Monthly Archives: February 2015

Toddler Fears

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Almost a year ago to the day, I wrote the following post on a blog I kept just for me, regarding my oldest, Nora, who was almost three at the time it was written.

I remember clearly the first time Nora showed fear. She was probably 14 or 15 months old. We were getting out of the car at our place after driving home one night from my parents’ house. The moon was full and bright and low in the sky. I wrangled Nora out of her car seat, held her in my arms and looked up at the night sky. “Oooh, Nora!” I exclaimed loudly. “Look up at the moon, honey! Isn’t it beautiful?”

She stared up in wonder at the moon, shocked that she should find it there in the sky, in real life, and not just as a two-dimensional crescent or circle on the pages of one of her beloved board books. She promptly began crying and tucked her head into my shoulder, as if I had offended her gravely with my offer to see something so special.

For months after I couldn’t mention the moon on nightly walks around the neighborhood, or on trips in and out of the car, unless I wanted to hear her sob or watch her walk with her head forced down, unwilling to look up and admit that the moon was a real thing, putting out light to brighten the night sky.

Months later, on another drive home from my parents’ place, she said from the safety of her car seat , “Look, mama! It’s the moon!” Apparently, she was ready to make peace with the sliver in the sky. It’s been over a year since that time. Nora still likes to comment on the moon from inside the car, but continues to shy away from watching it on walks up to the porch. Major avoidance. Totally cracks me up.

As she moved further into toddlerhood, there were more concerns to be had. When Liam or I got a headache, a cold, or generally felt less than 100% Nora’s questions offered insight into her worries. “Why mama’s not feeling good? But she’s going to get better, right?” And, when we said goodbye before leaving for work: “You’re going to come back, right?”

And if real life triggers weren’t enough, we’ve dealt with our fair share of fictional encounters too. We have several books at home that have been relegated to the basement because of their “scary” content.

Take, for example, Goodnight Gorilla, a seemingly harmless story about a silly gorilla who steals the zookeeper’s keys and unlocks all of his animal friends. They later sneak into bed with the zookeeper and his unsuspecting wife. She turns out the lights and wakes up moments later when several of the animals wish her good night back. Nora HATED the page (below) with the eyes lit up in the dark. For many nights we had to skip that page, and then we just couldn’t read it anymore at all. It was too traumatic. Six months later, we couldn’t even read another of my favorites, 10 Minutes ’til Bedtime, also by Peggy Rathman, because the same gorilla appears on the pages mid-book. After all that time, she still remembered!

Here’s another image of the kind of illustrated facial expression we have to avoid in our kiddie lit. This one is from Mary Had a Little Lamb. I know, horrific, right? But, because the lamb is being naughty in school and the girl has a surprised expression, it got nixed from the rotation.

Also out (and these are just a select few; there are more): The Napping House (a little boy wears a shocked expression when the flea wakes him up), Goldilocks and the Three Bears (apparently Goldilocks looks too naughty and therefore, is scary), and Lola Loves Stories (actually we can read this one, we just have to skip the page where the stuffed cow gets a boo-boo).

Should I be concerned that my daughter gets so concerned about these things? I don’t know. I get that she is sensitive and already very empathetic. Hmmm…sounds like someone else I know—me. OK, given my anxieties, maybe I should be concerned. We’ll just have to see how this all plays out.

Anxiety Episode #6: Deranged hotel employees abuse their key card privileges and break into my locked hotel room.

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I suspect that when most people enter a hotel room, after they put down their bags and other belongings, they probably take some time to look around the room, and check out the accommodations. They might read the room service menu, kick off their shoes and rest on the bed while flipping casually through TV channels. Some ambitious folk might even begin to hang up or put away clothing. Others might decide to make a cup of coffee or help themselves to an adult beverage from the mini-fridge.

Not me. When I walk into a hotel room—just after I put down my bags—I start looking for escape routes. I scout the room carefully and take note of the positions of beds, doors, and windows. I do this, because I imagine—fear, really—that some drunken, or certifiably loony hotel employee might decide to get it in his head that he’d like nothing better than to use his universal key card and his portable chain-cutter (which he obviously carries with him wherever he goes) to gain entry to my room at 3 o’clock in the morning, just after he’s gotten off his shift, or maybe right in the middle of his shift—depending on his mood—to do me bodily harm.

I take in all of the sensory information I can about my emergency exit options, calculate the risks, and then I decide where I am going to lay my head for the night.

Consider, for example, the following scenarios (FYI—no children are present in these fictitious contexts because that would be too horrifying and absurd):

Scenario #1: My husband and I walk in to our hotel room, which happens to be on a very high floor (so, no real threat of someone gaining access to the room from the outside of the building). In this case, I claim the bed pillow farthest from the door. I do this, because I rationalize that if someone were to force his way into the room, he would likely come upon my husband first, sleeping just slightly closer to the door. This would likely startle my husband, giving me time to wake, come to my senses, and run away, without harm, while Liam engaged in a fight to defend my life.

Scenario #2: My husband and I and one other couple stay in a hotel room with two beds, but on a ground-level floor with at least one window. So, now there is both an internal and an external threat. In addition to the deranged hotel employee with the key card and chain-cutter, there could also be a homicidal maniac on the loose outside, with a tool, such as a crowbar, tire iron, or ax, with which he could shatter the window in a thousand pieces and quickly gain entry to the room. In this case, I would claim the bed pillow that was somewhere in the middle of the room—equidistant from the door threat and the window threat. Again, the same logic applies as before. Someone else would encounter the crazy guy first, simply by their proximity to the break-in entry-point, giving me precious, sufficient time during which to make my great escape.

**It should be noted here, though I think it’s pretty obvious, that neither in the moment, nor afterwards, do I give away any hint that I’m having these twisted thoughts or making these devious plans. I must make my decisions rather quickly, before other individuals lay claim to my chosen safe-spots, but also before they suspect my true, conspiratorial intentions. I’m pretty sure my husband and dear friends would not be amused by my selfish scheming in which they must risk and sacrifice their safety—let’s be honest here, their lives—so that I may live on instead.

Scenario #3: Back to just my husband and I, staying in a room as somewhat described above. Window and door threat are still present, but this time only one bed, and no other couple. I’m totally screwed. If I sleep nearest the door and the creepy chain-cutter dude forces his way in, I’m toast. If I choose the window side and the crowbar-wielding serial killer smashes the glass, I’m dead. This one is a total toss-up. Pillow-roulette, if you will. I make a tough decision, and then offer up a quick prayer that I’ve made the right choice, or better yet, that the night simply passes peacefully. And then I proceed to read the room service menu, kick off my shoes and rest on the bed while flipping casually through TV channels, and help myself to an adult beverage from the mini-fridge.

An Unexpected Visit

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Keeping the post brief tonight. My sister-in-law is here visiting from Martha’s Vineyard. She flew in to Philadelphia for a conference yesterday, and is having dinner and a sleepover with us!

A couple of updates:

#1: Turns out Nora’s mysterious “cousin” Oscar who was in Europe (which I thought she completely made up), is in fact an actual person. He is classmate of hers and was indeed on vacation in Europe. She even knew the name of the country he visited—Hampsterdam! This girl is too much.

#2: Also, I’m pretty sure I’ve traumatized our littlest and that she no longer enjoys taking baths. A few days after the “poopy in the tub” incident, we experienced a repeat performance. The oldest let us know about it straightaway, and Liam took his turn cleaning it all up. Thankfully, no grown-ups were in the bath at this time.

Still, I tried—as best you can with a toddler her age—to explain that if she needs to go poopy she needs to let us know so we can take her out of the tub.

“Why?” she asked me.

“Because it’s yucky,” I answered, wrinkling my face up to show my disgust.

“Oh,” she said, looking horrified and very sorry.

Two nights ago, she was in the tub for only a few minutes when she started yelling, “Out! Out!”

I inferred maybe she needed to go potty, so I placed her on the training ring on top of the toilet. She sat, but made no business. I put her in a diaper and minutes later she pooped. Such a smart little girl. I made an effort of being all excited and proud that she told us she had to go by saying she wanted out.

And then last night I gently reminded her once again about the poopy issue. She lasted in the tub maybe a minute before screaming, “Out!” This time though, I think she was crying wolf. I fear she fears our reaction should she go again, and just wants to avoid the situation at all costs.

So, no more lecturing from me. Poor gal. We’ll see how things go tonight.

Tandem Nursing: Amazing or Craziness?

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Warning: This post contains words like breast, breastfeeding, boob, nipple, and nursing. If this terminology makes you uncomfortable, you probably want to stop reading now. Come back and visit again another day, when the subject matter is more to your liking. If you’re not disturbed by this topic, then by all means, read on!

The choice to breastfeed was an easy one for me. My mom breastfed all four of her children—at least for several months up to almost a year—supplementing with formula when her body and work schedule made it so she could go no more. In addition, her oldest sister, my godmother, was something like the High Chieftanness of the local La Leche League chapter in her town. She passed her wisdom onto my mom, and my mom, in turn, passed it on to me.

I nursed my firstborn until she was twenty months old and I was four-and-a-half-months pregnant with my second child. I considered trying to extend the time, but I just couldn’t imagine nursing both a toddler and an infant. This seemed overwhelming and stressful, and I wanted no part of it. More importantly, at this point in my pregnancy, the hormones associated with preparing for the new baby created heightened nipple sensitivity levels the likes of which I’d never known before. Nursing had become an extremely painful event—an extreme sport, if you will, to be avoided at all costs. There may have even been some tears involved.

So, with much sadness, I decided to stop. It was gradual, of course, cutting out a session here and there until the end. I very much remember that night, the last time, with vivid fondness and heartache. That experience in and of itself could be the topic for another post.

Nora was also sad about it all at the time. She was frustrated and disappointed too. Gratefully, this only lasted a few days for her. After that time, with a lot of support, intervention, and distraction from Liam, she seemed to forget breastfeeding was something we both once so enjoyed.

I did not get over things as quickly or as easily as she did. I remember about a week or so after I completely stopped breastfeeding, I gently squeezed my boob in the shower, curious to see if anything would happen. When a couple droplets of milk escaped, I erupted into tears. Dripping wet, in just a towel, and choking back sobs, I tried to explain to Liam how my body was still making milk for our baby, and who was I to tell it to stop?

Liam offered comfort and helped to reassure me that I had made the right choice for me, for Nora, and the new baby. And, when I thought back on how the pain had made me enjoy the act less and less with every passing day, I was able to move on, comfortable, yet still sad, with the decision I’d made.

So here I am now, breastfeeding my second child, and slightly more than seven months into pregnancy #3. (I should mention that this time around I’ve been heavily influenced and motivated by a neighborhood friend, who also happens to be our beloved babysitter—a woman who chose to continue nursing her older child through her entire second pregnancy and beyond the birth of her baby—this is known as tandem nursing).

I encountered the same pain and discomfort during the same part of this pregnancy as I did before—the third and fourth months were the absolute worst. This time, though, with a renewed, hopeful spirit, I decided to stick it out. The pain subsided beginning in month five, and since then we’ve suffered painful setbacks only every time new tooth has erupted (which unfortunately, has been fairly often). Each time I tell myself the discomfort  and pain will only last a few days and that it will all be worth it to push through. Oh, and another strategy I employ is to cut back on the number and length of nursing sessions, much to the dissatisfaction of my littlest.

Franny and I are indeed going through a rough patch now. She has a fang trying to bust through her top gum and so she considers my nipples a chew toy meant to massage her sore mouth and relieve her of her pain. What about my pain? I ask! She doesn’t get it. When she’s not gumming the hell out of my nipple, she’s going into super-suck-overdrive. Why is this? I can’t say for sure. I’ve had a much diminished milk supply since month five of this pregnancy. Is she overly thirsty? Hungry? Does that fang require something extra to make it descend? These questions I can’t answer. I just know that after a few minutes of this nonsense, I have to disengage and break the suction—switch sides. Distract. Anything to end the madness. This often results in copious amounts of crying, begging, and whining. Noyse, peez! Moy? Peez, mama! (Nurse, please! More? Please, mama!). It’s heartbreaking, really. But I must deny my child for fear that she will ruin my breasts for posterity, more than they’ve already been damaged by years of overuse and mistreatment from little nurslings (yes, this is the correct La Leche terminology for the little breast-suckers).

So, with all of the horror I’ve described, why do I persist? I love breastfeeding. For me, the joy of the experience far outweighs all of the negatives. I love that my children love and have loved it too. I see it as mutually beneficial for so many reasons. And, right now, I appreciate it so much, because it is sometimes the only thing that will stop me in my tracks, take me away from all the hustle and bustle—everything I feel like I must be doing, or else—and force me to sit on the couch, or lie down in bed, and just breathe. I can snuggle and nuzzle close to my baby, knowing I’m providing her nourishment and comfort. How can I say no to the giddiness she shows every time she or I suggest nursing and she knows she’s just moments away from one of her all-time favorite activites? I can’t. At least, not yet.

And so, I’m remaining open to tandem nursing. I’m still nine weeks away from having to make a decision, and I’d like to do some more reading about it. I recently asked a former colleague to return a breastfeeding book I loaned her last year when she had her baby. I told her I was considering nursing Frances alongside the new baby. She responded that she thought I was amazing. I countered with: amazing, or crazy? The answer to this I don’t yet know. I’ll try to keep you updated as the results come in.

Exercise? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

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I know, I know. A lot of people have time and/or make time to exercise. I am not one of those people (at least not right now).

The most weekday exercise I get these days is walking through the hallways of school and taking the stairs several times a day between the two floors there. Occasionally, on a day like today, I get to go on a field trip, where there is more walking involved. I was genuinely excited about this prospect this morning until we were outside taking a really steep hill. I was worried that my huffing and puffing might induce labor. I thought about joking about this with some of the kids, but then I realized it’d probably be wildly inappropriate to ask a bunch of eleven-year-olds if any of them had any experience delivering a baby. So, I kept my mouth shut and prayed my cervix would stay closed and my waters would not break.

On weekends, my exercise includes hefting tote bags of groceries through Saturday market, along with a toddler for much of the day, pushing a vacuum around the house, and bending down to the floor dozens and dozens of times to pick up toys, coloring pages, and dirty laundry that gets strewn about by two careless kids and occasionally a careless husband. That has to count for something, right?

I wonder if there is some sort of correlation between the number of pregnancies a woman has had and the amount of exercise she is able to get. Like, an increase in the number of pregnancies equals a decrease in the amount of exercise? Probably not. Just me making excuses for my sorry ass.

When I was expecting with my oldest, I walked a couple of miles every day through my first trimester. I also swam at our rec center (Liam and I were members then), took a weekly yoga class, and watched and participated in a prenatal workout DVD at home that was led by this crazy 8.5-month-pregnant Cirque du Soleil artist who was due to return to performing a mere six weeks after she delivered her baby. Who is really able to feel good about herself exercising alongside a woman with this kind of level of fitness? My goal at six weeks postpartum? I don’t know, be able to walk once or twice around the block?

I remember at the end of this workout the Cirque du So-lady had participants—well, me, really—do arm circles for three minutes. “If you can do this,” she said, “and focus through the pain and discomfort, you’ll be prepared for contractions of labor.” Yeah, right. Was this her first baby? Comparing the hard work of sustained arm circles to prolonged labor? Not even close. Still, I did find myself cursing at the screen more often than I’d care to admit those first few times, until I built up enough strength to get through the whole thing.

Super-fit Cirque du Soleil woman at two minutes into the damn arm circle routine: Come on. You can do it. Just think, you’ll soon be able to see and hold your beautiful baby. Work through the pain!

And then me: Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch!

With my second pregnancy, I still walked during the summer and fall months, pushing the oldest in a stroller as I did so. I also did the weekly yoga class, but only in the third trimester. We had canceled our gym membership at that point, since we’d stopped going, so no swimming. And, I certainly was not able to keep up with the routine of Miss Cirque-du-so-crazy-Soleil. Arm circles, my ass.

And now there’s this pregnancy. The third and final one. I will admit to walking again this time around during the warmer months. But even that was inconsistent. This was probably due to the fact that my youngest developed a crazy stroller aversion midway through the summer. She persisted in screaming through most walks, which was more than my nerves could handle, and simply not worth the effort.

The most I’ve done with the yoga this time around is talk about how I really should be going. Unfortunatley, I managed to schedule all the rest of my midwife appointments on Wednesday evenings, the only day and time my town offers evening prenatal yoga classes. And, I’m pretty sure I gave the Cirque du Soleil workout DVD to someone else. That’s probably for the best. Arm circles be damned.

It’s not that I don’t want to exercise. I do. Badly. But where to find the time? Early morning? Nope. When you co-sleep with your children, as we do here at our house, it is not easy to escape the bed without the littles following along. They seem to sense, through some crazy intuition, the second after I am gone, and then rise, crankily and half asleep to greet me. I stay in bed so they can get every bit of sleep they need. Also, even if I could get away, I need every last bit of sleep I can get before heading off to work for the day.

And evenings? I suppose this could work a weekday night or two. Liam has managed to fit basketball on the family calendar Monday nights. I could do swimming another night, since yoga is already out due to my bad timing with scheduling. However, Liam often gets home late, after I’ve made and eaten dinner with the girls. By this point in the day I am exhausted. And it’s dark and cold outside. All I want to do is take a hot bath and then go to bed.

I guess there’s no excuse for not exercising on Sundays (the hubs works Saturdays so the weeknight excuse applies here too). What can I say? I’ve turned into a sloth. I value other things more than I value my fitness right now. And that’s why I’m looking forward to having this baby so I can enjoy some time off from school and once again make time for exercise in my day. Hell, I might even try doing some arm circles then, just for fun, for old time’s sake.

Looking Ahead Two Months

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Top 8 Things I’m Looking Forward to Once Maternity Leave Begins:

1. No more lesson plans and school work until the middle of August!

2. Spending more time at home with the kids.

3. Being able to find time in the day to go for walks.

4. Watching the Dan Patrick Show simulcast on weekday mornings.

5.  Enjoying coffee and breakfast at my leisure instead of in the car, on the way to work.

6. Spring!

7. Packing up my raggedy maternity clothes and getting them out of the house for good!

8. The 2-3-year countdown that will begin until baby #3 weans and I can once again enjoy more than two adult beverages in a sitting, share a bed with just my husband, sleep through the night, and hopefully a week’s vacation with my girlfriends!!

Top 5 Things I’m Dreading Once Maternity Leave Begins:

1. No more steady paycheck until the middle of August.

2. Spending all day, every day with three kids under age 5, during Liam’s most busy time of the year. What were we thinking?!

3. Having to reacquaint myself at some point in late summer with my school-year BFF, trusty old Medela, AKA the breast pump.

4. Losing out on precious time spent with other adults.

5. And that’s it! Life is going to be pretty good for a few months. Can’t wait!

A shameless confession.

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A quick glance through my Kindle titles would reveal that my taste in literature has changed a lot since I’ve had children. Instant Temptation, Stepbrother Dearest, Saltwater Kisses, and Her Perfect Stranger, are just a few of the books I’ve read recently. My confession: I’ve become a romance novel junkie.

I can’t help it. When I get a rare half hour or hour break in the evening, I head to the bathroom to take a relaxing bubble bath. I don’t want to think too hard about anything. Or become depressed. Or educated even. My brain can in fact hold no more. Instead, I want a gratifying escape—to lose myself in a mindless, entertaining, sexy tale about small-town girl Emma LaRue, who won a vacation to a tropical island. She never had time to fall in love and often wondered if she was just meant to be alone. However, that all changed when a handsome stranger literally walked into her life while on the beach and sparks began to fly. 

I still read serious and noteworthy novels, but certainly not with the frequency with which I once did, before I had limited time to myself, sex-life-force-sucking children, and a growing being in my belly, which, according to popular belief, does cause the pregnancy dumb-dumbs, a period in which one enjoys lowered IQ, a persistent state of confusion and inarticulate speech, and the inability to keep track of necessary items, like keys, milk, credit cards, and sanity.

And so now I must run, off to enjoy a quick bath before lights out. I think I’ll take my Kindle with me, since it’s been over a month since I’ve read a proper book (writing this blog has taken the place of my most favorite leisure activity). I’ll probably start by browsing the most recent, notable titles—the award winners, and the editors’ picks. I’ll read through the synopses and the reviews and think to myself: Hmmm…this sounds really good. Didn’t I just hear about this on NPR? But…for some other time, maybe.

And then, I’ll go check out the Romance section instead and decide on something with a description that reads a little bit like this:

Christina used to be a happy woman with hobbies, joy, and laughter in her life. After being stuck in a dwindling marriage of five years, she has changed. Determined to find herself again, Christina finds herself tempted with the unthinkable: an affair—and this new man seems to have all the answers to her problems. It doesn’t take her long to decide on what she wants, but before she can finalize those plans, she receives news no one is prepared for. 

Now that sounds like something I can sink my teeth into. Remember, no judging here, please. I will respect your choice to read critically acclaimed novels, including—but not limited to—Pulitzers, Man Bookers, Nobels, and National Book Award winners, if you respect my right to choose books with titles like Open Wide, City of Pleasure and Rock Me. Happy reading, friends.