To be perfectly honest, I've been on the couch since 7:30. I've gotten up to pee once, and I've gotten up to put a DVD in once. I can get away with this because my husband is at work until midnight. On nights when he works, I can do whatever I want. I spent the evening laying on the couch. I ate a dinner that was part mac and cheese, part pasta and tomatoes (there weren't enough of either to make a full meal, so I alternated between the two), with some palate cleansing Thin Mints in between. I watched the movie Wonder Boys since I finished reading the book on Wednesday, in anticipation of Book Club. Then I fucked around on the internet some and halfway watched "Florida's Top 10 Beaches" on the Travel Channel. Now I'm watching Most Haunted on the Travel Channel and wondering why British people are so much better at sounding ominous than Americans. I think both of these shows are idiotic*, but I'm watching them, fucking around on the internet some more, and decidedly not done any of the simple tasks my husband has requested that I do. He's asked me to wash some socks for him and iron a shirt and two ties.
What I've failed to mention so far is that I walked in the door at 12:20 this afternoon and saw my husband sitting on the couch in a t-shirt and boxers staring catatonically at the blank, silent television. Papers were strewn all over the entranceway, and the baby was sitting on the floor, wearing his pajama shirt and mismatched sweatpants, smiling and waving a tampon as though it was the Olympic torch. It had clearly been a rough morning. I thought: When he goes to work, I will clean the house so he has a nice, calm environment to return to. Maybe if it's neat in the house when he comes home, he won't feel stressed about not yet finishing Anna Karenina. There are toys on the floor. There's food on the floor from all of the baby's meals and snacks today, the laundry's not folded, and there are dishes in the sink.
He gets off at midnight. Since it's 11:38, I've got a good fifteen minutes before I actually have to get up and do anything.
UPDATE: He came home fifteen minutes early! Eeek!
*I just switched the channel from Most Haunted to whatever the Food Network is showing. I was starting to get scared.
23 May 2008
09 May 2008
Little Things
You used to laugh when I tried to teach you to spit, I will tell him. I used to lean over the sink and spit. PUH, I'd say, and spit into the sink, and you'd laugh and laugh.
When you were first born you loved lights, I will say. We'd take turns holding holding you in the kitchen so you could gaze at the light above the stove. We'd turn the fan on, too. Sometimes the light and the fan were all that would calm you.
Your dad made up songs for you. You cried when you rode in the car, so he sang to you, I will say. The songs didn't help you much, but they distracted me some. You cried a lot.
I will tell him:
You loved to clap, and you loved when people clapped for you. When you smiled you showed your dimples, dimples you definitely didn't get from me. And when you smiled, I smiled too. I made the signs for 'Mama loves you,' and you clapped. One day you stopped clapping when I made the sign. I kept making it anyway.
When we took walks, we would tip the stroller up-like wheelies-and smile at you. Your teeth showed, and your eyes crinkled, and we knew you were happy.
You loved outside. Sometimes I held you on the porch, just held you, and that was enough. Enough to make you smile.
You talked before you had words. You held conversations with us. "Dougledougle," you'd say. "Duckaday." "Gleeeee!" Your conversations had the intonations and pauses of a real language, one we couldn't ever understand.
When you got angry you picked up toys and threw them on the floor. You reached out for whatever toy I offered to appease you, to calm you. You took it and threw it on the floor or swatted it out of my hand. When you didn't want to eat your food, you threw it on the floor. You picked it up in your little fist, raised your fist, and threw it to the floor with a force surprising for a baby. I watched as time I spent making food, warming it, cutting it into small pieces splattered into disconnected heaps I would have to sweep up. Again.
You gave zerbits and kisses-kiss kiss we called them. You opened your mouth and put it on a belly or an arm or a cheek of whoever you loved at that moment. They were the most slobbery, disgusting kisses, but we were thrilled any time we were on the receiving end.
When you were a few days shy of fourteen months, you learned to stick out your tongue. You imitated anyone who stuck their tongue out at you. When you saw me touch my nose with my tongue, you tried so hard to do the same. We adored each new trick you showed us.
I will tell him these things because he won't remember, and I won't allow myself to forget.
When you were first born you loved lights, I will say. We'd take turns holding holding you in the kitchen so you could gaze at the light above the stove. We'd turn the fan on, too. Sometimes the light and the fan were all that would calm you.
Your dad made up songs for you. You cried when you rode in the car, so he sang to you, I will say. The songs didn't help you much, but they distracted me some. You cried a lot.
I will tell him:
You loved to clap, and you loved when people clapped for you. When you smiled you showed your dimples, dimples you definitely didn't get from me. And when you smiled, I smiled too. I made the signs for 'Mama loves you,' and you clapped. One day you stopped clapping when I made the sign. I kept making it anyway.
When we took walks, we would tip the stroller up-like wheelies-and smile at you. Your teeth showed, and your eyes crinkled, and we knew you were happy.
You loved outside. Sometimes I held you on the porch, just held you, and that was enough. Enough to make you smile.
You talked before you had words. You held conversations with us. "Dougledougle," you'd say. "Duckaday." "Gleeeee!" Your conversations had the intonations and pauses of a real language, one we couldn't ever understand.
When you got angry you picked up toys and threw them on the floor. You reached out for whatever toy I offered to appease you, to calm you. You took it and threw it on the floor or swatted it out of my hand. When you didn't want to eat your food, you threw it on the floor. You picked it up in your little fist, raised your fist, and threw it to the floor with a force surprising for a baby. I watched as time I spent making food, warming it, cutting it into small pieces splattered into disconnected heaps I would have to sweep up. Again.
You gave zerbits and kisses-kiss kiss we called them. You opened your mouth and put it on a belly or an arm or a cheek of whoever you loved at that moment. They were the most slobbery, disgusting kisses, but we were thrilled any time we were on the receiving end.
When you were a few days shy of fourteen months, you learned to stick out your tongue. You imitated anyone who stuck their tongue out at you. When you saw me touch my nose with my tongue, you tried so hard to do the same. We adored each new trick you showed us.
I will tell him these things because he won't remember, and I won't allow myself to forget.
Bad Theology
"Where's Spiky Sam?" I asked Husband. "I want to sing to the baby."
"Oh, he's on the Ark with all the other dinosaurs," he replied, and handed me the baby.
I shook my head. "Oh, Baby, that's just bad theology. Everyone knows the dinosaurs wouldn't fit on the Ark. That's why they went extinct."
"Oh, he's on the Ark with all the other dinosaurs," he replied, and handed me the baby.
I shook my head. "Oh, Baby, that's just bad theology. Everyone knows the dinosaurs wouldn't fit on the Ark. That's why they went extinct."
Pavlov's Baby, or Stupid babies need the most love, Part 4
First, watch the following video.
Between the three of us, Husband, my mother, and I appear to have classically conditioned my kid. I'm not quite sure how it started. I think it was my mother trying to teach him to talk around seven months. Since I talked at nine months, and my first word was light, she's been on top of this kid to say light.
Say light! she'll coo.
Lelelelelele, he replies.
That's right! she says, in perfect motherese. Light!
Eventually this kid started looking up at the light when she asked him to say light. Then we started noticing that he could point. So we began asking him to point to the light. At first he looked at us cluelessly. Then he started looking at the light. One day something connected and his index finger shot out and his arm extended with the enthusiasm of a Nazi, affirming allegiance to the Fuhrer.*
Being semi-doting parents and a very overly-doting grandmother, we made a huge deal over this. We clapped and cheered like idiots. Loudly. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly. My kid got a huge smile on his face, which of course suckered the three of us in. We began asking him to point to the light wherever we were. He did it in the dining room while eating. He did it in the living room, bathroom, and bedrooms. He pointed to lights at grocery stores and restaurants. We clapped, he clapped, and all were happy.
One day he stopped pointing. Out of nowhere. We asked, whined, begged for him to point to the light, and he just wouldn't do it. Initially he just gave us a look that said are you people really so stupid that you don't know where the fucking light is? Then he went straight from the question to the clapping and smiling.
We weren't concerned at first. We just tried reasoning with him.
No, Baby, we explained. If you want clap-clap, you have to point to the light.
We thought maybe he just needed to be redirected and reminded of how this clap-clap thing works. He didn't point.
Baby, we sighed, can you please point to the light? He didn't point.
Then we did that thing that adults do that kids love-once-and then get sick of and think the adult is much stupider than the kids themselves.
Baby, can you help us out, please? Mama and Dad don't know where the light is. Can you point to the light?
He clapped and smiled.
I started to worry. Husband, I whimpered. I think he's regressing.
Why?
Because he can't point to the light anymore. He used to be able to do that, and now he can't. My eyes got teary as I thought of years of IEPs and child-study meetings, if he was even functional enough to go to school.
Sweetie. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Again. He's not getting dumber. He's a baby. Babies do whatever they want.
But I knew the truth. I knew he was getting dumber. I added it to the list of reasons my kid would, in no way, ever have the capability to be a productive member of society:
1. Cries every time he's strapped into carseat, even though carseat reasons have been explained to him multiple times.
2. Dances, even when there is no music on.
3. Couldn't walk or talk at the same age I talked and walked (9 months).
4. Thinks books are to be read upside down.
5. Stands and tries to walk in the bath.
6. Continually picks up the extension cord in the living room.
7. Thinks Behind the TV Stand is an appropriate place for a baby to go.
8. Makes the sign for more when he wants to eat.
9. Makes the sign for milk, even when he is drinking water.
10. Makes the sign for "How the fuck do I know?" when telling us he's finished.
11. Can't point to the light.
But I kept trying. I wasn't going to end up with a kid who can't point to the fucking light. He continued to smile and clap, and I continued to explain that I ain't clap-clapping if he ain't producing. If he managed to get a point, or even a glance in the direction of the light, I clapped as excitedly as I would at a BNL concert.
Then I thought about my psychology class in college, Principles of Learning, and wondered if we'd created the baby equivalent of Pavlov's dogs. What if we had conditioned the baby to clap when asked to point to the light? I tested my theory on a visit to the 8th Circle last week.
Okay, Baby, where's the light?
Clap and smile.
Okay, Baby, where's the...
Clap and smile.
Baby, baby, I didn't even finish my question. Then it hit me, and I ran some more tests.
Where's the tampons?
Clap and smile.
Where's the formula?
Clap and smile.
Where's the fatass?
Clap and smile.
Where's mama?
Clap and smile.
Where's the Trojans**?
Clap and smile.
Where's the redneck?
Clap and smile.
And so on. I amused myself for a good ten minutes, and my kid was happy, as evidenced by all the clapping and smiling.
Finally, Okay, Baby. I paused for dramatic effect. Where?
Clap and smile.
Yep. I have conditioned my child to clap when someone says the word where to him.
It's not like we could have afforded college anyway.
*I can't wait to see what statcounter turns up for this one.
**Or this one.
Between the three of us, Husband, my mother, and I appear to have classically conditioned my kid. I'm not quite sure how it started. I think it was my mother trying to teach him to talk around seven months. Since I talked at nine months, and my first word was light, she's been on top of this kid to say light.
Say light! she'll coo.
Lelelelelele, he replies.
That's right! she says, in perfect motherese. Light!
Eventually this kid started looking up at the light when she asked him to say light. Then we started noticing that he could point. So we began asking him to point to the light. At first he looked at us cluelessly. Then he started looking at the light. One day something connected and his index finger shot out and his arm extended with the enthusiasm of a Nazi, affirming allegiance to the Fuhrer.*
Being semi-doting parents and a very overly-doting grandmother, we made a huge deal over this. We clapped and cheered like idiots. Loudly. Enthusiastically. Repeatedly. My kid got a huge smile on his face, which of course suckered the three of us in. We began asking him to point to the light wherever we were. He did it in the dining room while eating. He did it in the living room, bathroom, and bedrooms. He pointed to lights at grocery stores and restaurants. We clapped, he clapped, and all were happy.
One day he stopped pointing. Out of nowhere. We asked, whined, begged for him to point to the light, and he just wouldn't do it. Initially he just gave us a look that said are you people really so stupid that you don't know where the fucking light is? Then he went straight from the question to the clapping and smiling.
We weren't concerned at first. We just tried reasoning with him.
No, Baby, we explained. If you want clap-clap, you have to point to the light.
We thought maybe he just needed to be redirected and reminded of how this clap-clap thing works. He didn't point.
Baby, we sighed, can you please point to the light? He didn't point.
Then we did that thing that adults do that kids love-once-and then get sick of and think the adult is much stupider than the kids themselves.
Baby, can you help us out, please? Mama and Dad don't know where the light is. Can you point to the light?
He clapped and smiled.
I started to worry. Husband, I whimpered. I think he's regressing.
Why?
Because he can't point to the light anymore. He used to be able to do that, and now he can't. My eyes got teary as I thought of years of IEPs and child-study meetings, if he was even functional enough to go to school.
Sweetie. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Again. He's not getting dumber. He's a baby. Babies do whatever they want.
But I knew the truth. I knew he was getting dumber. I added it to the list of reasons my kid would, in no way, ever have the capability to be a productive member of society:
1. Cries every time he's strapped into carseat, even though carseat reasons have been explained to him multiple times.
2. Dances, even when there is no music on.
3. Couldn't walk or talk at the same age I talked and walked (9 months).
4. Thinks books are to be read upside down.
5. Stands and tries to walk in the bath.
6. Continually picks up the extension cord in the living room.
7. Thinks Behind the TV Stand is an appropriate place for a baby to go.
8. Makes the sign for more when he wants to eat.
9. Makes the sign for milk, even when he is drinking water.
10. Makes the sign for "How the fuck do I know?" when telling us he's finished.
11. Can't point to the light.
But I kept trying. I wasn't going to end up with a kid who can't point to the fucking light. He continued to smile and clap, and I continued to explain that I ain't clap-clapping if he ain't producing. If he managed to get a point, or even a glance in the direction of the light, I clapped as excitedly as I would at a BNL concert.
Then I thought about my psychology class in college, Principles of Learning, and wondered if we'd created the baby equivalent of Pavlov's dogs. What if we had conditioned the baby to clap when asked to point to the light? I tested my theory on a visit to the 8th Circle last week.
Okay, Baby, where's the light?
Clap and smile.
Okay, Baby, where's the...
Clap and smile.
Baby, baby, I didn't even finish my question. Then it hit me, and I ran some more tests.
Where's the tampons?
Clap and smile.
Where's the formula?
Clap and smile.
Where's the fatass?
Clap and smile.
Where's mama?
Clap and smile.
Where's the Trojans**?
Clap and smile.
Where's the redneck?
Clap and smile.
And so on. I amused myself for a good ten minutes, and my kid was happy, as evidenced by all the clapping and smiling.
Finally, Okay, Baby. I paused for dramatic effect. Where?
Clap and smile.
Yep. I have conditioned my child to clap when someone says the word where to him.
It's not like we could have afforded college anyway.
*I can't wait to see what statcounter turns up for this one.
**Or this one.
20 April 2008
Faceplant
I think there are some moments, as a mom, that are completely unpreventable. These moments, although unpreventable, still cause one to feel like a crappy, negligent mom. Just now, for example. My kid is learning to walk. He took several steps on January 31, then didn't do it again. For 2 1/2 months. My husband and mom believed that he could walk, but that's about it. I even started to doubt it. We'd stand him up and he'd immediately buckle. He's been content to crawl, cruise, and teeter while tentatively holding my hands or the TV stand or the sofa. He'd happily take off running while pushing his toy basket or his push toy. But steps, standing and walking? Never again. I thought maybe my kid was regressing. Getting dumber. It seemed consistent with the trend. He did it with the lights and the trees. At first we'd say, "Baby, where's the light? Can you point to the light?" He'd get a huge smile of his face and point to the light, then we'd clap and cheer and he'd clap and look oh-so-proud. Same with trees. Now when we say, "Baby, can you point to the light? Show mama the light," he gets a big smile on his face and claps his hands with the bliss of an ABB supporter on January 20, 2009 (can't wait to see what StatCounter pulls up from that link). Daycare sent me subtle hints and some not so subtle hints. "Try shoes with harder soles," the suggested one day. I went out and got some shoes with harder soles. "Try shoes with harder soles and more ankle support," the prodded. "Shoes like Stride Rites." I went out that evening and shelled over $80 for two pairs of Stride Rites. A few days later: "Well, L-didn't walk for a long time. And B-wow! It took him FOREVER to learn to walk. He'll get there when he's ready." But I wanted him to be ready then. My baby's retarded, I lamented to coworkers and my husband. I really think he's getting stupider. They rolled their eyes and sighed, as most people do when they are around me and I speak. At the one year check up, the pediatrician asked all of the usual questions about my kid's development. Then he asked about my kid's head size. I went through the same speech I go through at every doctor's appointment, and the pediatrician started muttering, and I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself, "Well, I don't think we need to be ultrasounding heads just yet, but if he's not walking by his next checkup," and trailed off. My dad-the once a quarter that we see him-theorized a few weeks ago that the baby's not walking due to his head size. "His center of gravity's off, his body can't support that thing." I got angry, but bit my tongue.
So I fretted. Until this week. He's standing on his own. He's dancing on his own, and he's taking several steps on his own. We clap for him when he walks to one of us, pick him up and toss him in the air and give big hugs, but I don't think he's connected it with the walking just yet. He took steps in the living room and on the porch and in the back yard. I felt vindicated that my child would actually be able to hit this developmental milestone soon. And then, after having cleaned him up from his snack of bananas and bunny grahams and Kix, I set him on the other side of the gate and climbed over myself. He stood, looked at me, and took off for the couch. I glipmpsed the camera with my peripheral vision, feeling very smug about soon being able to post videos of my kid's steps. I was going to post them on YouTube. And my blog. And my Facebook page. And my kid's Facebook page. And then I'd email links to the videos and everyone I know would know that my kid can walk. So there.
My kid's steps got a little wobblier the closer he got to the couch. I stood two feet away from him, watching him, telling him he's almost there, and then, thud. A thud louder than my husband's Victorian novels hitting the ground. A thud, then silence, then a scream. He hit the couch with his upper lip. The hard wooden part of the couch, the part right below the cushions, connected with my sweet baby's head, and he was in pain. I ran over to pick him up. My husband came running from the bedroom where he was reading Jane Eyre. My baby cried and screamed and cried and when he threw his head back we saw blood coming out of both sides of his mouth. I don't like to see blood coming from anywhere on my baby. We did the best we could to see where the blood was coming from, and we discerned his top teeth. We couldn't tell if they were loose or misplaced because the baby kept screaming. My husband did the best he could to clean up the blood, and eventually it stopped. My kid was still worked up into a tizzy, so we gave him some Tylenol to help the pain, and once he stopped crying put him down for a nap.
There was nothing I could have done to prevent this. I don't think I could have gotten to him before he stumbled. I wasn't on Facebook or Yahoo or anything else. I was allowing him independence and the freedom to move around unattached to anything except himself. And I know accidents are part of parenting, especially part of parenting active boys. It's not my fault my kid got hurt. But he still got hurt, and it happened on my watch. And that is a pretty crappy feeling, and I suspect it's a feeling that most moms get.
So I fretted. Until this week. He's standing on his own. He's dancing on his own, and he's taking several steps on his own. We clap for him when he walks to one of us, pick him up and toss him in the air and give big hugs, but I don't think he's connected it with the walking just yet. He took steps in the living room and on the porch and in the back yard. I felt vindicated that my child would actually be able to hit this developmental milestone soon. And then, after having cleaned him up from his snack of bananas and bunny grahams and Kix, I set him on the other side of the gate and climbed over myself. He stood, looked at me, and took off for the couch. I glipmpsed the camera with my peripheral vision, feeling very smug about soon being able to post videos of my kid's steps. I was going to post them on YouTube. And my blog. And my Facebook page. And my kid's Facebook page. And then I'd email links to the videos and everyone I know would know that my kid can walk. So there.
My kid's steps got a little wobblier the closer he got to the couch. I stood two feet away from him, watching him, telling him he's almost there, and then, thud. A thud louder than my husband's Victorian novels hitting the ground. A thud, then silence, then a scream. He hit the couch with his upper lip. The hard wooden part of the couch, the part right below the cushions, connected with my sweet baby's head, and he was in pain. I ran over to pick him up. My husband came running from the bedroom where he was reading Jane Eyre. My baby cried and screamed and cried and when he threw his head back we saw blood coming out of both sides of his mouth. I don't like to see blood coming from anywhere on my baby. We did the best we could to see where the blood was coming from, and we discerned his top teeth. We couldn't tell if they were loose or misplaced because the baby kept screaming. My husband did the best he could to clean up the blood, and eventually it stopped. My kid was still worked up into a tizzy, so we gave him some Tylenol to help the pain, and once he stopped crying put him down for a nap.
There was nothing I could have done to prevent this. I don't think I could have gotten to him before he stumbled. I wasn't on Facebook or Yahoo or anything else. I was allowing him independence and the freedom to move around unattached to anything except himself. And I know accidents are part of parenting, especially part of parenting active boys. It's not my fault my kid got hurt. But he still got hurt, and it happened on my watch. And that is a pretty crappy feeling, and I suspect it's a feeling that most moms get.
16 April 2008
Maintenence
"So he'll get this once a day. You can either give it to him as part as your morning routine or at night," the pediatrician told me.
"Okay."
"For the next four or five days, just combine it with one of his other treatments. Once you finish that, you'll just do this one by itself."
"Okay," I nodded.
"Now, this is a steroid. But it's a very low does steroid."
"Okay." The doctor started to write a prescription.
"Wait," I interrupted. "I don't mean to be completely stupid, but I have a few questions. So is this like asthma? Does he have asthma?"
"Well, yeah, it's a lot like asthma. We're doing this in hopes that it won't develop into asthma. And most kids who get asthma grow out of it. Of course, I can't guarantee anything."
"Okay. So is his brain being damaged? If he's having to work so hard to breathe, is his brain getting enough oxygen?"
The pediatrician looked at me with more patience than I'd seen from him since my first visit there. "His brain is getting plenty of oxygen. Just because his breathing is laboured doesn't mean he's not getting enough air. Human lungs can function at about 1% of their full capacity. It just means that the lungs have to work a lot harder than normal, which makes other things harder. Look at him. We can hear that he's active, he's moving, but it's harder than it should be. We can tell by his breathing."
"And the steroids? Is his little face going to become all puffy?"
"No. He's not going to turn into Arnold Schwarzenegger or have baby roid rage or anything like that. He's not going to look like a weightlifter or body builder or anything." The doctor's patience was waning.
"So just to clarify," I said. "We're doing this indefintely?"
"Indefinitely," repeated the doctor. Then he paused. "Well, at least for the next two or three years. Definitely until July. I've written you a 30 day prescription with one refill. This is the maintenence medicine I said we'd hold off on at the last visit. It's necessary now."
"Okay, so that should take us until the end of June. We're scheduled for a checkup then."
"Great. After July, I might take him off of it, IF he's doing better, I'll take him off of it for the summer then start him back up in the fall, when the weather starts to turn. By doing this for the next few years we hope that his lungs will be able to work at full capacity later on."
I pictured my baby at 12, not able to play soccer because his lungs don't work properly, and I thought of the daily wrestling matches our family would have to endure: turn nebulizer on. Hold the baby's arms down. Hold his head still. Pat his head. Explain that this is for his own good. Try to watch whatever's on the Food Network or Bravo during the 20 minute ordeal. Remind him (and myself) that with each treatment, we are one day closer to being finished. Turn the nebulizer off and try to catch a squirming baby. Explain that we are not, in fact, finished and that he does not have a choice on this. Try to carry on conversation with other adult in the room, over the roar of the nebulizer motor. Give up, turn nebulizer off, comfort sobbing baby.
Every day. Indefinitely.
I think we are being punished for mocking this commercial so often.
"Okay."
"For the next four or five days, just combine it with one of his other treatments. Once you finish that, you'll just do this one by itself."
"Okay," I nodded.
"Now, this is a steroid. But it's a very low does steroid."
"Okay." The doctor started to write a prescription.
"Wait," I interrupted. "I don't mean to be completely stupid, but I have a few questions. So is this like asthma? Does he have asthma?"
"Well, yeah, it's a lot like asthma. We're doing this in hopes that it won't develop into asthma. And most kids who get asthma grow out of it. Of course, I can't guarantee anything."
"Okay. So is his brain being damaged? If he's having to work so hard to breathe, is his brain getting enough oxygen?"
The pediatrician looked at me with more patience than I'd seen from him since my first visit there. "His brain is getting plenty of oxygen. Just because his breathing is laboured doesn't mean he's not getting enough air. Human lungs can function at about 1% of their full capacity. It just means that the lungs have to work a lot harder than normal, which makes other things harder. Look at him. We can hear that he's active, he's moving, but it's harder than it should be. We can tell by his breathing."
"And the steroids? Is his little face going to become all puffy?"
"No. He's not going to turn into Arnold Schwarzenegger or have baby roid rage or anything like that. He's not going to look like a weightlifter or body builder or anything." The doctor's patience was waning.
"So just to clarify," I said. "We're doing this indefintely?"
"Indefinitely," repeated the doctor. Then he paused. "Well, at least for the next two or three years. Definitely until July. I've written you a 30 day prescription with one refill. This is the maintenence medicine I said we'd hold off on at the last visit. It's necessary now."
"Okay, so that should take us until the end of June. We're scheduled for a checkup then."
"Great. After July, I might take him off of it, IF he's doing better, I'll take him off of it for the summer then start him back up in the fall, when the weather starts to turn. By doing this for the next few years we hope that his lungs will be able to work at full capacity later on."
I pictured my baby at 12, not able to play soccer because his lungs don't work properly, and I thought of the daily wrestling matches our family would have to endure: turn nebulizer on. Hold the baby's arms down. Hold his head still. Pat his head. Explain that this is for his own good. Try to watch whatever's on the Food Network or Bravo during the 20 minute ordeal. Remind him (and myself) that with each treatment, we are one day closer to being finished. Turn the nebulizer off and try to catch a squirming baby. Explain that we are not, in fact, finished and that he does not have a choice on this. Try to carry on conversation with other adult in the room, over the roar of the nebulizer motor. Give up, turn nebulizer off, comfort sobbing baby.
Every day. Indefinitely.
I think we are being punished for mocking this commercial so often.
11 April 2008
Tonight's Target Trip
My kid and I were in Target tonight-the one that employs the world's oldest crackwhore. We got in the express line and waited our turn. I had to carry Micah because he kept standing up in the cart and trying to climb out into my arms. The strap does not hold him. I tried very hard to manage my cart and squirming one-year old. Then he leaned over and spit up on the floor. The line had not moved. Being me, I was completely unprepared, carrying only my child, my keys, my wallet, and my phone. I didn't know what to do. I was embarrassed, and I thought the chances of trying to find someone with a mop were slim. Besides, I didn't want to lose my place in line. So I put my wallet and keys in the cart, kneeled down, and proceeded to try to wipe the brown milk and Cheerios baby vomit up with the knee of my jeans. It turns out that jeans aren't the most absorbent material. So I stretched the corner of my cotton t-shirt as far as it would go while precariously balancing my child. While I did all of this, two women, clearly well-off, and clearly well past the age where they would find themselves using the clothes they were wearing to wipe up their child's spit up off the floor of Target, cut in front of me. No "Excuse me," no "Are you in line?" Nothing. They just brazenly walked past my bright red cart, my tettering baby, and my vomit splattered self. I straightened up and adjusted my baby and the cart. The woman closest to me kept turning around and smiling at my kid. I spent the next five minutes thinking angry thoughts at the women for being so rude and so privileged and angry thoughts at myself for being too polite to stand up for myself and my child and our position in line. If they'd asked, "Are you in line?" I would have told them to go ahead. But they never even asked.
And if you were at Target tonight, around 6:40, I was the one on the floor wiping up spit up with my jeans.
And if you were at Target tonight, around 6:40, I was the one on the floor wiping up spit up with my jeans.
30 March 2008
The Truth About Motherhood
Her Bad Mother linked to an invitation put forth by PBN and Discovery Health. The task is to tell the truth about motherhood. I'm going with HBM's challenge of doing it in twelve words or less.
You can't ever quit, but color-changing spoons can avert disaster.
19 March 2008
15 March 2008
Sick
He slept fourteen hours last night. Fourteen hours from a child who doesn't ever sleep more than eleven. He took a three hour nap this afternoon, was up for an hour, and has been down for another hour. He doesn't want to play. He doesn't want to drink. He only wants to eat a little. His body temperature has ranged from 101-103.7. Today he's lethargic and cuddly and has been content to just sit on the couch. He makes a few attempts to make me laugh-thinking he's tickling my neck, trying to share his pacifier and his juice-before flopping his head back against my chest and closing his eyes. The eyes open groggily as he tries to fight the tired, and he points to the light or out the window and says "da" or "duck" with no apparent energy. He doesn't protest when I strip off his shirt and lay him in his crib. He doesn't protest when I give him a kiss, then hand him his sock monkey and blanket and leave the room.
14 March 2008
Easter '08, Part 1
This year Easter falls on the day before my kid's birthday, so someone (me) had the brilliant idea that Easter should be held at my house. Like with us hosting. It was definitely a moment of stupidity or brazen ambition, that caused me to suggest hosting. So in about a week we have the following coming over:
my parents
Husband's parents
Husband's grandmother
Auntie Caroline and Matt
Auntie Leighann
my sister
Dick (my cantankerous grandfather)
my uncle
Jen +3
my other sister-in-law and her husband
So counting me, Husband, and our child, we've got seventeen people. I'm not sure my house can even fit seventeen people.
I'm working on the menu right now. I think it's a little ambitious. Luckily my sister is taking care of the cake, and I think my mom will be around to help me a bit. Husband has requested that I make pork tenderloin for the main part of the meal, but three of us can tear through one, so fixing it to serve 14 or 15 (assuming children aren't interested) is slightly daunting. I'm not worried, though. I like to cook, and I've been known to be pretty good at it. And we've got all our information stored on papajohns.com.
my parents
Husband's parents
Husband's grandmother
Auntie Caroline and Matt
Auntie Leighann
my sister
Dick (my cantankerous grandfather)
my uncle
Jen +3
my other sister-in-law and her husband
So counting me, Husband, and our child, we've got seventeen people. I'm not sure my house can even fit seventeen people.
I'm working on the menu right now. I think it's a little ambitious. Luckily my sister is taking care of the cake, and I think my mom will be around to help me a bit. Husband has requested that I make pork tenderloin for the main part of the meal, but three of us can tear through one, so fixing it to serve 14 or 15 (assuming children aren't interested) is slightly daunting. I'm not worried, though. I like to cook, and I've been known to be pretty good at it. And we've got all our information stored on papajohns.com.
Not me
Someone left the refrigerator door open for several hours last night. Because I'm not my mom, I tend to be pretty picky about things going bad, so I knew I'd have to throw away everything except unopened alcohol. I filled four trash bags about half-full and placed them by the door for Husband to take out when he sees fit.
My fridge now contains: the wine cube Husband got me for Christmas, a bottle of champagne my parents left here at some point, and five beers. It's five beers not because I needed sustenance for the task of throwing away corn tortillas, goat cheese, milk, juice, jelly, cream cheese, slimy rotten salad greens, the cous-cous I wasn't able to take for lunch today, the lunchmeat I continue to buy for Husband even though he prefers to get lunch out, several yogurts, horseradish, and several different mustards and salsas. It's five beers because I bought beer for the SuperBowl and decided after about half a beer that I was already drunk and didn't like the beer I'd purchased.
So tomorrow, I have to suck it up and go to Kroger. I've been avoiding it for about six weeks now.
My fridge now contains: the wine cube Husband got me for Christmas, a bottle of champagne my parents left here at some point, and five beers. It's five beers not because I needed sustenance for the task of throwing away corn tortillas, goat cheese, milk, juice, jelly, cream cheese, slimy rotten salad greens, the cous-cous I wasn't able to take for lunch today, the lunchmeat I continue to buy for Husband even though he prefers to get lunch out, several yogurts, horseradish, and several different mustards and salsas. It's five beers because I bought beer for the SuperBowl and decided after about half a beer that I was already drunk and didn't like the beer I'd purchased.
So tomorrow, I have to suck it up and go to Kroger. I've been avoiding it for about six weeks now.
11 March 2008
06 March 2008
Truthiness
As a teacher, I am often in a position where I have to choose my words very carefully. The other day I was teaching about something-fractions, maybe-and one of my students raised their hand and said, "Other Student says Santa Claus doesn't exist."
"Hmmm," I replied mildly. "I think that's Other Student's problem."
"But they said it," the First Student continued. "Mrs. G, is it true?"
In situations like these, I like to do a very teacher type thing and turn the question back on to the student. I put down my dry erase marker and looked at the worried student, who looked as though they'd just been informed that there was not, Virginia, a Santa Claus.
"Do you think it's true?" I asked First Student.
"Well, no," First Student hesitated.
"Then does it matter what Other Student says?"
"Well, no." First Student started to relax a bit. Then Other Student revved their engines.
"Your mom is the one who buys the presents and puts them under the tree and just says they're from Santa," Other Student argued passionately. First Student and several other students appeared to be close to weeping, and I dreaded the flurry of emails that would no doubt come my way that afternoon.
"Uh," I stammered. I scanned my brain for something reassuring to say, something that wouldn't be a lie, but wouldn't crush these children's worldviews. As I searched, I was saved by First Student.
"Anyways," First Student countered, "That's how I know it's not my mom. My brother got an ipod touch for Christmas, and there's NO WAY my mom would let my brother have an ipod touch." I was relieved the conversation was over. And then...
"Mrs. G, do you believe there's a Santa Claus?" Oh, shit. I don't think I can distract my way out of this one. I wondered where the integrity lies in a situation such as this. Eighteen faces staring at me looking for confirmation either way. The ones who know or suspect might have their suspicions confirmed. And the ones who don't know, well, they've lasted this long. They will find out sooner or later.
"Oh, absolutely."
"Hmmm," I replied mildly. "I think that's Other Student's problem."
"But they said it," the First Student continued. "Mrs. G, is it true?"
In situations like these, I like to do a very teacher type thing and turn the question back on to the student. I put down my dry erase marker and looked at the worried student, who looked as though they'd just been informed that there was not, Virginia, a Santa Claus.
"Do you think it's true?" I asked First Student.
"Well, no," First Student hesitated.
"Then does it matter what Other Student says?"
"Well, no." First Student started to relax a bit. Then Other Student revved their engines.
"Your mom is the one who buys the presents and puts them under the tree and just says they're from Santa," Other Student argued passionately. First Student and several other students appeared to be close to weeping, and I dreaded the flurry of emails that would no doubt come my way that afternoon.
"Uh," I stammered. I scanned my brain for something reassuring to say, something that wouldn't be a lie, but wouldn't crush these children's worldviews. As I searched, I was saved by First Student.
"Anyways," First Student countered, "That's how I know it's not my mom. My brother got an ipod touch for Christmas, and there's NO WAY my mom would let my brother have an ipod touch." I was relieved the conversation was over. And then...
"Mrs. G, do you believe there's a Santa Claus?" Oh, shit. I don't think I can distract my way out of this one. I wondered where the integrity lies in a situation such as this. Eighteen faces staring at me looking for confirmation either way. The ones who know or suspect might have their suspicions confirmed. And the ones who don't know, well, they've lasted this long. They will find out sooner or later.
"Oh, absolutely."
Dread...
Things one doesn't want to hear from a second grader's mouth...
1. So, Mrs. G, I'm looking in the dictionary, and I found the word virgin...
2. So, Mrs. G, when you were giving birth...
3. Exactly how do people get new eyes?
4. Do you have to be married to have a baby?
5. Do you have to have your stomach cut open to have a baby? Isn't that what happens?
6. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE TOOTH FAIRY'S YOUR MOM?????
1. So, Mrs. G, I'm looking in the dictionary, and I found the word virgin...
2. So, Mrs. G, when you were giving birth...
3. Exactly how do people get new eyes?
4. Do you have to be married to have a baby?
5. Do you have to have your stomach cut open to have a baby? Isn't that what happens?
6. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE TOOTH FAIRY'S YOUR MOM?????
24 February 2008
A page from the Britney book of parenting
On more than one occasion I've been the mama who takes her baby into the liquor store. I always feel like maybe my clothes should be more than a little tighter than they are, my fat should be spilling out more than it currently does, one or two teeth should be missing, and I should be sporting a mullet when I do this. Normal people don't bring their babies to the liquor store, but when I am the one who does all the errands and most of the childcare, it is inevitable that my baby will occasionally end up in the liquor store. When this happens, I don't linger. I get what I need quickly, so as to minimize the time I spend under the judgmental eyes of the store clerk. I give a half-assed smile when they make a joke along the lines of "Can I see his ID?" or "That baby's proof enough for me," as I struggle with a liter of vodka, the baby bag, and my drivers license.
Side note: I am not hitting the ABC store on a regular basis. I've probably gone two or three times in the last year.
Well, last Monday I further solidified my not getting mama of the year award and took my baby to a tattoo parlor. I've been wanting to go all Angelina Jolie and get a third, commemorating my beloved child, but I had some design questions and wanted a professional opinion. So after a thoroughly disheartening meeting, I threw Baby in the car and drove 20 minutes to a tattoo parlor that had been recommended to me via an online forum.
I pulled into the parking lot and sat in the car trying to discern if the tattoo parlor was open and if I should actually go in. A girl noticed my indecision and beckoned me in. I unpacked Baby and headed in, clutching my phone and the designs I'd come up with on the computer.
I told the guy that I just wanted some advice right now, and he nodded. I asked a few questions, and he grunted a few replies that really didn't tell me much. The parlor was dark and dingy and looked as though it might be a place where one could not only get tattoos and "exotic piercings," as their website advertised, but also get chlamydia at no extra charge. We left after about 2 1/2 minutes, and I knew that I am an awesome mom.
Side note: I am not hitting the ABC store on a regular basis. I've probably gone two or three times in the last year.
Well, last Monday I further solidified my not getting mama of the year award and took my baby to a tattoo parlor. I've been wanting to go all Angelina Jolie and get a third, commemorating my beloved child, but I had some design questions and wanted a professional opinion. So after a thoroughly disheartening meeting, I threw Baby in the car and drove 20 minutes to a tattoo parlor that had been recommended to me via an online forum.
I pulled into the parking lot and sat in the car trying to discern if the tattoo parlor was open and if I should actually go in. A girl noticed my indecision and beckoned me in. I unpacked Baby and headed in, clutching my phone and the designs I'd come up with on the computer.
I told the guy that I just wanted some advice right now, and he nodded. I asked a few questions, and he grunted a few replies that really didn't tell me much. The parlor was dark and dingy and looked as though it might be a place where one could not only get tattoos and "exotic piercings," as their website advertised, but also get chlamydia at no extra charge. We left after about 2 1/2 minutes, and I knew that I am an awesome mom.
A good friend for the baby
When I told him this story, Husband said, "Well, that sounds like a blog post," so here it is:
I was walking into Barnes and Noble tonight, and this guy came up to me wearing a trench coat and smoking a cigarette. It was somewhat open, so I knew it wasn't one of those trench coats. He stopped me and said, "Do you want a pit bull?"
"Excuse me?" I replied politely.
"Do you want a pit bull puppy?" he asked again, opening his coat wider. Inside was a pit bull puppy.
I was too shocked to say anything, so I just stood there. Finally I said, "Um?"
"It would make a great friend for the baby," he urged, nodding at my child.
I was too stunned to say anything, so I just squeaked "No, thank you," and walked into the store as fast as I could.
Later, I was struck by the fact that this guy was walking around a parking lot carrying a pit bull puppy and trying to donate it to strangers. That's more of a New York thing, not a Virginia thing.
I was walking into Barnes and Noble tonight, and this guy came up to me wearing a trench coat and smoking a cigarette. It was somewhat open, so I knew it wasn't one of those trench coats. He stopped me and said, "Do you want a pit bull?"
"Excuse me?" I replied politely.
"Do you want a pit bull puppy?" he asked again, opening his coat wider. Inside was a pit bull puppy.
I was too shocked to say anything, so I just stood there. Finally I said, "Um?"
"It would make a great friend for the baby," he urged, nodding at my child.
I was too stunned to say anything, so I just squeaked "No, thank you," and walked into the store as fast as I could.
Later, I was struck by the fact that this guy was walking around a parking lot carrying a pit bull puppy and trying to donate it to strangers. That's more of a New York thing, not a Virginia thing.
Needs
I am currently putting my child's needs ahead of my own. All weekend I wanted to go to a local museum, two actually, and get a little culture. Yesterday Baby was in great spirits, but timing didn't work out, due to the fact that he is actually sleeping in his cribs for naps. I decided I want to reinforce that as much as possible, especially since he's trying to prove to his day care friends that naps are for babies and doesn't really do it during the week. So I didn't go yesterday. He took two solid naps, and I took one. I also managed to whip up a batch of 3 bean chili (my own invention), so I'd have some lunches to freeze.
Today Baby has not been in great spirits. I had a lot of plans, which included going to Kroger to get ingredients to make slow cooker risotto (not my own invention), getting a book for my book club, and once again going to a museum or two. This morning, Baby slept for 1 hour and 50 minutes in his crib. Husband and I slept during that time as well. We all slept solidly, and we got up and restarted our day at 11:30. Husband and I took turns taking care of Baby while the other got dressed. By 1 p.m., we'd left the house and were headed to Qdoba. My plan was to drop Husband off at school, then Baby and I would hit one of the museums, Second Debut, Kroger, and Barnes and Noble. We'd head home, and I'd quickly throw the risotto together. Then we'd play in the living room and have a snack.
I haven't made it to the museum, Second Debut, Kroger, or Barnes and Noble. Since Baby was uncharacteristically fussy during lunch, I debated what I should do. I drove towards the museum, which was also towards my house. I drove in the left lane, since I'd need to turn left to get to the museum. Then, hearing heavy breathing from the backseat, I got into the right lane and headed home. Baby ate a bottle and went down in his crib without protest. Since we've been home, I've created a Word document with summer camp info for Husband, swept the dining room, changed into a new t-shirt, put all my recipes into page protectors and a binder, and now I'm whipping up a batch of this to freeze and have on hand.
It's been about two hours since I've been home, and the kid's still sleeping soundly. In a few minutes I will have to wake him, as we do actually have to go to the bookstore and grocery store before picking up Husband. I am so proud of how far my kid has come in regards to the whole sleeping thing, and I guess it's worth missing the museum for some alone time. We can always try again next weekend.
Today Baby has not been in great spirits. I had a lot of plans, which included going to Kroger to get ingredients to make slow cooker risotto (not my own invention), getting a book for my book club, and once again going to a museum or two. This morning, Baby slept for 1 hour and 50 minutes in his crib. Husband and I slept during that time as well. We all slept solidly, and we got up and restarted our day at 11:30. Husband and I took turns taking care of Baby while the other got dressed. By 1 p.m., we'd left the house and were headed to Qdoba. My plan was to drop Husband off at school, then Baby and I would hit one of the museums, Second Debut, Kroger, and Barnes and Noble. We'd head home, and I'd quickly throw the risotto together. Then we'd play in the living room and have a snack.
I haven't made it to the museum, Second Debut, Kroger, or Barnes and Noble. Since Baby was uncharacteristically fussy during lunch, I debated what I should do. I drove towards the museum, which was also towards my house. I drove in the left lane, since I'd need to turn left to get to the museum. Then, hearing heavy breathing from the backseat, I got into the right lane and headed home. Baby ate a bottle and went down in his crib without protest. Since we've been home, I've created a Word document with summer camp info for Husband, swept the dining room, changed into a new t-shirt, put all my recipes into page protectors and a binder, and now I'm whipping up a batch of this to freeze and have on hand.
It's been about two hours since I've been home, and the kid's still sleeping soundly. In a few minutes I will have to wake him, as we do actually have to go to the bookstore and grocery store before picking up Husband. I am so proud of how far my kid has come in regards to the whole sleeping thing, and I guess it's worth missing the museum for some alone time. We can always try again next weekend.
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