Dirty Little Secret

When Ironflower was about six months old, the pediatrician started freaking out about her weight. She wasn’t gaining enough, apparently. I reported what she ate and the good doctor suggested that I add formula to her baby food to make it more fattening. She also suggested I nurse more, because apparently following my daughter’s lead wasn’t good enough. Ironflower, already asserting her Ironflower-ness, retaliated by eating less of the fattened baby food. The pediatrician started to look as us suspiciously at our bi-weekly weigh-ins, as if we were starving her on purpose. It didn’t seem to matter that her head size and height and developmental milestones were all great. She sent us to a nutritionist at the children’s hospital. The nutritionist took one long at our long, skinny, happy beautiful baby and laughed. Our baby was fine - just blessed with a rapid metabolism. Although she did explain that mashed table food was MUCH healthier (and more fattening) than either baby food or formula and that baby food was actually pretty pointless. We switched to table food, but Ironflower remained skinny. She still is, but we’ve quit worrying about it.

When Lovebug was a year old, Hot Guy asked the (new) pediatrician about the bumps on his skull. The doctor felt them (why hadn’t he done it before? I don’t know) and became very concerned. Long words were thrown around and we were given a referral to a pediatric neurologist. I spent weeks  researching on the internet, believing that because of the bumps on Lovebug’s head, which the doctor said came from early closing of the plates, my poor baby would have to have surgery and possibly have neurological damage. Even though his head didn’t look anything like the ones I’d seen on the internet. The neurologist laughed at us. He explained that Lovebug’s healthy (ie LARGE) headsize meant that he couldn’t have all of those problems that I’d read about. He showed us pictures. He played peekaboo with Lovebug. And then told us that we’d never see him again.

So last week, when I had my nuchal translucency test (used to be only for women over 35, but now it’s for everyone. I hadn’t heard of it and Lovebug’s only two!), I felt torn in two when they said there might be a problem with the baby. This test involves a detailed ultrasound that measures the fluid on the back of the baby’s neck and a blood test. The combination can indicate if there’s an increased risk for chromosomal abnormalities like Down’s. The ultrasound measurement was on the very high side of normal (although NewBaby didn’t cooperate and they had a very hard time getting the measurement) and the doctor suggested that I come in and meet with the genetic counselor to get my bloodwork results. She said that the baby might have a heart defect. She said that she thought there was an increased risk. I began to shake.

But I couldn’t tell if it was with anger or fear. Of course I was afraid that there might be something wrong. Some of these chromosomal things can cause very late miscarriages or babies that die very young. But I was also angry, because I kept remembering all the other times doctors have freaked me out in my years of motherhood. And I felt in my gut that this one of those times (except when I didn’t and I started to cry).

My gut was right. My bloodwork was so good that the chances of NewBaby having a chromosomal abnormality are actually FAR LESS than the chances of most women of my advanced (that’s what they call it) 36 years.

So I spent the last several days in a fog of terror, not blogging or even reading, for no good reason. However, I’m back now.

I am thankful that Ironflower ate half of a chocolate bar this morning (Hubby left it on the counter after using it on the chocolate pie and she pulled a chair over to the counter to get it) without getting sick to her stomach.

I am thankful that Lovebug enjoyed watching the parade this morning, especially when he danced with the Rockettes.

I am thankful that I don’t have to cook all of this stuff.

I am thankful that NaBlowMe (or whatever) doesn’t have length requirements.

I just discovered a wonderful blog called Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters. It deals with infertility, pregnancy loss and adoption and is an amazing resource for people going through those challenges. The sidebar has the longest blogroll I have ever seen, filled with blogs talking about people’s struggles to become parents. As I read it, checking out a few blogs here and there, it was all I could do not to run upstairs and kiss my children. (Which would have woken them up, so I didn’t. Barring natural disasters and other dangers, there’s no way I’m waking them up. Because while I may be feeling joy at their existence, they would be feeling annoyance at being woken up and instead of a touching scene of love and cuddling, there would be tears and crankiness.)

I did not have Ironflower until I was 33. Not super late, but not exactly early, either. And I thought I would have trouble conceiving her. Because I was in my thirties. Because I was a smoker (I quit when I was pregnant - calm down). Because it seemed that all the mommies I knew had spent time “trying”, charting their cycles and propping their legs in the air.

Instead, Hubby and I got lax about birth control. We were living together, engaged but not in any rush to make it legal. And surprise! Along came Ironflower. I spent the first trimester in a state of shock (when I wasn’t too nauseous and tired to have any emotions at all, of course). I felt a bit like an impostor, not having even tried to get pregnant yet. But by the time she came along we were (sort of ) ready for her and for parenthood.

When Ironflower was 11 months old, we found out I was pregnant again. Four months pregnant. I hadn’t had a regular cycle, what with the breastfeeding. My clothes were tight, but I’d attributed it to the chocolate I was eating to deal with the horrible conditions at work. The weird tummy flutterings? I assumed they were gas. Really. (I have ulcerative colitis and weird feelings in my tummy are pretty normal for me)

So I actually got pregnant with Lovebug while trying NOT to get pregnant. After the shock, and having to admit to the world that I was four months pregnant and HADN’T NOTICED, a whirlwind of activity began. Thus Lovebug was not forced to wear his sister’s pink clothing or sleep in a purple butterfly bumpered crib.

But I began to feel guilty. Why had it been so damn easy for me? Why was I so blessed? I felt bad when talking to people who were struggling to conceive or adopt. I wanted to apologize, to say I’m sorry it was so easy for me. A little part of me always does.

But finally someone pointed out to me that if I wanted to feel guilty about something, I could also feel guilty about the fact that I get (more than) enough to eat, that I have a nice place to live, that I can walk, that crazy militias aren’t roaming my town, that I don’t live in a war zone. . . . . .

And so instead of feeling guilty about things I can’t control, I’m working on feeling blessed. All the time, not just when I’m reminded of it. Even when Lovebug humiliates me in the grocery store, I am blessed. Even when Ironflower’s whining makes me want to bang my head against a wall, I am blessed.

I try really hard not to judge other parents. I’m not exactly a poster mommy, what with my lack of patience and organic food. But I’m not an idiot, either - that’s got to count for something.

This morning on the news they reported a big brouhaha about a “That’s A Family” video shown to third graders in a wealthy suburban town. The video, which shows kids talking about their different families, was deemed too much for the local kids. Why? Because some of the families discussed had gay parents. I guess I should be grateful that the parents weren’t freaking out about the multi-racial or divorced families.

Apparently, by a little girl saying, “This is my mom and this is my other mom,” the video was teaching kids about homosexuality. Yeah, I can see how that would prompt kids to start asking about bathroom signals and dental dams. I guarantee most of the kids didn’t even link the idea of the two same sex parents to being gay, kids prefer to think of all parents as non-sexual.

What are these people so afraid of? I wonder if they let their kids watch the nasty stuff on MTV or the scary stuff on the news or play violent video games or otherwise expose them to stuff that could actually harm them, as opposed to stuff that could just make them more tolerant.

Hubby: That girl was dumb. Don’t ever be dumb, kids.

Ironflower: But Daddy, I’m not dumb!

Hubby: Of course not, I think you’re very smart.

Ironflower: But you’re dumb, aren’t you, Daddy?

Hubby: Actually I think our whole family is very smart.
Ironflower: Even you?

Hubby (looking at me): You’re going to blog about this, aren’t you?

I swear I have no idea why Ironflower thinks her father is dumb. Really. I mean, I may have complained about him “not knowing how to put his clothes in the hamper” in front of her once or twice. And he may have mentioned how difficult it is for him to dress them according to Mommy standards. But I never thought that Ironflower would draw such conclusions from it. She’s only two and a half - she’s supposed to need a lot more repetition before she can draw conclusions.

I wonder when she’ll figure out that I can’t see through walls?

My daughter pushed a little girl out of her way yesterday. I had her stop playing and apologize (though I am well aware she didn’t actually mean it) to get the message across: NO PUSHING. But she wasn’t trying to hurt or bother the other girl, she was just determined to get to the slide. My son is experimenting with hair-pulling; will his sister cry every time he yanks on her hair? At not quite fifteen months, he doesn’t really understand why he gets a time-out when he makes his sister cry, but he is doing a lot less hair-pulling.

So it’s not like I’m the mother of perfect children who are never aggressive. Kids are selfish little creatures, it’s natural that knocking other children over or grabbing their toys if fine with two year olds. But what about the three year old who hits and pushes just because? Twice this week at the park (not the one with the Stepford mommies), Zoe has been pushed and hit repeatedly by slightly older boys. Who did not stop when she asked, did not stop when I said something and whose hands I hand to move away from her. One boy’s grandmother was across the park on her cell phone - she watched the situation but did nothing. The other mother didn’t notice until a few incidents later (Zoe was not his only victim) when hubby said something very loudly to the boy. Then she made him get off the jungle gym and sit on the bench for awhile, at least.

It wasn’t the hitting and pushing that shocked me per se, preschoolers can be pretty rough and tumble. It was her scared voice telling them to stop and those boys ignoring her. If my daughter or son did what those boys did, we would leave the park (or playdate) immediately. And my kid would know that I was angry.

I taught preschool for two years. And first and second grade for nine. There’s the thoughtless aggression common to all small children, and then there’s what I call mean kids. The kids who go out of their way to hurt others. The kids who would rather push the child holding the ball than play with the ball.

I don’t know what makes some kids mean kids. Their parents usually don’t notice or care until late in elementary school, where fights and suspensions force them to deal with the problem somehow. Depending on the parent, the response seems to be either spank and punish the child every time there’s a physical altercation, or to find counselors and medications to excuse the child’s behavior. And I always wonder, what if those parents had dealt with the meanness when the child was four - would it still be a problem?

It seems to me that too many parents wait to discipline their children these days. Limits and boundaries are shaky and parents never express real reactions to their children’s behavior. It’s always “S/he’s too little” until they’ve got a teenager who’s a complete mess.
parenting

behavior

Every time I hit the local park, I feel like I just walked into my high school cafeteria. Except this time I don’t have any friends to sit with and size four is my son’s shoe size, not my dress size. The women at the park cluster in small groups around the benches, looking over the sartorial choices of the other women and their children. They also check out each other’s snacks and strollers. They talk about the local schools and how their house renovations are going. Sometimes they stop their conversations to react to their children, but it seems to be an interruption to them, not a purpose for being there (not unlike a high school girl’s reaction to tests and homework, really).

None of them talk to me. I follow my kids around. I wear sweats or jeans and a t-shirt. I don’t feed my kids at the park. I WALK there. My stroller was affordable. No one wants that freaky woman with the messy hair in their clique, apparently. In the high school politics of this playground, I am a total loser.

I wouldn’t mind, except that it means my kids don’t have playmates at the park. Zoe LOVES playing with other little girls. But like their mothers, these girls totally ignore us. So I can’t decide whether to dress up and try to fit in at the park, thereby insuring my daughter some playmates (and myself hours of conversation about clothes) or to just go to that park sparingly.

Yesterday, 6:30pm:

Me: Zoe, do you think you could be quiet for a moment so I can talk. . .

Zoe: I DON’T WANT TO BE KWI-ETTT! I HATE KWI-ETTTTTTT!!!!!

Me: Zoe, how about using your whisper voice then?

Zoe: I DON’T HAVE A WHISPER VOOOOIIIIICE!

This morning, 7am:

Me: Good morning, Zachary! I’m so happy to see you.

Zachary: Nnnnnnsssss (that means nurse).

Me: Okay, let’s nurse.

(Pausing for nursing time)

Zach (pulling himself off) : yeah,yeah,yeah, yesssss!

When I was in high school, I had a lot of friends. I was in a lot of activities and considered attractive. Of course, I still felt pretty insecure. Who doesn’t, in high school? But because I had a lot of close friends, I knew that breathtakingly beautiful girls still felt insecure, that brilliant girls had moments of doubt, that the talented and funny girls still spent time crying in their rooms. I never had any illusions that anyone was without faults or angst or embarrassment.

Until I had eleventh grade English with. . .hmmm, let’s call her ELAINE. She was attractive and smart and very popular, all of which didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that she never had a bad hair day, or said something stupid in class, or even dropped her pen. When we had to write an essay about our two most important possessions, one of Elaine’s was her iron. I mean, I still don’t iron and this 16 year old girl ironed her whole family’s clothes (in addition to sports teams, good grades, lots of friends, etc.). Elaine never got stains on her clothes, never seemed to sweat or get flustered or feel sad. . .she just glided down the hall, kind to everyone, living in her bubble of perfection.

Of course, I’ve met women like her since high school - Erika in college, Jen at my first teaching job. But no one really matched up to the Real Elaine until I moved back to Bergen County and tried to meet other mothers. Every time I see a mother in the park, I swear she’s been taking lessons from Elaine.

These other mothers never have their children’s handprints on their shirts. They have lost of their baby weight and wear a size I couldn’t even wear before I had baby weight. Their clothes are fashionable - and ironed. Their hair is styled (or at least not in my usual ratty ponytail). Their children never fluster or frustrate them. They seem serene and organized as their children willingly eat organic tofu cookies. Standing near them, I feel the exact same way as I did sitting next to Elaine in English class.

I remind myself that I am an adult now. I tell myself that it’s pretty pathetic for a 16 year old girl to count an IRON as one of her prized possessions. I explain to my hubby that the women at the park probably don’t talk about the things I like to talk about anyway (books, politics, sex lives of acquaintances). I tell myself that no one is perfect and no one’s life is perfect - no matter what it looks like to an outsider. I lecture myself about being a kinder, less judgmental person. But I still don’t want to befriend anyone of these Elaines.

However, as soon as one of them shows up with stains on her shirt, messy hair or pretzels for snack, I’ll be all over her. I promise.

My daughter is almost two and a half. She is beautiful (no, really, strangers tell me so all the time), spirited and smart. I love her to distraction. But sometimes I really, really wish she would stop talking. Just for five minutes or so.

Last summer we visited my cousin, who has a son about ten months older than Zoe. He was two and a half to her twenty months, and I remember being so glad that Zoe didn’t talk all the time like Gabriel did. I actually thought it was a personality thing, not a developmental thing. Haha on me.

Someday she will be a sullen teenager and I will not be privy to every thought she is having. I will look back fondly at this time, as I try to unobtrusively eavesdrop on the conversations she has with friends. But that time is not here yet. And today I’m rather looking forward to it.

My daughter doesn’t merely have monologues about the Backyardigans and the challenges of putting up with her one year old brother. Zoe likes her monologues punctuated with appropriate one-liners from me. Always reminds me of helping hubby practice lines for one Shakespearean tragedy or another. Miss those one or two lines from the other characters and poor hubby’s practice is all messed up. Zoe, too, feels messed up if I miss a line. If I have the audacity to ignore her (however briefly), she will just get louder and louder until I come up with the right response.

Sometimes I imagine that when my son learns to really talk, he will be able to take over these duties from me. I can see why Zoe isn’t satisfied with ess (yes), uh (up), dada, ice (rice) and ns (nurse). But then I think, what if he likes to talk as much as he does? What if I have to start listening to two toddlers’ monologues ALL DAY?