Kevin says I’m morbid.
On the first warm, sunny Sunday of the year, I am driving us to the Philadelphia Bookfest. I tell him, “I know that I truly love someone when I become afraid that they are going to die.”
“O that is so you,” says Kevin, “you should blog about that.”
I was afraid that Sophia would die from day one. This terrible possibility visits me, vivid and real, in my dreams. In my most recent nightmare, I am standing on train tracks, swinging Sophia into the air by her ankles. Her squeals of delight suddenly go silent as I hear a snap. “Owie,” she says, grasping her neck, and I realize her head is hanging at an unnatural angle. She does not scream. She does not cry. She simply repeats “owie” as she dies, painfully in my arms. I scream for help and though there are people all around me, no one can do anything. I have killed her.
She hasn’t merely died. She has died at my hand. Because of my neglect. Because of my carelessness. That is a necessary element in my nightmares.
This afternoon we are having a snack in Barnes and Noble with Nancy and the boyfriends. Nancy has a bag of chips and gives one to each of her sons. Wanting to be more lax about what I allow Sophia to eat, I give her one. My back is turned to Sophia as I’m talking with Nan. I see Nancy’s face change before it registers that Sophia is choking, behind me. I turn around, and her face is scarlet. Every one of my cells is drained of its mitochondria. What do I do? I fumble with the five-point restraint on her jog stroller…trying to pull her out…to do what? Hit her on the back? Turn her upside down? Nancy is at my side, calmly pulling her arms through the straps, releasing her. Sophie gasps. She’s breathing. The chip has dislodged. I lift Sophie out…she’s crying now. I clutch her to my body.
Not today. Not now. It’s not going to happen today. But someday it might. And I know it is not something I could ever live with.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Toilet Talk
Kevin and I are compatible in many ways, but we have very different attitudes, mores and comfort levels when it comes to toilet talk:
My loud, Northeastern, Jewish family was obsessed with poop. The frequency, duration, and consistency of one’s bowel movements was a gauge of good health and had implications for one’s happiness. I can remember, from a very young age…but lasting well into late childhood…my father bending over me, inquiring, did I need to make an eh-eh? (To this day, he will still ask me about the quality of my BMs, if I’m not feeling well.) At dinner, whether you had gone that day was considered to be an acceptable topic of conversation. Both my parents left the door open for business while they were doing their business. As a result, I grew up with a causal attitude towards and, dare I say, a penchant for toilet talk.
Kevin, my Protestant, Mid-Western husband, is quite the opposite. Poop was something that happened behind closed doors. Early on in our relationship he announced that he did not make BMs, but rather “pooted talcum powder.” I smiled at his modesty, but after the intimacy of 10 years together, the question of whether he does indeed poo like the rest of us remains a mystery to me. If he does, he has taken great pains to leave no evidence of this fact.
When we had a child, I warned Kevin that even if he did not poop himself, his daughter most definitely would—and we were BOTH going to have to deal with it. Kevin was resigned to this fact, but I don’t think he imagined in his wildest dreams how much I would want to talk about it: the color, the consistency, the frequency, the contents was all fair game.
In the early days, I took data, noting when she pooped to ensure that she was soiling the right amount of diapers each day. I finally stopped when I felt confident that what was coming out was indicative that enough was getting in. Breast milk poos were the best: mustardy in consistency, faint in order, easily wiped away. I dreaded the day when she would start to eat solid foods and her BMs would become messier, smellier, and more abundant. I even delayed solids, in part, because I didn’t want to have to deal with the fall out. But eventually there came a point where I had to feed my daughter, regardless of how it would transform the contents of her diaper.
As Kevin was generally at work when Sophie let loose with the chocolate mousse, I was the primary cleaner-upper. Which, compounded by the wrestling matches that took place atop her changing table, piqued my interest in early toilet training.
So, much to Kevin’s chagrin, I have begun a campaign of what I call poo awareness. So far, it’s been fairly successful.
If suddenly, the room is, say, smelling like rotten eggs I ask, “Sophia, where’s the poo?” She pats her bottom and replies, “poo.” Then we march upstairs to the changing station where, after I’ve pinned her, I remove the offending diaper and hold it up for her to take a good look.
“Sophia. This is your poo.” I instruct. “PU STINKY!” which is all she needs to hear to reach for the diaper to get a closer look. “Poo,” she echoes, reverently. Similarly, when changing a wet diaper, I again hold it up for her inspection. “Pee. This is your pee.” “Pee!” Sophia repeats, diligent student that she is.
Pretty soon, under my tutelage, Sophia came to want to talk about her excretions. Each morning, when I removed her five-pound Pampers, Sophia guessed happily “Poop?”
“No,” I corrected her, “pee. You went pee,” and show her the evidence.
Then came the status updates. We’d be playing in the basement, when she’d suddenly grab her diaper and exclaim, “Poop!” Skeptical, I’d give her the sniff test, and generally she was wrong, but I would change her anyway…assuming that she had wet her diaper and was aware that SOMETHING had happened DOWN THERE. Even Kevin got excited as she began to make these announcements. And on multiple occasions I caught him having conversations with Sophia about her diaper action while he tended to her needs.
I decided it was potty time. We went to Buy Buy Baby and I quickly became overwhelmed by the choices. Did we want a potty that cheered and sang when you peed on it or did we want one that had “real flushing action?” Did we need a multitasking toilet that could also serve as a step stool and a kneeler or did we want one that would later become a training seat? Sophie became impatient, begging to get down from the shopping cart as I fretfully weighed the options. We finally walked away with a modest model that had a cushy foam seat. I decided that if she was going to be spending a lot of time on this thing, comfort should be my primary concern.
Sophia was charmed by the potty and immediately climbed into it. Fearful she’d make a habit of this, I lifted her out of plastic pot and explained what I wanted her to do with it. She pointed to the potty and shouted, “Pee!” I felt encouraged by this. Now, I casually have her sit on it when the mood strikes me or she makes one of her pee-pee proclamations—but, alas, she has yet to christen it.
Just days ago, I set her down on it and urged her to pee, making sounds that I hoped would inspire her to action. She sat there with a book, popping up when finished, her onesie flapping against her bare behind. Standing on the cold tile floor, a pool of urine formed at her feet. She looked up at me proudly, beaming, “Pee!”
Looks like Daddy’s gonna have to put up with our potty mouths a little while longer.
My loud, Northeastern, Jewish family was obsessed with poop. The frequency, duration, and consistency of one’s bowel movements was a gauge of good health and had implications for one’s happiness. I can remember, from a very young age…but lasting well into late childhood…my father bending over me, inquiring, did I need to make an eh-eh? (To this day, he will still ask me about the quality of my BMs, if I’m not feeling well.) At dinner, whether you had gone that day was considered to be an acceptable topic of conversation. Both my parents left the door open for business while they were doing their business. As a result, I grew up with a causal attitude towards and, dare I say, a penchant for toilet talk.
Kevin, my Protestant, Mid-Western husband, is quite the opposite. Poop was something that happened behind closed doors. Early on in our relationship he announced that he did not make BMs, but rather “pooted talcum powder.” I smiled at his modesty, but after the intimacy of 10 years together, the question of whether he does indeed poo like the rest of us remains a mystery to me. If he does, he has taken great pains to leave no evidence of this fact.
When we had a child, I warned Kevin that even if he did not poop himself, his daughter most definitely would—and we were BOTH going to have to deal with it. Kevin was resigned to this fact, but I don’t think he imagined in his wildest dreams how much I would want to talk about it: the color, the consistency, the frequency, the contents was all fair game.
In the early days, I took data, noting when she pooped to ensure that she was soiling the right amount of diapers each day. I finally stopped when I felt confident that what was coming out was indicative that enough was getting in. Breast milk poos were the best: mustardy in consistency, faint in order, easily wiped away. I dreaded the day when she would start to eat solid foods and her BMs would become messier, smellier, and more abundant. I even delayed solids, in part, because I didn’t want to have to deal with the fall out. But eventually there came a point where I had to feed my daughter, regardless of how it would transform the contents of her diaper.
As Kevin was generally at work when Sophie let loose with the chocolate mousse, I was the primary cleaner-upper. Which, compounded by the wrestling matches that took place atop her changing table, piqued my interest in early toilet training.
So, much to Kevin’s chagrin, I have begun a campaign of what I call poo awareness. So far, it’s been fairly successful.
If suddenly, the room is, say, smelling like rotten eggs I ask, “Sophia, where’s the poo?” She pats her bottom and replies, “poo.” Then we march upstairs to the changing station where, after I’ve pinned her, I remove the offending diaper and hold it up for her to take a good look.
“Sophia. This is your poo.” I instruct. “PU STINKY!” which is all she needs to hear to reach for the diaper to get a closer look. “Poo,” she echoes, reverently. Similarly, when changing a wet diaper, I again hold it up for her inspection. “Pee. This is your pee.” “Pee!” Sophia repeats, diligent student that she is.
Pretty soon, under my tutelage, Sophia came to want to talk about her excretions. Each morning, when I removed her five-pound Pampers, Sophia guessed happily “Poop?”
“No,” I corrected her, “pee. You went pee,” and show her the evidence.
Then came the status updates. We’d be playing in the basement, when she’d suddenly grab her diaper and exclaim, “Poop!” Skeptical, I’d give her the sniff test, and generally she was wrong, but I would change her anyway…assuming that she had wet her diaper and was aware that SOMETHING had happened DOWN THERE. Even Kevin got excited as she began to make these announcements. And on multiple occasions I caught him having conversations with Sophia about her diaper action while he tended to her needs.
I decided it was potty time. We went to Buy Buy Baby and I quickly became overwhelmed by the choices. Did we want a potty that cheered and sang when you peed on it or did we want one that had “real flushing action?” Did we need a multitasking toilet that could also serve as a step stool and a kneeler or did we want one that would later become a training seat? Sophie became impatient, begging to get down from the shopping cart as I fretfully weighed the options. We finally walked away with a modest model that had a cushy foam seat. I decided that if she was going to be spending a lot of time on this thing, comfort should be my primary concern.
Sophia was charmed by the potty and immediately climbed into it. Fearful she’d make a habit of this, I lifted her out of plastic pot and explained what I wanted her to do with it. She pointed to the potty and shouted, “Pee!” I felt encouraged by this. Now, I casually have her sit on it when the mood strikes me or she makes one of her pee-pee proclamations—but, alas, she has yet to christen it.
Just days ago, I set her down on it and urged her to pee, making sounds that I hoped would inspire her to action. She sat there with a book, popping up when finished, her onesie flapping against her bare behind. Standing on the cold tile floor, a pool of urine formed at her feet. She looked up at me proudly, beaming, “Pee!”
Looks like Daddy’s gonna have to put up with our potty mouths a little while longer.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Mean Girl
Her name was Liv, but, henceforth, will be known as Miss Thang.
Miss Thang stood just a few inches taller than Sophia, had round hazel eyes, a stylish bob, and wore a blue corduroy coat evocative of an English schoolgirl or a character in a fairy tale. In a word, adorable.
She stood outside, on my neighbor’s porch, her tiny hands curled around the edge of the screen door, sliding it open and shut. The door looked as if it had suffered much abuse at the hands of children, quite possibly, this child.
Sophia stood on the inside, watching Miss Thang’s movements, thoroughly charmed by this person who was a part of her world. (A world that exists closer to the ground. A world of squirrels and flowers and seed pods.) Yet, who clearly had more autonomy than she and exercised it without fear of reproach.
As Miss Thang opened the door, Sophia took a step towards her, arms held out, poised for embrace. Miss Thang’s wide eyes shrank as she shouted, “No you NEVER come out.”
She was two. She meant business: The world is mine. Baby, you stay in the house full of parents and limits.
Sophia paused a second before her face broke out into a broad, dimpled simple.
Miss Thang was not to be disarmed. She became even more adamant. “NO YOU NEVER COME OUT.”
Sophia laughed with glee and lifted her shirt, baring her stomach. “Belly button,” she replied.
And so it went. Miss Thang continued her verbal assault until she caught her fingers in the door and ran crying to her mama. Sophia toddled after her, oblivious to rejection, enamored with her enemy.
I looked on, amazed and amused. Every day, she moves me.
Miss Thang stood just a few inches taller than Sophia, had round hazel eyes, a stylish bob, and wore a blue corduroy coat evocative of an English schoolgirl or a character in a fairy tale. In a word, adorable.
She stood outside, on my neighbor’s porch, her tiny hands curled around the edge of the screen door, sliding it open and shut. The door looked as if it had suffered much abuse at the hands of children, quite possibly, this child.
Sophia stood on the inside, watching Miss Thang’s movements, thoroughly charmed by this person who was a part of her world. (A world that exists closer to the ground. A world of squirrels and flowers and seed pods.) Yet, who clearly had more autonomy than she and exercised it without fear of reproach.
As Miss Thang opened the door, Sophia took a step towards her, arms held out, poised for embrace. Miss Thang’s wide eyes shrank as she shouted, “No you NEVER come out.”
She was two. She meant business: The world is mine. Baby, you stay in the house full of parents and limits.
Sophia paused a second before her face broke out into a broad, dimpled simple.
Miss Thang was not to be disarmed. She became even more adamant. “NO YOU NEVER COME OUT.”
Sophia laughed with glee and lifted her shirt, baring her stomach. “Belly button,” she replied.
And so it went. Miss Thang continued her verbal assault until she caught her fingers in the door and ran crying to her mama. Sophia toddled after her, oblivious to rejection, enamored with her enemy.
I looked on, amazed and amused. Every day, she moves me.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Reality Check
Last night a well-meaning person, okay, my therapist, not-so-gently pointed out to me as I sobbed about Sophia’s disorderly eating:
“You’re obsessed with having the perfect child.”
“That isn’t quite right,” I corrected him (something I do frequently), “that would put undue stress on Sophie. I’m obsessed with creating the perfect childhood. That just places the undue stress on me.”
Cognitively, I know there is no such thing—that I’ve set up an impossible ideal and an impossible task for myself. And, in setting up this impossible ideal, I’m stressing myself out, which fosters anxiety in Sophie and ultimately takes us further and further away from what I’m seeking to achieve.
Case in point: Dinner last night.
Just a day before, my babysitter had wild success in coaxing Sophia to eat a nice sized portion of the calzone I had made. So, anticipating an easy dinner, I set the calzone before us, poured myself a glass of wine, and cut off a tiny bite for her to chew. The first two pieces went in fairly easy. The third was rejected outright.
“No.” Sophia announced as she held out the nibble, unclenched her fist, and it dropped in slow motion to the floor. I took a swig of the wine and grabbed her pretty kitties book. “This pretty kitty has long fluffy hair,” I read, and tried to pop another bite into her mouth.
Sophie spit it out, narrowed her eyes and repeated, “NO!”
“C’mon, Sophia,” I reasoned, “you loved it just the other day. It’s the same thing.” I placed a bite in her hand, for her to feed herself
“NooOoo.” This time the word had three syllables, the second, high pitched. Again, she chucked the food on the floor.
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, Sophia.” (My attempt at not swearing.) I sighed, exasperated and narrowed my eyes. “It’s either this or yogurt. What’s it gonna be?”
Sophia returned my fierce gaze. “DOWN!” Now I’m sorry, but three bites does not a meal make. And I had just read in my weekly parenting update that Sophia should be eating 40 calories for every inch of height. That meant 1160 calories to fuel all 29 inches of her. So, calculating that she had eaten a maximum of 15 calories, I started to freak out.
“I’m going to the bathroom!” I announced, and removed myself from the situation, to regain some composure. I took a couple deep breaths, reminded myself that this was one meal, in one day, of a lifetime of meals.
Okay. I’m going back in.
“What did you decide, Sophia?”
“Down!”
“Down is not an option.” I offered the calzone one more time. It joined the other bits surrounding her chair. “Okay…yogurt it is.” And I fed her the same meal that I feed her every night, plain full-fat organic yogurt, two tablespoons of flaxseed, and fruit. Total calorie count: 215.
I saw the pediatrician in a little bubble over Sophia’s head, chastising me, “too healthy. More fats. Too healthy.”
***********************************************************************************
My friend Stacey and I are enjoying a leisurely stroll along the Cooper River, pushing our respective strollers, her baby fast asleep, mine wide awake. I’m sharing my concerns about Sophia’s eating habits and my undying commitment to feeding her a nutritious diet, when, a man walks toward us, pushing a tricked-out stroller, his toddler obscured by a snack tray laden with Wendy’s: hamburger, fries, and what looks mysteriously like soda. After he passes, I give Stacey “the eye.” My judgmental, disapproving eye.
“Look, “Stacey says to me. “Maybe there’s a middle ground. I mean, there are some parents out there giving their kids Mountain Dew and Snicker bars for a snack. You’re at the other end of the continuum. A little yogurt with fruity gel or a nutrition bar with a little sugar might not be so bad.”
As she talks, I feel ridiculous. Of course, she’s right. And who am I kidding? I’m ADDICTED to sugar. I need at least one sweet a day. Preferably chocolate. Preferably dark.
Yes. I am a hypocrite. I know that’s not at all what Stacey was pointing out. She was simply saying, everything in moderation. But it’s true.
When I was pregnant, I held my breath when I passed a smoker. I didn’t have a single sip of wine. I exercised everyday. I wanted to be perfect host. To give her the very best start. And now that she’s here, I feel an overwhelming sense of duty to make sure she is as healthy and happy as can be.
But I still experience a little thrill when I hear the music from ice cream truck wafting down the street. I haven’t forgotten the joy of my first taste of chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP. And don’t even get me started on Halloween. We’d stay out long after people had turned off their porch lights ringing bells and knocking on doors in hopes of extracting one more bar of candy from our neighbors.
The truth of the matter is, being as happy as you can be takes a little sugar. And a little fat. And even a little processed food
Perhaps I am equating perfect with happy. Perhaps perfect and happy are not the same thing. And perhaps, just perhaps, happy is the goal. That does seem more attainable.
“You’re obsessed with having the perfect child.”
“That isn’t quite right,” I corrected him (something I do frequently), “that would put undue stress on Sophie. I’m obsessed with creating the perfect childhood. That just places the undue stress on me.”
Cognitively, I know there is no such thing—that I’ve set up an impossible ideal and an impossible task for myself. And, in setting up this impossible ideal, I’m stressing myself out, which fosters anxiety in Sophie and ultimately takes us further and further away from what I’m seeking to achieve.
Case in point: Dinner last night.
Just a day before, my babysitter had wild success in coaxing Sophia to eat a nice sized portion of the calzone I had made. So, anticipating an easy dinner, I set the calzone before us, poured myself a glass of wine, and cut off a tiny bite for her to chew. The first two pieces went in fairly easy. The third was rejected outright.
“No.” Sophia announced as she held out the nibble, unclenched her fist, and it dropped in slow motion to the floor. I took a swig of the wine and grabbed her pretty kitties book. “This pretty kitty has long fluffy hair,” I read, and tried to pop another bite into her mouth.
Sophie spit it out, narrowed her eyes and repeated, “NO!”
“C’mon, Sophia,” I reasoned, “you loved it just the other day. It’s the same thing.” I placed a bite in her hand, for her to feed herself
“NooOoo.” This time the word had three syllables, the second, high pitched. Again, she chucked the food on the floor.
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, Sophia.” (My attempt at not swearing.) I sighed, exasperated and narrowed my eyes. “It’s either this or yogurt. What’s it gonna be?”
Sophia returned my fierce gaze. “DOWN!” Now I’m sorry, but three bites does not a meal make. And I had just read in my weekly parenting update that Sophia should be eating 40 calories for every inch of height. That meant 1160 calories to fuel all 29 inches of her. So, calculating that she had eaten a maximum of 15 calories, I started to freak out.
“I’m going to the bathroom!” I announced, and removed myself from the situation, to regain some composure. I took a couple deep breaths, reminded myself that this was one meal, in one day, of a lifetime of meals.
Okay. I’m going back in.
“What did you decide, Sophia?”
“Down!”
“Down is not an option.” I offered the calzone one more time. It joined the other bits surrounding her chair. “Okay…yogurt it is.” And I fed her the same meal that I feed her every night, plain full-fat organic yogurt, two tablespoons of flaxseed, and fruit. Total calorie count: 215.
I saw the pediatrician in a little bubble over Sophia’s head, chastising me, “too healthy. More fats. Too healthy.”
***********************************************************************************
My friend Stacey and I are enjoying a leisurely stroll along the Cooper River, pushing our respective strollers, her baby fast asleep, mine wide awake. I’m sharing my concerns about Sophia’s eating habits and my undying commitment to feeding her a nutritious diet, when, a man walks toward us, pushing a tricked-out stroller, his toddler obscured by a snack tray laden with Wendy’s: hamburger, fries, and what looks mysteriously like soda. After he passes, I give Stacey “the eye.” My judgmental, disapproving eye.
“Look, “Stacey says to me. “Maybe there’s a middle ground. I mean, there are some parents out there giving their kids Mountain Dew and Snicker bars for a snack. You’re at the other end of the continuum. A little yogurt with fruity gel or a nutrition bar with a little sugar might not be so bad.”
As she talks, I feel ridiculous. Of course, she’s right. And who am I kidding? I’m ADDICTED to sugar. I need at least one sweet a day. Preferably chocolate. Preferably dark.
Yes. I am a hypocrite. I know that’s not at all what Stacey was pointing out. She was simply saying, everything in moderation. But it’s true.
When I was pregnant, I held my breath when I passed a smoker. I didn’t have a single sip of wine. I exercised everyday. I wanted to be perfect host. To give her the very best start. And now that she’s here, I feel an overwhelming sense of duty to make sure she is as healthy and happy as can be.
But I still experience a little thrill when I hear the music from ice cream truck wafting down the street. I haven’t forgotten the joy of my first taste of chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP. And don’t even get me started on Halloween. We’d stay out long after people had turned off their porch lights ringing bells and knocking on doors in hopes of extracting one more bar of candy from our neighbors.
The truth of the matter is, being as happy as you can be takes a little sugar. And a little fat. And even a little processed food
Perhaps I am equating perfect with happy. Perhaps perfect and happy are not the same thing. And perhaps, just perhaps, happy is the goal. That does seem more attainable.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Power of No
Was it really just a few months ago that Sophie could only say yes?
We were amazed when she began nodding her head in assent:
Do you want more broccoli?
Yes, nodded Sophia.
Do you want to go up?
Yes, nodded Sophia.
Is it time for bed?
Yes, nodded Sophia.
It was a glorious time when no was absent from her vocabulary. She seemed to embrace every new food, every new experience, every suggestion I made. I made a point of using the “n” word very judiciously. My friends had cautioned me, if you use it to much, it loses its power. And so, aside from a gentle “no-no” as she attempted to pop another fuzzy from my comforter into her mouth, I seldom evoked it.
Then, as Sophia began to experiment with her autonomy, shaking the glass doors to the fireplace, caressing the plastic façade of the space heater, poking a curious finger at the outlet, I allowed myself a very firm, very loud “no” as a deterrent. The first couple of times I raised my voice in this manner, she immediately shrank back and cried, stricken.
It was shocking to me that not only did she obey my “no,” she was distraught at my disapproval. I watched her sob as if I had slapped her against the face, and agonized over what to do next. Console her or let her feel the full force of my condemnation? I tried to find some middle ground, letting her absorb this new information, then gently steering her in another direction.
After she had recovered, I watched her internalize the new rule. She approached the forbidden object, reached out to it, told herself, “no,” and retracted her hand. She did this over and over again until, ultimately, she abandoned the thing for good. I was satisfied. The “no,” it seemed, had served its purpose.
Then, one fateful day, I asked if she wanted a diaper change.
“No!” she told me, her eyes narrowing in a familiar gaze of fury.
It was my angry look. My “don’t touch that” expression. And now, it was being used against me.
When I told my mother the story, she said, “Your first mistake was asking her. Don’t ask. Tell.”
So, I’ve tried really hard to avoid these rhetorical questions that beget the same answer each time. But even if I say, “It’s time for a diaper change.” Or “P.U! You need a diaper change,” Sophia still exercises her right to reject my proposal.
Kevin received this information gleefully. “That’s my girl!” he chirped. “You two are really going to butt heads,” he added, still smiling.
And yes, I’m glad she has opinions. I’m glad she has harnessed the power of no. She’ll need it as one of her weapons against Spike, the sperm-doner or the “friend” who offers her a first taste of heroin. But for now, I want my sweet-tempered, agreeable little girl back. I want our days to be joyful and free of confrontation.
I want a few more months of oneness, before having to face the reality of two.
We were amazed when she began nodding her head in assent:
Do you want more broccoli?
Yes, nodded Sophia.
Do you want to go up?
Yes, nodded Sophia.
Is it time for bed?
Yes, nodded Sophia.
It was a glorious time when no was absent from her vocabulary. She seemed to embrace every new food, every new experience, every suggestion I made. I made a point of using the “n” word very judiciously. My friends had cautioned me, if you use it to much, it loses its power. And so, aside from a gentle “no-no” as she attempted to pop another fuzzy from my comforter into her mouth, I seldom evoked it.
Then, as Sophia began to experiment with her autonomy, shaking the glass doors to the fireplace, caressing the plastic façade of the space heater, poking a curious finger at the outlet, I allowed myself a very firm, very loud “no” as a deterrent. The first couple of times I raised my voice in this manner, she immediately shrank back and cried, stricken.
It was shocking to me that not only did she obey my “no,” she was distraught at my disapproval. I watched her sob as if I had slapped her against the face, and agonized over what to do next. Console her or let her feel the full force of my condemnation? I tried to find some middle ground, letting her absorb this new information, then gently steering her in another direction.
After she had recovered, I watched her internalize the new rule. She approached the forbidden object, reached out to it, told herself, “no,” and retracted her hand. She did this over and over again until, ultimately, she abandoned the thing for good. I was satisfied. The “no,” it seemed, had served its purpose.
Then, one fateful day, I asked if she wanted a diaper change.
“No!” she told me, her eyes narrowing in a familiar gaze of fury.
It was my angry look. My “don’t touch that” expression. And now, it was being used against me.
When I told my mother the story, she said, “Your first mistake was asking her. Don’t ask. Tell.”
So, I’ve tried really hard to avoid these rhetorical questions that beget the same answer each time. But even if I say, “It’s time for a diaper change.” Or “P.U! You need a diaper change,” Sophia still exercises her right to reject my proposal.
Kevin received this information gleefully. “That’s my girl!” he chirped. “You two are really going to butt heads,” he added, still smiling.
And yes, I’m glad she has opinions. I’m glad she has harnessed the power of no. She’ll need it as one of her weapons against Spike, the sperm-doner or the “friend” who offers her a first taste of heroin. But for now, I want my sweet-tempered, agreeable little girl back. I want our days to be joyful and free of confrontation.
I want a few more months of oneness, before having to face the reality of two.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Extreme Mothering
I really wish I had thought of this title on my own, but I didn’t. Nan (my friend and hero, raising twin boys and now pregnant with her third) called me excitedly one evening, “Turn on 20/20—they’re doing Extreme Mothering!”
What images does that conjure up for you? I was expecting to see raw footage of me in the bathtub, teaching my 15-month-old baby the letters in her name…or surreptitiously nursing her in the isles of Stride Rite…or “wearing” her, as the attachment parenting folks like to say, on a two-mile round-trip walk into town.
Yes, guilty as charged, I am an extreme mother.
My problem is, I still don’t know where the lines of demarcation exists between questionable parenting, good-enough parenting, awesome parenting and extreme parenting. I think, on any given day, depending on what you’re observing (Holding her down and prying her mouth open to brush her teeth—questionable or good enough? Fixing her a perfectly-balanced, low-sugar, chemical-free homemade meal—awesome or extreme?), I probably fall at different points on the continuum; the object being to land somewhere in the middle, 90% of the time. But then there is this punishing little voice. It's the same little voice that used to pop into my head when I taught (and was staying until 6 every evening, preparing lessons), the same when I was caring for my ailing cat (and running home to give him shots of insulin twice/day). The one that says:
You’re not doing enough.
Like, is emptying the dishwasher and letting Sophia putter around in the kitchen drawers negligent or necessary? How much time should I expect her to play on her own…and when am I illegitimately using these free moments to check my friends’ status updates on Facebook? How much should I be labeling everything we see, and when is it okay to leave her alone to think her baby thoughts, or observe her surroundings, or practice our alien language as it trips off her tongue in delicious neologisms (e.g. g –g-gorkley)?
Yes, guilty as charged, I am obsessing again.
But I go to extremes because I don’t know what’s sufficient. What should be my benchmark? A day without bloodshed? Or one that ends with an invented lullaby, Sophia’s small arms thrown around my neck, a quick kiss, and her reverent whispers of “mamadadamamadada” as I lay her in her crib? A day where I know I spent a solid hour pretending to eat plastic cake and fabric toast or one where I spent five minutes eating said meal before rushing out the door to a meeting? And how do I measure how I’m doing? In smiles or tantrums?
I envy my husband’s comfort with his parenting—the deep satisfaction he derives from giving what he can, not fretting over what he can’t. Kevin says that this is because he has confidence in what I’m doing as a mother…I relieve him of this anxiety. I am grateful for his faith in me. It is reassuring. Yet, I wonder: What will it take before I begin to trust my instincts they way he trusts my instincts?
What images does that conjure up for you? I was expecting to see raw footage of me in the bathtub, teaching my 15-month-old baby the letters in her name…or surreptitiously nursing her in the isles of Stride Rite…or “wearing” her, as the attachment parenting folks like to say, on a two-mile round-trip walk into town.
Yes, guilty as charged, I am an extreme mother.
My problem is, I still don’t know where the lines of demarcation exists between questionable parenting, good-enough parenting, awesome parenting and extreme parenting. I think, on any given day, depending on what you’re observing (Holding her down and prying her mouth open to brush her teeth—questionable or good enough? Fixing her a perfectly-balanced, low-sugar, chemical-free homemade meal—awesome or extreme?), I probably fall at different points on the continuum; the object being to land somewhere in the middle, 90% of the time. But then there is this punishing little voice. It's the same little voice that used to pop into my head when I taught (and was staying until 6 every evening, preparing lessons), the same when I was caring for my ailing cat (and running home to give him shots of insulin twice/day). The one that says:
You’re not doing enough.
Like, is emptying the dishwasher and letting Sophia putter around in the kitchen drawers negligent or necessary? How much time should I expect her to play on her own…and when am I illegitimately using these free moments to check my friends’ status updates on Facebook? How much should I be labeling everything we see, and when is it okay to leave her alone to think her baby thoughts, or observe her surroundings, or practice our alien language as it trips off her tongue in delicious neologisms (e.g. g –g-gorkley)?
Yes, guilty as charged, I am obsessing again.
But I go to extremes because I don’t know what’s sufficient. What should be my benchmark? A day without bloodshed? Or one that ends with an invented lullaby, Sophia’s small arms thrown around my neck, a quick kiss, and her reverent whispers of “mamadadamamadada” as I lay her in her crib? A day where I know I spent a solid hour pretending to eat plastic cake and fabric toast or one where I spent five minutes eating said meal before rushing out the door to a meeting? And how do I measure how I’m doing? In smiles or tantrums?
I envy my husband’s comfort with his parenting—the deep satisfaction he derives from giving what he can, not fretting over what he can’t. Kevin says that this is because he has confidence in what I’m doing as a mother…I relieve him of this anxiety. I am grateful for his faith in me. It is reassuring. Yet, I wonder: What will it take before I begin to trust my instincts they way he trusts my instincts?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Bragging Rights
We’ve all been in the room with her.
She parades her baby around like a trained monkey. “Look,” she says to her captive audience hunched together on the couch, “She pounds her chest like a gorilla!” She turns to the baby. “I’m a gorilla, and I can thump my chest!” she models as her daughter squirms off to chew on a coaster, loathe to the task. “She doesn’t always do it when there are other people around,” the mother apologizes. So she moves onto the next trick, “She can identify herself in pictures!” She shoves a photo in front of the baby’s face singing, “Who is it?” The baby grabs at the picture and crumples it in her grasp. “I don’t know what’s with her today,” the mother mumbles, feeling her embarrassment. “Well, watch this…she just loves books,” she pulls out “Goodnight Moon,” which, she claims, her daughter can recite half of. The mother points to the moon and says, “Goodnight….” the sentence hangs in the air and every observing adult has the urge to complete it. “Bah!” says the baby. “Moon! IT’S MOON. You KNOW this,” says the exasperated woman. At this, the baby smiles.
This annoying woman is me. For some of you, this did not take much guesswork.
I guess when I do it, I don’t think of it as bragging, exactly. I’m just so excited about every new development I want to share it with the world. So listen to this, world—two days ago when Sophia pooped her diaper and I asked, “Sophia, where’s the poo?” she patted her behind! The kid’s a genius.
I wonder why my friends rarely brag to me about their kids. Do they think I wouldn’t care? (I would) Does it not occur to them to do it? (Possibly) Do they have much better self control? (Probably)
There’s really only one person I can brag to without feeling a little sheepish about it. (Bragging to Kevin doesn’t count, or, rather, doesn’t count as bragging as Sophie is as much a product of his genes and parenting as she is of mine. With Kevin, it’s more like… gushing. And gushing about Sophie is our number one topic of conversation these days. I admit—we’re disgusting. On the other hand, we’re far more tolerable than when we spoke this way about our cat.)
That person is my mother, who also has a bragging issue. When she’s having a cringe-worthy conversation with, say, the guy at the checkout counter of the 7-11, it’s as if she’s holding up a full-length, three-way mirror to me that betrays every unflattering angle:
“This is my granddaughter, Sophia. Sophia, can you say, ‘hi?’ Say ‘hi.’” (Brief pause for Sophia to oblige.) “Can you believe the way she’s talking at only 15 months? She (indicating me) talked early, too, of course, but not like this one.”
“Mom,” I tug at her sleeve with the hand that is not wrapped around my baby.
“What? Can’t a grandmother brag a little about her baby?”
Can she? Does grandma have bragging rights? Do I? And if so, to whom?
This is one of the unspoken rules of parenthood that eludes me. Am I allowed to be proud? When does pride cross the line into arrogance? Am I provoking competition? Are my motives pure? Is bragging like sexual harassment—mattering less how it was intended than how it was received? How is it being received?
Do I really want to know?
She parades her baby around like a trained monkey. “Look,” she says to her captive audience hunched together on the couch, “She pounds her chest like a gorilla!” She turns to the baby. “I’m a gorilla, and I can thump my chest!” she models as her daughter squirms off to chew on a coaster, loathe to the task. “She doesn’t always do it when there are other people around,” the mother apologizes. So she moves onto the next trick, “She can identify herself in pictures!” She shoves a photo in front of the baby’s face singing, “Who is it?” The baby grabs at the picture and crumples it in her grasp. “I don’t know what’s with her today,” the mother mumbles, feeling her embarrassment. “Well, watch this…she just loves books,” she pulls out “Goodnight Moon,” which, she claims, her daughter can recite half of. The mother points to the moon and says, “Goodnight….” the sentence hangs in the air and every observing adult has the urge to complete it. “Bah!” says the baby. “Moon! IT’S MOON. You KNOW this,” says the exasperated woman. At this, the baby smiles.
This annoying woman is me. For some of you, this did not take much guesswork.
I guess when I do it, I don’t think of it as bragging, exactly. I’m just so excited about every new development I want to share it with the world. So listen to this, world—two days ago when Sophia pooped her diaper and I asked, “Sophia, where’s the poo?” she patted her behind! The kid’s a genius.
I wonder why my friends rarely brag to me about their kids. Do they think I wouldn’t care? (I would) Does it not occur to them to do it? (Possibly) Do they have much better self control? (Probably)
There’s really only one person I can brag to without feeling a little sheepish about it. (Bragging to Kevin doesn’t count, or, rather, doesn’t count as bragging as Sophie is as much a product of his genes and parenting as she is of mine. With Kevin, it’s more like… gushing. And gushing about Sophie is our number one topic of conversation these days. I admit—we’re disgusting. On the other hand, we’re far more tolerable than when we spoke this way about our cat.)
That person is my mother, who also has a bragging issue. When she’s having a cringe-worthy conversation with, say, the guy at the checkout counter of the 7-11, it’s as if she’s holding up a full-length, three-way mirror to me that betrays every unflattering angle:
“This is my granddaughter, Sophia. Sophia, can you say, ‘hi?’ Say ‘hi.’” (Brief pause for Sophia to oblige.) “Can you believe the way she’s talking at only 15 months? She (indicating me) talked early, too, of course, but not like this one.”
“Mom,” I tug at her sleeve with the hand that is not wrapped around my baby.
“What? Can’t a grandmother brag a little about her baby?”
Can she? Does grandma have bragging rights? Do I? And if so, to whom?
This is one of the unspoken rules of parenthood that eludes me. Am I allowed to be proud? When does pride cross the line into arrogance? Am I provoking competition? Are my motives pure? Is bragging like sexual harassment—mattering less how it was intended than how it was received? How is it being received?
Do I really want to know?
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