin that yet!
And it's also hard because a lot of the foods that are typically suggested to fatten kids up are dairy products or processed/fast food items that She's allergic to.
"Just put butter in everything She eats" one Specialist advised. Uh huh. Hmm. Yes, well. That's a neat idea, but, see, it would probably kill Her, so it might not be the best choice, in the end. "Try this high-calorie nutrition drink" advised another. It only has a tiny bit of milk protein in it. Yes. But a much much tinier amount was in that yogurt we gave Her, and She was sick for a month.
The tough thing about so many specialists is the increasingly complex nature of the advice we are given, and at the center of it I have to try to make sure that no one forgets that She has issues other than just what they are seeing Her for. I've learned I have to be very careful to second-guess a lot of nutrition advice, because the doctor forgets or doesn't realize that Her allergies are so serious. She's not going to gain weight on something if it makes Her stop breathing. Breathing tends to be sort of at the top of the priority list, I think.
So we are fishing around for suggestions (we got the pour-gravy-on-everything idea from a skinny friend) and scouring Whole Foods for substitutes, and doing the best we can. It's a strange thing to be urging my child to have some more deep-fried anything, but I guess that's the thing about parenting.
No matter what you say you absolutely Will or Will Not do as a parent, you really never know.
The little buggers are full of surprises, and they couldn't possibly care less what your high ideals are.
And so, Dora the Explorer has become a regular visitor in the house, my two-year-old wears pretend make-up, and I pour Hershey syrup into a travel cup. WOW.
This whole experience only reinforces my absolute, number one rule regarding other parents. Which is: (except in super extreme cases where authorities should actually be involved) whatever your first impression, gut reaction, or theoretical objection is- Never Judge.
The kid bopping everyone on the playground over the head may have autism.
The mom ignoring her child's sand-throwing may be two steps from having one of them admitted to the psych ward.
The kid watching a portable DVD at the restaurant might be getting a once-a-year reward for some great achievement.
The one outside in winter without a jacket might not be able to afford one.
The mom shoving rolos into Her toddlers mouth in the checkout line might be in the middle of a diabetic emergency, and the one feeding Her kid bacon and ice cream for breakfast might be told by 6 teams of doctors to do it.
Never judge.
Sometimes parents do things the total opposite of what you think is right, because they plain have a different idea of what is right. And there's plenty of room for differences in opinion in this most subjective of endeavors. But sometimes they might agree with you 100%, and there's just some outside influence causing them to hang up their pious, perfect-parent hat for awhile and just get through whatever it is.
A while ago, Little One and I were walking and saw a 3 or 4 year old having a truly inspired, kicking-screaming tantrum on the sidewalk next to the open door of a minivan. The mother eyed us anxiously and apologetically as we approached. Her face got redder and redder. As we were about to pass by, the fit reached a new level of crazy and the mom- who had been trying every threat, admonition, and plea she could think of- finally pulled something out of Her purse and said "fine! here! here they are! you can have them just GET IN THE CAR!"
She looked up, sort of surprised to see me right there next to her, witnessing her fold. "s-sometimes", she stammered, shamed, almost in a whisper, "I just...I just really need him to get in the car..."
She looked up at me sideways, expecting a condescending smile, sniff, or harsh rebuttal.
I put my hand on her arm and said genuinely, because I meant it, "Any of us who haven't been there already, will soon. We're all making it up as we go."
Anyways, I know I am. In the meantime, I'm enlisting you all in my warped endeavor to add some dimples to those Little One thighs.
Any ideas on how to squeeze some more calories in there?
(Keep in mind they can't have nuts, dairy, eggs, citrus, or strawberry.)
Come on Peanuts, help us get chubby!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Why hello, Two.
I have some other things I was going to say, happy valentines day, love and mush, and all that.
But it's been busy and instead I would like to share, who knows why, that today is a historic moment because it is going down as (so far) the biggest, baddest tantrum in Little One history.
The histrionics were amazing. I think we were both pretty surprised, frankly. She kept calming Herself down, giving me hug and an apology, and then flying right back off the handle when She realized that She was still not going to get Her way. At some point, after a warning, the fit became so out of hand that She lost the right to story time altogether (the fit was over choosing a book). Straight to bed with you, little demon child.
You are clearly SO tired, I pointed out, that you cannot stay in control of yourself at all. So you must need a nap Big Time. Right away.
She sobbed even as She climbed in and pulled the covers around Her. She nodded almost gratefully and began to drift off as I left the room.
Then. As the door closed, Her two-year-old mind clicked.
Wait! What am I doing! I'm giving in! Conceding defeat! This can't be!
And the conniption revved back up. "Books! Want story! Food! Hungry! Thirsty! Potty!"
Anything to get mommy to give into some demand. Poor thing. She really was exhausted. But She really wanted to establish a good order of power hierarchy before drifting into dreamland.
Unfortunately for Her, so did I.
I shut the door- She blessedly can still not reach the knob- and stood in torment on the stairs awhile.
Then I tried to view the situation through my rusty old Nanny eyes. These are SO different from mommy eyes, which get all teary whenever their progeny display any sign of distress. Mommy eyes are so clouded, you know. They have to be, so that we still think they are cute when they puke on themselves or get into our make up.
But Nanny eyes tend to see the long run a little better. They said, Psht. I have seen waaaaaaaay worse than this. Even on Epic Tantrum Day, Little One's hysterics are small potatoes compared to some of the kids I've sat through fits with, and my general philosophy on handling those- while maybe not everyone's choice- has worked well for me so far.
So Little One raged on in Her room. And I went downstairs and ate pie.
I checked the time.
I have a 12 minute rule.
In my experience, the vast majority of tantrum throwers, if left to their own devices, will give up in 12 minutes or less. Most people don't make it that long. It's like a game of chicken, who will give in first.
Twelve minutes of screaming and thrashing feels like an eternity to a parent. But if you think about it...it's not a long time. Not long enough to traumatize anyone. But possibly long enough to set some boundaries.
So I timed it. She screamed, She cried. And even though this was by far the biggest fit She's ever thrown, She didn't even get through half of those 12 minutes.
With some kids, putting down one good attempt at a coup will pretty much do the trick for good. With Little One...I have a feeling there will be a few more tirades before we're done with Two. Maybe even after Two (Three never gets enough credit for it's terribleness).
But even so. As I finish my pie and get on here to share that, wow, that was a really huge tantrum and it was horrible for both of us, I still believe that Two is not actually terrible.
I know that She will wake up refreshed, and rested, and call for me. When I come in, She will not reproach me for quelling Her rebellion. She won't ambush me with a blunt object to the head, tell me She hates me, or give me the cold shoulder (all that comes in about 10 years). She will put Her little arms around my neck, and ask for a snack.
There will be other battles waged; more melting down before She learns how to deal with disappointments and frustrations, and while we establish again and again which one of us is in charge. But for now. We'll slice up a banana and cuddle on the couch and count all the lady bugs on the page. Because that's what we do, at Two.
Twelve minutes or less is just a blip, just a little smudge on the narrative of our day together. The majority of Two, I can honestly say, is Terrific.
But it's been busy and instead I would like to share, who knows why, that today is a historic moment because it is going down as (so far) the biggest, baddest tantrum in Little One history.
The histrionics were amazing. I think we were both pretty surprised, frankly. She kept calming Herself down, giving me hug and an apology, and then flying right back off the handle when She realized that She was still not going to get Her way. At some point, after a warning, the fit became so out of hand that She lost the right to story time altogether (the fit was over choosing a book). Straight to bed with you, little demon child.
You are clearly SO tired, I pointed out, that you cannot stay in control of yourself at all. So you must need a nap Big Time. Right away.
She sobbed even as She climbed in and pulled the covers around Her. She nodded almost gratefully and began to drift off as I left the room.
Then. As the door closed, Her two-year-old mind clicked.
Wait! What am I doing! I'm giving in! Conceding defeat! This can't be!
And the conniption revved back up. "Books! Want story! Food! Hungry! Thirsty! Potty!"
Anything to get mommy to give into some demand. Poor thing. She really was exhausted. But She really wanted to establish a good order of power hierarchy before drifting into dreamland.
Unfortunately for Her, so did I.
I shut the door- She blessedly can still not reach the knob- and stood in torment on the stairs awhile.
Then I tried to view the situation through my rusty old Nanny eyes. These are SO different from mommy eyes, which get all teary whenever their progeny display any sign of distress. Mommy eyes are so clouded, you know. They have to be, so that we still think they are cute when they puke on themselves or get into our make up.
But Nanny eyes tend to see the long run a little better. They said, Psht. I have seen waaaaaaaay worse than this. Even on Epic Tantrum Day, Little One's hysterics are small potatoes compared to some of the kids I've sat through fits with, and my general philosophy on handling those- while maybe not everyone's choice- has worked well for me so far.
So Little One raged on in Her room. And I went downstairs and ate pie.
I checked the time.
I have a 12 minute rule.
In my experience, the vast majority of tantrum throwers, if left to their own devices, will give up in 12 minutes or less. Most people don't make it that long. It's like a game of chicken, who will give in first.
Twelve minutes of screaming and thrashing feels like an eternity to a parent. But if you think about it...it's not a long time. Not long enough to traumatize anyone. But possibly long enough to set some boundaries.
So I timed it. She screamed, She cried. And even though this was by far the biggest fit She's ever thrown, She didn't even get through half of those 12 minutes.
With some kids, putting down one good attempt at a coup will pretty much do the trick for good. With Little One...I have a feeling there will be a few more tirades before we're done with Two. Maybe even after Two (Three never gets enough credit for it's terribleness).
But even so. As I finish my pie and get on here to share that, wow, that was a really huge tantrum and it was horrible for both of us, I still believe that Two is not actually terrible.
I know that She will wake up refreshed, and rested, and call for me. When I come in, She will not reproach me for quelling Her rebellion. She won't ambush me with a blunt object to the head, tell me She hates me, or give me the cold shoulder (all that comes in about 10 years). She will put Her little arms around my neck, and ask for a snack.
There will be other battles waged; more melting down before She learns how to deal with disappointments and frustrations, and while we establish again and again which one of us is in charge. But for now. We'll slice up a banana and cuddle on the couch and count all the lady bugs on the page. Because that's what we do, at Two.
Twelve minutes or less is just a blip, just a little smudge on the narrative of our day together. The majority of Two, I can honestly say, is Terrific.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Gymnastics
Little One likes to tumble. She likes to do "tumble shows" in the living room, as I've mentioned.
She has several times jumped headlong off the sofa, crashing into the floor and popping up hollering, "TUMBLE!" She loves to dance, to move, to run. So for Christmas, Her gift from J and I was gymnastics classes. They started on Saturday!
She might have been more excited about the leotard than anything else. Fine, I was too. The gym we're signed up at is HUMUNGULOUS. They have about 6 classes going on at a time, every hour. I think we were all a little unprepared for the crowds and chaos, and there was no introduction, just jump right in! They had Her warm up with some older classes, and the music was loud, and She'd just been woken up from sleeping in the car. She did not appreciate being urged to jump right in! when we all know by now that Her preferred reaction to new situations, especially loud and crowded ones, is to sit on the sidelines and observe for awhile. But the instructors were really nice, and after a little while She warmed up and got into it. Especially for being Her first structured class and for it being such an overwhelming environment, She did a really great job. She tried everything, from balance beam to trampolines and obstacle courses, to somersaults, rings and bars, and jumping into a big pit of foam. At the end She got a stamp of a turtle on Her hand, which She admired the rest of the day. I taught gymnastics to little ones long ago, and the organization and giganticness of this place are different from what I expected based on my own experience. But I think that the more we go and it becomes familiar to Her, the more She will start to jump right in! and enjoy it. In the meantime, I'm proud of Her for testing Her own comfort zone, and She did have fun. J and I took her to lunch after, and then She slept like a rock for twice as long as usual. 
Out there with all the other classes swinging and flipping around Her, She looked so very, very tiny. But at the same time, I stood there in shock a little bit about the fact that I have a child big enough to be enrolled in an activity like this. She's my baby. But also my big kid. You know, the twos are hard but also wonderful in the way that line is straddled. Sometimes neither of us is so sure which side we'd like to be on; stay a baby, grow up, stay a baby, grow up. Both are so wonderful and so fraught with their own challenges. I guess it's just a good thing that we have this wavering transitional time, so that neither of us has to just jump right in! all at once. She did the obstacle course all by Herself. But at the end, to celebrate Her independent achievement, She ran to us for hugs.
She has several times jumped headlong off the sofa, crashing into the floor and popping up hollering, "TUMBLE!" She loves to dance, to move, to run. So for Christmas, Her gift from J and I was gymnastics classes. They started on Saturday!
She might have been more excited about the leotard than anything else. Fine, I was too. The gym we're signed up at is HUMUNGULOUS. They have about 6 classes going on at a time, every hour. I think we were all a little unprepared for the crowds and chaos, and there was no introduction, just jump right in! They had Her warm up with some older classes, and the music was loud, and She'd just been woken up from sleeping in the car. She did not appreciate being urged to jump right in! when we all know by now that Her preferred reaction to new situations, especially loud and crowded ones, is to sit on the sidelines and observe for awhile. But the instructors were really nice, and after a little while She warmed up and got into it. Especially for being Her first structured class and for it being such an overwhelming environment, She did a really great job. She tried everything, from balance beam to trampolines and obstacle courses, to somersaults, rings and bars, and jumping into a big pit of foam. At the end She got a stamp of a turtle on Her hand, which She admired the rest of the day. I taught gymnastics to little ones long ago, and the organization and giganticness of this place are different from what I expected based on my own experience. But I think that the more we go and it becomes familiar to Her, the more She will start to jump right in! and enjoy it. In the meantime, I'm proud of Her for testing Her own comfort zone, and She did have fun. J and I took her to lunch after, and then She slept like a rock for twice as long as usual. 
Out there with all the other classes swinging and flipping around Her, She looked so very, very tiny. But at the same time, I stood there in shock a little bit about the fact that I have a child big enough to be enrolled in an activity like this. She's my baby. But also my big kid. You know, the twos are hard but also wonderful in the way that line is straddled. Sometimes neither of us is so sure which side we'd like to be on; stay a baby, grow up, stay a baby, grow up. Both are so wonderful and so fraught with their own challenges. I guess it's just a good thing that we have this wavering transitional time, so that neither of us has to just jump right in! all at once. She did the obstacle course all by Herself. But at the end, to celebrate Her independent achievement, She ran to us for hugs.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
My New Favorite Book
Little One likes to help open the mail. She is very good at ripping envelopes open.
Today we got a card from my grandfather, and Little One opened it for me. But She didn't want to give it to me.
Little One: "Mommy, this a book. Like Little One read it to you?"
C: "Sure, Little One, I'd love that!"
Little One: "Oh good ok! Here go. Ready? This book says: Mommy love me, sooooo much. End!"
Today we got a card from my grandfather, and Little One opened it for me. But She didn't want to give it to me.
Little One: "Mommy, this a book. Like Little One read it to you?"
C: "Sure, Little One, I'd love that!"
Little One: "Oh good ok! Here go. Ready? This book says: Mommy love me, sooooo much. End!"
Honeymoon Story
Our new baby is kicking the crap out of me. I can't sleep.
So instead I'm sitting up thinking about that baby, how She's coming soon, how wonderful and yet how much work She's going to be, and it makes me think of our honeymoon. About honeymoons.
The tradition in our culture is that right after a couple gets married, they go on a honeymoon.
Typically someplace peaceful, romantic, probably tropical. A place where the couple can experience a bit of bliss and paradise, and be totally wrapped up in each other.
I get it. If that's your dream honeymoon, I say go for it! Because when you get home there will be unpacking. Thank you cards. OMG-do-you-seriously-think-you-are-keeping-that-THING-in-our-house. I-had-no-idea-about-that-nasty-habit-of-yours. How-the-heck-does-this-whole-thing-work-in-the-real-world?! There will be jobs and bills and arguments, and then someday. It is likely, that you will have children. GET PARADISE WHILE YOU CAN.
The bliss honeymoon is a last chance to believe in fairytales before you have to start the hard work of finding paradise and romance in things like a shared cup of tea at the crack of dawn, or a family chorus of "I love you a bushel and a peck" while stuck in traffic.
You can always take vacations after the honeymoon. But it will never be the same, because even if you forcibly restrain yourselves from discussing it, you will both be wondering if, at that moment, while you gaze into each others eyes over absurdly brightly-colored drinks, anyone is pooping on the new hardwood floors.
So like I said, I totally get it. But only in theory, since J and I did not opt for the paradise/bliss honeymoon. Instead of a fancy hotel on an island fat with tourist cash, we went to the inner city of one of the poorest nations in the world. And we took our innocent, fragile little baby-marriage and threw it like a lobster into a steaming, roiling pot of children at an orphanage. What the H were we thinking?
Instead of bathing suits and lingerie, I wore the same jeans for I will not even tell you how long. Instead of slathering on sunscreen on the beach, we got slimed in snotty noses and baby spit-up. And instead of lovely vistas and pretty flowers, we witnessed poverty, grief, and suffering too profound to illustrate with words.
In fairness, there is a LOT of beauty in Ethiopia, some of which we were lucky enough to witness. I hope that we will go back one day as tourists instead of volunteers so that we can see more of that gorgeous side of the country. And even though it might not sound like the above paragraph is me trying to sell the idea, I do believe it was the best honeymoon ever.
Not just because it was "meaningful" or individually enriching. But because against logic, it was a really, really great way to start a marriage. It was trial by fire a little bit. I mean, nothing will test the mettle of your romantic interest in each other like a good, solid case of food poisoning.
But also, we were two naive people who had just signed up to be a team for life, knowing that we wanted a family someday, and frankly not knowing much else. And there we were. Doing what we would be doing for the rest of our lives; navigating foreign, overwhelming, sometimes fun, and sometimes scary or painfully sad terrain. Rather than dressing ourselves up both literally and figuratively to appear perfect to each other, we had to show our true colors pretty well right away when it came to things like how we handle stress, fatigue, shock. And about how see others and the world outside our own little bubbles. And. About how we deal with kids.
If either of us lost our tempers easily, or if we had totally opposite ideas on how to handle major things like fighting, grief, uncomfortable questions, discipline, or illness, we would have found those things out not years down the road when we had brought people into the world to raise together, but right then, at Go. We got to have almost a little trial run at parenting together long before we were ready to be parents.
I think about that a lot, as we get deeper into this married life and the real, full-on task of being parents every day. I reflect on our time in the kids' home and how what we learned about each other there set a foundation for what we are now, for Little One. One of the best benefits for Her, I think, is just that we knew from before She was born that thankfully, we were pretty much on the same page. And we knew that we were capable of being responsible for small people without breaking them. Even really, really, really small people.
As the time gets closer to our having a newborn in this house again, I think often (as I did when Little One was soon to arrive) about the tiniest of these little angels who impacted our lives in so many beautiful ways. His name was Baby Stevie. Because that's what we called him.
Talk about trial by fire; a great way to test a couple who think they want kids one day is to hand them a newborn and say, "figure it out". All the better challenge if that newborn is a preemie. And sick. And you have NOTHING but yourselves to work with.
Towards the end of our summer in Ethiopia, a hospital called about a baby who had just lost its mother coming into the world. When the orphanage workers picked him up, they were surprised to find that he was not only brand new, but too new- less than 2 pounds. They brought him into the room where they kept all fragile babies- most of them sick- and he was soon sick himself. He was also too weak to suck a bottle, and soon became dehydrated. The home director was afraid they would lose him soon- and there were so many babies and only so many nannies.
So one very chilly night during the monsoon, the nannies and I wrapped this tiny skeleton in blankets and blankets and scarves until it became a little bundle the size of a watermelon. It looked like a wad of laundry, but I held onto it for dear life walking by moonlight through little rivers of mud to the volunteer house. I was terrified I would slip and crush him. But we made it, and when we did J and two other volunteers and I unwrapped the layers and looked with awe at this tiny little thing, small enough to hold in one hand, but somehow miraculously moving and yawning and intensely precious.
We took shifts. It was cold because of the rains, but there was no heat, so we wrapped him onto us,
skin-to-skin and became human incubators. We boiled water and poured formula into his mouth with a spoon, and then an empty syringe, until he was strong enough to suck a bottle. We bought lem-lem oral rehydration salts at the corner store and mixed them up for him, we guessed at how much liquid antibiotics to give him when the pharmacy asked his weight and then said they hadn't a clue. Because babies that small shouldn't exist. We fed him every hour. We watched him every minute. We rejoiced when he had his first teeny dirty diaper, and changed him fast to keep him out of the cold.
He wasn't particularly expected to make it, but he did. He was a little fighter, and we fought with him.
It was exhausting, and we still had the other kids to be with, too. But somehow we managed it, and it was incredibly wonderful every time he made a little progress, tipped the scales a bit more, made a new sound. And for J and I, there was something more profoundly romantic about meeting each others' sleepy smile under the covers with a baby's soft breaths between us than we ever could have found in a jacuzzi tub full of rose petals.
I found out later that he grew to have fat cheeks, and was adopted. The Little Miss we are expecting weighs around 4 pounds now. She's more than twice as big and strong as Baby Stevie was when we met him, and She's still growing. J and I think of that and shake our heads in wonder. We feel we've been a part of miracles.
He's in the back of our minds when we think of our babies. Like I was with Little One, I'll always have an expectant mother's excited anxiety that I will Do Things Right when She gets here. But thanks to Baby Stevie, there is also the feeling that even if we don't do it perfectly, we will take care of Her. We will instinctively know when She needs food or warmth or changing, and we will find a way to get it to Her. If we could keep caring for Stevie when there was no doctor, no equipment, no back-up plan, we can probably handle the basics with this full-term, first-world newborn, too. And we will be able to do it together, seamlessly, as a team. Because we've known since the very start of our marriage that somehow, even if we don't always do it perfectly, we instinctively know how to take care of each other, too.
Baby Stevie and all the kids at the home gave us the penultimate wedding gift. I treasure it, I carry it with me all the time, and take it out every now and then to admire or draw strength from it. It was the gift of seeing each other in a sharply honest way, the gift of discovering both who we had really married and who we were as a newly forged, single entity. Of knowing that our individual metals had melded in a way we liked, and that our new alloy only gets shinier when polished with boogers and spit-up.
I can never say that our honeymoon was sexy or relaxing or like a fairytale, exactly. I think we missed that boat. But we passed it up for an experience that was romantic in maybe a less illusory way.
We never face a hardship or a gritty real-life situation and say to each other, "well I guess the honeymoon's over!" It's during those times that I'm reminded most of our honeymoon, and it's fortifying because it brings back that feeling of relief and assurance that We can do This. It brings me back to the realization of a kind of love that has nothing to do with ambiance.
I think of J cradling Baby Stevie, I think of him with a 10 year old crying on his shoulder, I think of him squeezing my hand when the poverty made me cry. I think of him spreading his arms in front of a group of children, shielding them from a car reeling around the corner, I think of him playing soccer in the dirt, laughing and muddy.
And there we are. In the midst of something hard or disgusting, and the honeymoon isn't over. It's ongoing, it's a thread running through us. And I fall in love with him even harder, and whatever it is we're going through in that moment- I find it again.
Bliss. Paradise.
So instead I'm sitting up thinking about that baby, how She's coming soon, how wonderful and yet how much work She's going to be, and it makes me think of our honeymoon. About honeymoons.
The tradition in our culture is that right after a couple gets married, they go on a honeymoon.
Typically someplace peaceful, romantic, probably tropical. A place where the couple can experience a bit of bliss and paradise, and be totally wrapped up in each other.
I get it. If that's your dream honeymoon, I say go for it! Because when you get home there will be unpacking. Thank you cards. OMG-do-you-seriously-think-you-are-keeping-that-THING-in-our-house. I-had-no-idea-about-that-nasty-habit-of-yours. How-the-heck-does-this-whole-thing-work-in-the-real-world?! There will be jobs and bills and arguments, and then someday. It is likely, that you will have children. GET PARADISE WHILE YOU CAN.
The bliss honeymoon is a last chance to believe in fairytales before you have to start the hard work of finding paradise and romance in things like a shared cup of tea at the crack of dawn, or a family chorus of "I love you a bushel and a peck" while stuck in traffic.
You can always take vacations after the honeymoon. But it will never be the same, because even if you forcibly restrain yourselves from discussing it, you will both be wondering if, at that moment, while you gaze into each others eyes over absurdly brightly-colored drinks, anyone is pooping on the new hardwood floors.
So like I said, I totally get it. But only in theory, since J and I did not opt for the paradise/bliss honeymoon. Instead of a fancy hotel on an island fat with tourist cash, we went to the inner city of one of the poorest nations in the world. And we took our innocent, fragile little baby-marriage and threw it like a lobster into a steaming, roiling pot of children at an orphanage. What the H were we thinking? Instead of bathing suits and lingerie, I wore the same jeans for I will not even tell you how long. Instead of slathering on sunscreen on the beach, we got slimed in snotty noses and baby spit-up. And instead of lovely vistas and pretty flowers, we witnessed poverty, grief, and suffering too profound to illustrate with words.
In fairness, there is a LOT of beauty in Ethiopia, some of which we were lucky enough to witness. I hope that we will go back one day as tourists instead of volunteers so that we can see more of that gorgeous side of the country. And even though it might not sound like the above paragraph is me trying to sell the idea, I do believe it was the best honeymoon ever.
Not just because it was "meaningful" or individually enriching. But because against logic, it was a really, really great way to start a marriage. It was trial by fire a little bit. I mean, nothing will test the mettle of your romantic interest in each other like a good, solid case of food poisoning.
But also, we were two naive people who had just signed up to be a team for life, knowing that we wanted a family someday, and frankly not knowing much else. And there we were. Doing what we would be doing for the rest of our lives; navigating foreign, overwhelming, sometimes fun, and sometimes scary or painfully sad terrain. Rather than dressing ourselves up both literally and figuratively to appear perfect to each other, we had to show our true colors pretty well right away when it came to things like how we handle stress, fatigue, shock. And about how see others and the world outside our own little bubbles. And. About how we deal with kids.If either of us lost our tempers easily, or if we had totally opposite ideas on how to handle major things like fighting, grief, uncomfortable questions, discipline, or illness, we would have found those things out not years down the road when we had brought people into the world to raise together, but right then, at Go. We got to have almost a little trial run at parenting together long before we were ready to be parents.
I think about that a lot, as we get deeper into this married life and the real, full-on task of being parents every day. I reflect on our time in the kids' home and how what we learned about each other there set a foundation for what we are now, for Little One. One of the best benefits for Her, I think, is just that we knew from before She was born that thankfully, we were pretty much on the same page. And we knew that we were capable of being responsible for small people without breaking them. Even really, really, really small people.
As the time gets closer to our having a newborn in this house again, I think often (as I did when Little One was soon to arrive) about the tiniest of these little angels who impacted our lives in so many beautiful ways. His name was Baby Stevie. Because that's what we called him.Talk about trial by fire; a great way to test a couple who think they want kids one day is to hand them a newborn and say, "figure it out". All the better challenge if that newborn is a preemie. And sick. And you have NOTHING but yourselves to work with.
Towards the end of our summer in Ethiopia, a hospital called about a baby who had just lost its mother coming into the world. When the orphanage workers picked him up, they were surprised to find that he was not only brand new, but too new- less than 2 pounds. They brought him into the room where they kept all fragile babies- most of them sick- and he was soon sick himself. He was also too weak to suck a bottle, and soon became dehydrated. The home director was afraid they would lose him soon- and there were so many babies and only so many nannies.
So one very chilly night during the monsoon, the nannies and I wrapped this tiny skeleton in blankets and blankets and scarves until it became a little bundle the size of a watermelon. It looked like a wad of laundry, but I held onto it for dear life walking by moonlight through little rivers of mud to the volunteer house. I was terrified I would slip and crush him. But we made it, and when we did J and two other volunteers and I unwrapped the layers and looked with awe at this tiny little thing, small enough to hold in one hand, but somehow miraculously moving and yawning and intensely precious.
 |
| About 2 weeks old |
skin-to-skin and became human incubators. We boiled water and poured formula into his mouth with a spoon, and then an empty syringe, until he was strong enough to suck a bottle. We bought lem-lem oral rehydration salts at the corner store and mixed them up for him, we guessed at how much liquid antibiotics to give him when the pharmacy asked his weight and then said they hadn't a clue. Because babies that small shouldn't exist. We fed him every hour. We watched him every minute. We rejoiced when he had his first teeny dirty diaper, and changed him fast to keep him out of the cold.
He wasn't particularly expected to make it, but he did. He was a little fighter, and we fought with him.
It was exhausting, and we still had the other kids to be with, too. But somehow we managed it, and it was incredibly wonderful every time he made a little progress, tipped the scales a bit more, made a new sound. And for J and I, there was something more profoundly romantic about meeting each others' sleepy smile under the covers with a baby's soft breaths between us than we ever could have found in a jacuzzi tub full of rose petals.I found out later that he grew to have fat cheeks, and was adopted. The Little Miss we are expecting weighs around 4 pounds now. She's more than twice as big and strong as Baby Stevie was when we met him, and She's still growing. J and I think of that and shake our heads in wonder. We feel we've been a part of miracles.
He's in the back of our minds when we think of our babies. Like I was with Little One, I'll always have an expectant mother's excited anxiety that I will Do Things Right when She gets here. But thanks to Baby Stevie, there is also the feeling that even if we don't do it perfectly, we will take care of Her. We will instinctively know when She needs food or warmth or changing, and we will find a way to get it to Her. If we could keep caring for Stevie when there was no doctor, no equipment, no back-up plan, we can probably handle the basics with this full-term, first-world newborn, too. And we will be able to do it together, seamlessly, as a team. Because we've known since the very start of our marriage that somehow, even if we don't always do it perfectly, we instinctively know how to take care of each other, too.
Baby Stevie and all the kids at the home gave us the penultimate wedding gift. I treasure it, I carry it with me all the time, and take it out every now and then to admire or draw strength from it. It was the gift of seeing each other in a sharply honest way, the gift of discovering both who we had really married and who we were as a newly forged, single entity. Of knowing that our individual metals had melded in a way we liked, and that our new alloy only gets shinier when polished with boogers and spit-up.
I can never say that our honeymoon was sexy or relaxing or like a fairytale, exactly. I think we missed that boat. But we passed it up for an experience that was romantic in maybe a less illusory way. We never face a hardship or a gritty real-life situation and say to each other, "well I guess the honeymoon's over!" It's during those times that I'm reminded most of our honeymoon, and it's fortifying because it brings back that feeling of relief and assurance that We can do This. It brings me back to the realization of a kind of love that has nothing to do with ambiance.
I think of J cradling Baby Stevie, I think of him with a 10 year old crying on his shoulder, I think of him squeezing my hand when the poverty made me cry. I think of him spreading his arms in front of a group of children, shielding them from a car reeling around the corner, I think of him playing soccer in the dirt, laughing and muddy.
And there we are. In the midst of something hard or disgusting, and the honeymoon isn't over. It's ongoing, it's a thread running through us. And I fall in love with him even harder, and whatever it is we're going through in that moment- I find it again.
Bliss. Paradise.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Devil in the Details
On the one hand, the both of us are idiots. For reading through the main stuff and stopping when we got to fine print. Everyone knows that the fine print is the most important. Don't think we haven't kicked ourselves plenty (but we won't mind if you join in).
On the other hand, though, J is a genius, and I'm serious, and thank goodness. Because if he hadn't done a little related research and had a lightbulb flicker on over his blessed head, we might have gone on poisoning our child.
He caught it just in the nick of time, too. Little One, as if She needed to freak us out any more right now, started having mysterious rashes and hives, and intense tummy problems. We took Her to the pediatrician, who looked at Her recent medical history, noted that She has fallen off her growth curve, and decided not to touch Her with a 10 foot pole. She referred us to more specialists, who we were supposed to start seeing this week. Which would be FOUR specialty teams following Little One, which is not the kind of collecting I'd like to get into. Maybe stamps, instead. Or figurines of some sort.
We were dreading these appointments and the battery of tests to come, and I can tell you I was personally having to make a very energetic effort at not worrying myself into a straightjacket, when J saw something in his research about yogurt.
One of the greatest things about being human, as far as Little One is concerned, is cocoyoyo.
She (with a little help from Her dad) has even created a song about it, which goes like this, to the tune of frere jaques:
It used to be just for dessert. But since the soy was healthier, and She was starting to have some tummy issues, we started letting Her have it after breakfast most days. The horrible thing is that the worse Her stomach got, the more we gave Her, thinking the live cultures would help.
Not realizing, of course, that one of those live cultures happens to be derived from COW MILK.
And why, yes, that is the Little One version of kryptonite. We are talking over a month of stomach pain and you don't want to know what else (but it involved a lot of laundry), itchy rashes, and inability to gain weight. We were literally poisoning Her.
Bet I just got out of ever having to babysit your kid, huh?
The day after Her peds appointment, J was looking at Her labs and reading about things the new specialists would probably look into. The lightbulb went off and he sent me a text. Please go read the yoyo label. VERY carefully. And there, after the ingredients, after all the other stuff, was a little asterisk.
We have switched Her back to Her old fancy formula to see if it will help Her gain some weight, and we have obviously stopped giving Her the kryptonite breakfast. So far, the problem seems to be resolved, and we are holding off on the addition of the new specialty team to Her collection. Thank goodness (and my genius husband).
Little One isn't mad at us. In fact She's pleased as can be, at the moment. At the moment She needs all the fat we can get into Her, and I am also feeling extremely guilty. She's just had an entire nice big tub of cocoyoyo- the real, coconut version- and She thinks that's about the best thing that could happen.
Don't worry. This time, I read the label. ALL of it.
I'm off to take some nekid pictures of Her in the bath or something. At this rate by the time She's a teenager She'll have more blackmail material against us than we will against Her, and that will just not do.
On the other hand, though, J is a genius, and I'm serious, and thank goodness. Because if he hadn't done a little related research and had a lightbulb flicker on over his blessed head, we might have gone on poisoning our child.
He caught it just in the nick of time, too. Little One, as if She needed to freak us out any more right now, started having mysterious rashes and hives, and intense tummy problems. We took Her to the pediatrician, who looked at Her recent medical history, noted that She has fallen off her growth curve, and decided not to touch Her with a 10 foot pole. She referred us to more specialists, who we were supposed to start seeing this week. Which would be FOUR specialty teams following Little One, which is not the kind of collecting I'd like to get into. Maybe stamps, instead. Or figurines of some sort.
We were dreading these appointments and the battery of tests to come, and I can tell you I was personally having to make a very energetic effort at not worrying myself into a straightjacket, when J saw something in his research about yogurt.
One of the greatest things about being human, as far as Little One is concerned, is cocoyoyo.
She (with a little help from Her dad) has even created a song about it, which goes like this, to the tune of frere jaques:
Coco yo-yoShe adores it. It is yogurt. Formerly, it was yogurt made of coconut milk, coconut yogurt. Which is where Little One derived its name. But after the soy allergy abated, we switched to soy yogurt which has more nutritional value and, when called "cocoyoyo" still retains the magic of being the best treat ever know to man. Or at least, to Little One.
Coco yo-yo
I bought yoooouuuu
At the stoooore
Now I'm gonna eat you
All up in my tummy
Yum yum yum
Yum yum YUM!
It used to be just for dessert. But since the soy was healthier, and She was starting to have some tummy issues, we started letting Her have it after breakfast most days. The horrible thing is that the worse Her stomach got, the more we gave Her, thinking the live cultures would help.
Not realizing, of course, that one of those live cultures happens to be derived from COW MILK.
And why, yes, that is the Little One version of kryptonite. We are talking over a month of stomach pain and you don't want to know what else (but it involved a lot of laundry), itchy rashes, and inability to gain weight. We were literally poisoning Her.
Bet I just got out of ever having to babysit your kid, huh?
The day after Her peds appointment, J was looking at Her labs and reading about things the new specialists would probably look into. The lightbulb went off and he sent me a text. Please go read the yoyo label. VERY carefully. And there, after the ingredients, after all the other stuff, was a little asterisk.
We have switched Her back to Her old fancy formula to see if it will help Her gain some weight, and we have obviously stopped giving Her the kryptonite breakfast. So far, the problem seems to be resolved, and we are holding off on the addition of the new specialty team to Her collection. Thank goodness (and my genius husband).
Little One isn't mad at us. In fact She's pleased as can be, at the moment. At the moment She needs all the fat we can get into Her, and I am also feeling extremely guilty. She's just had an entire nice big tub of cocoyoyo- the real, coconut version- and She thinks that's about the best thing that could happen.
Don't worry. This time, I read the label. ALL of it.
I'm off to take some nekid pictures of Her in the bath or something. At this rate by the time She's a teenager She'll have more blackmail material against us than we will against Her, and that will just not do.
Personality Test
In the broad spectrum of personalities, you have your Amy Winehouses, you have your Kate Middletons. Can you guess at which end of the spectrum Little One lies? Here are some hints. I will first throw you off by telling you that She is a total Diva of the Living Room. She has taken to pulling the bathroom stool into the middle of the room so that She has a stage for Her "shows", in which She sings into Her beloved microphone, tells "shtories", and makes general announcements to the household. She also uses it for "tumble shows", in which we are all to watch Her- jump off the stool, and either "crash" or "splash" onto the floor, then pop up with Her arms in a victory V- and commence with the applause.
But. The only thing Little One likes more than putting on these productions is actually attending "real shows". She has made it through hours of sitting hushed in an auditorium and joyously watching performers, from music to ballet, and I've yet to take Her to one that outlasted Her interest, or that She didn't like.
Until. Wednesday. We went to a kids concert held in the atrium of our local movie theater, where a well-known local kids artist was going to cure the cabin-fever of pre-schoolers everywhere with songs, dancing, puppets, instruments, props, and the shaking out of sillies. Sounds fun, right? Right. But. There was no stage or sound system, and before this poor woman in her silly pink pants had even made it through the first song, she was swarmed by the screaming masses. She was drowned out by the roaring background noise of mommies (who were probably more excited than their kids to be the heck out of the house after all this bad weather) chatting with each other and paying NO attention whatsoever to their progeny.
The performer broke out in a sweat. She began to take on the expression of a mouse being lowered into a snake terrarium. She vainly appealed to the mommies to calm their children, or at least themselves. Finally, she decided to ask the kids to come to the front, and the moms to fall back, so that the better-behaved two-year-olds could buffer her from the mother-mob.
Little One had been watching all of this, stone cold silent and still, with a little frown, from my lap. When the segregation began, I sent Her up to the front, and She grudgingly complied, casting glances at me over Her shoulder. She stood at the outside ring of screaming toddlers, clasped Her hands in front of Her, and gave the now-frantic performer Her full, expectant attention.
The singer strummed a guitar. Something about duckies. Mass hysteria. The children, now fully released from any semblance of authority, moshed in anarchy. The moms, taking the musical notes as a sign that this guitar-toting live bait was now fully responsible for taking their annoying offspring off their hands, began talking amongst themselves as loudly as possible, in order to hear one another over the noise of the guitar and the shrieking children.
Let me note that there were at least 50 kids under 3, and they were all maniacally thrilled with this raucous freedom. All of them but one.
Little One cried.
It was a cry of surrender, of giving up. A cry with Her arms stretched up like a baby asking to be held. The kind of cry for which I had to delve into the crowd and retrieve Her. She told me in exasperation as we exited the building,
"Mommy, this show not so fun. Can't hear it! Can't see show! And momma. This kids drive me crazy! Little One can't see mommy, can't see show, can't get out! Stuck! Bit scary, Mommy. Drive me crazy."
Luckily, some of our friends had joined us at this scene of hysteria, and we all decided to escape for an activity much more to Little One's liking: we went shopping. And out to lunch.
I guess She's not quite the moshing type.
Little One was as happy as a clam the rest of the outing, having long conversations with Her friend Em about Dora the Explorer, holding hands and jumping in puddles with Em's big brother, and cooing adoringly at Em's baby brother. She had a nice playdate in the afternoon at the nature center, and was in Her element serving pretend tea to our dinner guests.Maybe in high school we'll be buying Her tickets to opera instead of rock concerts. Then again.
Outside our lunch restaurant, the PA system was playing "She's lost that lovin' feeling". As we left, the beat of the drums froze Her in Her tracks. Her arms spread out wide, Her head tilted back. The chorus flipped Her diva switch and She danced. She danced until people stopped walking to watch. Until a random middle-aged man began dancing with Her. Until I swooped Her up and waltzed Her out of earshot of the rhythm and we all laughed our way to the parking lot. Maybe we won't be buying Her any concert tickets at all. Maybe we'll be going to Hers.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Mistaken ID
Me: "Lets hit the road, Jack!"
Little One: "Mommy no. Little One NOT Jack. See? See mommy it's me! Say 'hit road Little One!' This Jack someone else."
Little One: "Mommy no. Little One NOT Jack. See? See mommy it's me! Say 'hit road Little One!' This Jack someone else."
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Fabulous February
A great thing has happened! It's February. Yay February! Do you know what this means, Peanuts? Do you know? Do you?! 
I'll tell you.
It means that the cursed Mustache Manuary has expired. Thank goodness.
Now here's the thing about men and their mustaches. They may deny it! But don't believe them.
They looooove their 'staches a little bit. They all do. No one knows why, but they get attached to them. Like having a little furry buddy right there on their faces. Aw.
So what do you think all those Manuary participants did, when their month was up and their wives were waiting at the door with sharp razors and menacing looks? They knew their leetle friends had to
go, and so they had what really amounted to a farewell party.
Oh yes. A Mustache Manuary Finale party. We went.
All of us.
There were drinks, categories, contests and prizes. J was nominated and came in second for "Most Handsome Mustache". I am totally not sure whether to be proud or horrified. But it's better than having been a finalist for "creepiest mustache", which was another category.
And can I just tell you? 30 guys with month-grown 'staches all milling about in one room with a bar was a little creepy, overall. But also, kind of fun.
Especially since it meant that the next morning, J would give me my goodbye kiss and I would rejoice over the non-prickliness of it. Hall-eh-lu-yah.
Here's to February!
I'll tell you.
It means that the cursed Mustache Manuary has expired. Thank goodness.
Now here's the thing about men and their mustaches. They may deny it! But don't believe them.
They looooove their 'staches a little bit. They all do. No one knows why, but they get attached to them. Like having a little furry buddy right there on their faces. Aw.
So what do you think all those Manuary participants did, when their month was up and their wives were waiting at the door with sharp razors and menacing looks? They knew their leetle friends had to
go, and so they had what really amounted to a farewell party.Oh yes. A Mustache Manuary Finale party. We went.
All of us.
There were drinks, categories, contests and prizes. J was nominated and came in second for "Most Handsome Mustache". I am totally not sure whether to be proud or horrified. But it's better than having been a finalist for "creepiest mustache", which was another category.
And can I just tell you? 30 guys with month-grown 'staches all milling about in one room with a bar was a little creepy, overall. But also, kind of fun.
Especially since it meant that the next morning, J would give me my goodbye kiss and I would rejoice over the non-prickliness of it. Hall-eh-lu-yah.
Here's to February!
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