I'm two weeks in to my third round of childcare-induced pneumonia. How am I feeling? I am fine while I quarantine myself inside my apartment, padding around in my socks from bedroom to living room and back again. I am especially fine when my babysitter isn't out sick for three days. But this time around the circuit, I decided to conduct an experiment. And I think I'm ready to present some preliminary findings. They are not very hopeful.
The night the sentence was handed down, I started by texting a friend while I was in the pharmacy waiting for my antibiotics prescription to be ready. Oh no! she said. Is there anything I can do? Well, at that very moment, not really. She did offer a couple of times since then, and I made several attempts to get her and her very tightly-scheduled toddler son to come for a playdate with me and Abe, but no dice.
I then decided to appeal to Facebook. I have a number of friends on Facebook. Not in the thousands, mind you, but a nice comfortable number, and a good mix of local and remote people. Now, the fact is, I tend to keep to myself, and I married someone who tends to keep to himself, and together we are a couple of loners. I've tried numerous times in my life to insinuate myself into a community, to the point that I become an indispensable part of one, and my presence is solicited and I'm missed when I'm not there. Other than my work life (where I was being paid to be there, and had a job to perform), I can't say I have succeeded at this. Combine with this the fact that being a stay-at-home mom is isolating in itself, particularly when you still have kids who nap and it is so hard to sync schedules with the parents of other napping children, and you start to see one possible source of the stress that has bounced me back to the province of the sick for the third time in as many years. So I started posting on Facebook. Pithy stuff. Gritty realism. Awww, look what kid x said stuff. Even a bald-faced attempt to bribe someone to come over and make granola for me, since I had my mind set on a particular recipe, but no energy to make it happen. What was I hoping for? What was the desired outcome? It has to do with community.
For the past two years, I have been involved with the PTA at Jonah's school. I have taken on the role of coordinator for getting meals to families who have had new babies. I have arranged dozens meals for families, many of whom I don't know and haven't even met, all because we had the same thing happen when Abe was born, and I was so bowled over by the gesture I decided to make it my job to ensure every family who had a baby had the same opportunity to feel cared for. I'm friends with a lot of parents from Jonah's school on Facebook. So, naturally, I thought some of those folks might step forward with offers of meals, playdates, or just say that they could bring Jonah home from school until I was well. I even asked to relocate a PTA meeting to my home because of my pneumonia. Everyone came. No one brought anything. I served them tea.
One person did get it. One. She made us some meatballs that were so delicious I thought I might cry while I was eating them. In fact I think I did. And she said what I was hoping to hear from others, that given how many others I have helped, I deserved a turn to get some help too. In the interest of full disclosure, and lest I understate the facts, another friend brought banana bread (thoughtfully using honey instead of sugar, because of my new self-imposed dietary restriction). And more recently another friend brought a lasagna. Neither of these people learned about my plight on Facebook, however.
Josh and I are traveling tomorrow, a trip to Puerto Rico to celebrate my 40th birthday, and we're leaving the kids behind. I'd like to think that perhaps wires got crossed, messages got muddled, and people think I am just fine now since I'm going on a trip, and that this is why no one else came forward. Yesterday, with the sitter here, I ventured out to find some new warm-weather clothes. I was only in the store for a few minutes when my chest tightened and I thought I might pass out. It felt like a panic attack, but more likely was the start of a relapse. I've had several hot flashes since then, which I have learned are just as dangerous as a temperature actually registering on the thermometer (I didn't have one, not once, this whole time). I am seeing the doctor for a followup this evening, and I'm petrified that things have taken a bad turn and that I won't be able to travel after all.
I'm taking this lack of response way harder than I should, I realize, but perhaps that's because of a very low blow from my mom this morning on the phone. She isn't nearby and is currently incapacitated, so all she has been able to do is field my anguished and stressed out phone calls this whole time. Today, she snapped and said that this is all because I've chosen to live in New York, and having made that choice, I have to deal with it. This is the first time she's been quite this insensitive. I get that she's frustrated from not being able to help me, but it felt like a wanton bridge-burning to me. She apologized, because my father yelled at her for saying it, but she hasn't called back to make things right.
I want to believe there is not some seismic shift going on here, that this is just the result of pneumonia which is the result of negligent care-taking of myself (and considerable stress), but I really feel like things have changed. I suddenly feel no particular allegiance to the community I've tried to make myself a part of for the past few years, since there seems to be a lack of recognition that being sick is just as valid a reason for helping as having a new baby in the house. Or, is it that people don't understand the extent of pneumonia? That they don't realize if your lungs aren't functioning 100%, you are simply fucked? I can be "feeling" "better" and still be up shit's creek in terms of my job as a mom. I don't have a consumptive cough or any other outward symptoms right now, other than looking like crap and inability to walk up a flight of stairs without hyperventilating.
I better stop as Jonah is coming home from school soon (I had my daily scramble to arrange someone to walk him home). I don't know if anyone's following this blog regularly anymore, but if so, and your name starts with A., I know that you've had pneumonia recently too, and I'm sorry I wasn't more proactive about helping you, as far away from me as you live. I could have sent food, could have sent some dehydrated soup packets or some astronaut ice cream or even just a book for you to read, and I didn't. I'm really sorry.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Pneumonia, round three
Here we are again. Me, one good lung, one sick one. I am starting to be able to measure out my life as a mom in the intervals between bouts with pneumonia. The worst one remains the late October 2008 one, the one that landed me in the ER and then forced me to recuperate for a full month. The night of the presidential election I lay in bed, listening to mayhem erupt across Brooklyn, crying (because I couldn't join in, not only because I was sick, but because I didn't believe in or vote for the winner... or the loser, for that matter). Jonah was 22.5 months at the time, and I remember how upset he was at first that I couldn't pick him up, couldn't go out to play with him. Suddenly he had an Invalid Mama. But then he remembered how good it was to snuggle up and read books, and all was OK.
Seventeen months later, May 2010, I also had a three month old, so I guess that explains why I hadn't been paying attention to the cold that had been festering for weeks. Bam! Back to bed. At least it was welcome relief from the sheer exhaustion of being a mom to two. And I could still nurse Abe. I can't really remember how Jonah took it, but he was in school at that point, so shielded from my incapacity a little more.
Fast forward twenty more months, and here we are again. I spent the first week of the new year full steam ahead with diet plans, giving up sugar, and somehow neglecting the cold that had been dogging me since before the holidays. I was busy, of course - birthday and Chanukah celebrations, thinking and talking about sugar in lieu of eating it, finding ways to make the scale creep lower and lower. Then one morning last week, after a short walk in the neighborhood, I found myself much more out of breath than I should have been. I had no fever, no pain, no elaborate coughing fits. I went to the doctor that afternoon. The nurse hooked up a gizmo to the computer and fitted a disposable tube into it. An illustration of a leafy tree appeared on the screen. I inhaled, then blew through the tube to try to blow all the leaves off the tree. Then I tried again. The nurse clucked with her tongue. I tried another time.
Those fucking leaves! My fucking lungs! I didn't even need to see the doctor to know what I was dealing with. The protracted period of time she spent listening to me breathe just sealed the deal. Again she handed down a sentence: rest. This time, though, I had to demand an explanation. After all, I'd gotten the pneumococcal vaccine after the first time. (The second time, she explained, "Oh, I didn't say that would keep you from GETTING pneumonia. But it keeps you from DYING from it.") The doctor asked if I was under stress. Who, me? Nah... Stress?
Stress is something that happens to other people! Me, I just get pissed off and yell a lot. Me, I just harangue my kid for having sensory issues and not always being able to pay attention when I talk to him, instead of committing to finding ways to work with him, as his teachers and therapists do. Me, I just yell at my nearly-two year old for climbing onto the kitchen table and grabbing the matches, instead of moving them to a high shelf once and for all. And I can't possibly be stressed out, because everyone I meet tells me how very calm I seem.
Yes, I said to the doctor. I said "yes" to stress. I got the name of a social worker to call once I'm well (I'm not going to stress out about the fact she hasn't returned my call. Not yet.) I'm going to try acupuncture to improve my "lung chi." I wasn't aware my lungs had that. Perhaps that is my problem. I'm going to try to remember to take astragalus supplements to boost my lung chi. I'm NOT going to go a solid week forgetting to take my multivitamin because I'm preoccupied with not eating sugar.
The kicker is that in a little less than two weeks, the supposed cure for all this stress is coming, and I hope to be well enough to take it (doctor said it would be fine to go if I promise to just sleep and lie on the beach, which are things I can enjoy, but not for five solid days!). Josh and I are taking a trip to Puerto Rico, our first ever trip without the kids, and the final nail in the coffin of my 40th birthday celebrations. My mother in law is staying with the kids, with our babysitter providing backup. I am worried that the stress of leaving the kids and of wondering what may not be getting done because of the inexperience of the caregiver is going to overwhelm our trip.
I have about ten days to get past this.
Seventeen months later, May 2010, I also had a three month old, so I guess that explains why I hadn't been paying attention to the cold that had been festering for weeks. Bam! Back to bed. At least it was welcome relief from the sheer exhaustion of being a mom to two. And I could still nurse Abe. I can't really remember how Jonah took it, but he was in school at that point, so shielded from my incapacity a little more.
Fast forward twenty more months, and here we are again. I spent the first week of the new year full steam ahead with diet plans, giving up sugar, and somehow neglecting the cold that had been dogging me since before the holidays. I was busy, of course - birthday and Chanukah celebrations, thinking and talking about sugar in lieu of eating it, finding ways to make the scale creep lower and lower. Then one morning last week, after a short walk in the neighborhood, I found myself much more out of breath than I should have been. I had no fever, no pain, no elaborate coughing fits. I went to the doctor that afternoon. The nurse hooked up a gizmo to the computer and fitted a disposable tube into it. An illustration of a leafy tree appeared on the screen. I inhaled, then blew through the tube to try to blow all the leaves off the tree. Then I tried again. The nurse clucked with her tongue. I tried another time.
Those fucking leaves! My fucking lungs! I didn't even need to see the doctor to know what I was dealing with. The protracted period of time she spent listening to me breathe just sealed the deal. Again she handed down a sentence: rest. This time, though, I had to demand an explanation. After all, I'd gotten the pneumococcal vaccine after the first time. (The second time, she explained, "Oh, I didn't say that would keep you from GETTING pneumonia. But it keeps you from DYING from it.") The doctor asked if I was under stress. Who, me? Nah... Stress?
Stress is something that happens to other people! Me, I just get pissed off and yell a lot. Me, I just harangue my kid for having sensory issues and not always being able to pay attention when I talk to him, instead of committing to finding ways to work with him, as his teachers and therapists do. Me, I just yell at my nearly-two year old for climbing onto the kitchen table and grabbing the matches, instead of moving them to a high shelf once and for all. And I can't possibly be stressed out, because everyone I meet tells me how very calm I seem.
Yes, I said to the doctor. I said "yes" to stress. I got the name of a social worker to call once I'm well (I'm not going to stress out about the fact she hasn't returned my call. Not yet.) I'm going to try acupuncture to improve my "lung chi." I wasn't aware my lungs had that. Perhaps that is my problem. I'm going to try to remember to take astragalus supplements to boost my lung chi. I'm NOT going to go a solid week forgetting to take my multivitamin because I'm preoccupied with not eating sugar.
The kicker is that in a little less than two weeks, the supposed cure for all this stress is coming, and I hope to be well enough to take it (doctor said it would be fine to go if I promise to just sleep and lie on the beach, which are things I can enjoy, but not for five solid days!). Josh and I are taking a trip to Puerto Rico, our first ever trip without the kids, and the final nail in the coffin of my 40th birthday celebrations. My mother in law is staying with the kids, with our babysitter providing backup. I am worried that the stress of leaving the kids and of wondering what may not be getting done because of the inexperience of the caregiver is going to overwhelm our trip.
I have about ten days to get past this.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Older and wider
This weekend I stopped nursing Abe. He's a very verbal 16-month-old, but somehow he hadn't yet thought to shake his head at a boob pointed at him (only at bedtimes and wakings, at this point), so this weekend I just kind of stopped offering. He could not have cared less. I should feel grateful for this - I'm sure I actually am grateful, that this won't be some long, protracted goodbye that will make us both crazy. Instead I am wistful at the end of the useful life of my breasts, which were never much before I had kids, and as such kind of liked the limelight that nursing afforded.
But what I'm not-liking even more than the end of nursing is the fact that all vestiges of an excuse for eating poorly are now out the window. I stopped dieting last November, ten pounds short of my goal, and managed to maintain that loss... until now.
It's summer - what the hell am I doing eating this much?!
But what I'm not-liking even more than the end of nursing is the fact that all vestiges of an excuse for eating poorly are now out the window. I stopped dieting last November, ten pounds short of my goal, and managed to maintain that loss... until now.
It's summer - what the hell am I doing eating this much?!
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Mon semblable - mon frère!
This is how my mind functions (or malfunctions) these days - perhaps a sign of incipient senility? I think of literary quotes that are just barely relevant, like the title of this post, taken from Charles Baudelaire's "Au Lecteur" ("To The Reader").
Anyway, I think of it because Jonah each day seems more and more like me. He reminds me of my four year old self. Last night while we were reading at bedtime, he asked how to MAKE a book. I got all excited, and since he has today and tomorrow off from school, I decided it would be a great project. Of course, I made a book at his age, but mine was pure autobiography, drawings of my family members, my house, etc. Jonah's project is of a far more grandiose scale. It is called Coney Island Rides, and so far there are two pages of illustrations and one half-page of text I transcribed. I am worried he has lost steam, now, and won't finish the book. I have such a strong need to staple the pages together and present it to him as the prize it is. To invest it with the meaning that my mother did for my small book, so long ago, to assess it as a valuable object - something worth saving, something worth keeping away from a marauding younger brother.
Marauding younger brother is lucky he is so damn cute. Today, extreme heat kept us house-bound for most of the day, and Abe learned how to climb up and stand on the piano bench, and also learned that from the ground he can reach the piano lid to open it and (precariously) close it. Eek. Time to find the keys that lock the piano. Not sure what to do about the bench, though. He's been unbelievably lucky with all the climbing he does, but that luck will run short at some point. Right? Or does he have an angel on his shoulder, as I feel I sometimes do?
The aggravation of having a real toddler (Jonah seems to have been an overly-cautious impostor of one) is tempered by watching my boys play together. They erupt in silly sounds, chase each other around the house, and just generally delight in one another's company. It makes my heart happy, even on an exhausting day like today. I get to the evening feeling solid, competent, yea, even optimistic.
Or maybe it was just that second shower.
Anyway, I think of it because Jonah each day seems more and more like me. He reminds me of my four year old self. Last night while we were reading at bedtime, he asked how to MAKE a book. I got all excited, and since he has today and tomorrow off from school, I decided it would be a great project. Of course, I made a book at his age, but mine was pure autobiography, drawings of my family members, my house, etc. Jonah's project is of a far more grandiose scale. It is called Coney Island Rides, and so far there are two pages of illustrations and one half-page of text I transcribed. I am worried he has lost steam, now, and won't finish the book. I have such a strong need to staple the pages together and present it to him as the prize it is. To invest it with the meaning that my mother did for my small book, so long ago, to assess it as a valuable object - something worth saving, something worth keeping away from a marauding younger brother.
Marauding younger brother is lucky he is so damn cute. Today, extreme heat kept us house-bound for most of the day, and Abe learned how to climb up and stand on the piano bench, and also learned that from the ground he can reach the piano lid to open it and (precariously) close it. Eek. Time to find the keys that lock the piano. Not sure what to do about the bench, though. He's been unbelievably lucky with all the climbing he does, but that luck will run short at some point. Right? Or does he have an angel on his shoulder, as I feel I sometimes do?
The aggravation of having a real toddler (Jonah seems to have been an overly-cautious impostor of one) is tempered by watching my boys play together. They erupt in silly sounds, chase each other around the house, and just generally delight in one another's company. It makes my heart happy, even on an exhausting day like today. I get to the evening feeling solid, competent, yea, even optimistic.
Or maybe it was just that second shower.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Melodica
Last week I conducted an experiment. I decided not to yell at Jonah, at all, no matter how much he was annoying me. It didn't necessarily shorten the length of his tantrums, or eliminate the irritants altogether, but at the end of the day I felt so much better about myself. Like I actually deserve to be in this job. Now, that's a feeling I'd like to have more often than not. Especially in the face of an increasingly risk-taking Abe (latest trick: standing up on the seat of a riding toy), I need to cultivate more calm.
Of course, by Saturday morning I was pretty tired of keeping it under wraps and I did do a little yelling. But then I decided to take the afternoon and have an outing with Jonah, to the transit museum, and it was awesome (even more so because we did not take Abe, who it would have been a nightmare to keep track of there). He stretched out our visit to two long hours, revisiting each bus multiple times, looking for the "perfect" subway train (one where you can go from car to car without getting off), and even taking great interest in the photo books of old buses (which all appeared to be self-published by a bus freak from New Jersey). We saw a birthday party set up there and it looked pretty nice. Hmmmm.
Josh needed to work on a couple of songs his mom asked him to play at her father's 99th birthday party, on Sunday, in Allentown, PA. One of the songs was, "Young at Heart." On a whim, I grabbed my melodica - a pseudo-instrument that looks and sounds like the spawn of a clarinet and an accordion - and figured out the melody. Saturday night, after the kids went to sleep, we went out to the front stoop (so as not to wake them), and worked on it until we had it. OK, maybe that sounds twee. Maybe it was. But the experience of getting together with my husband and doing something fun with music - that did not involve the kids - was so great. I hope we will manage it again soon.
Of course, by Saturday morning I was pretty tired of keeping it under wraps and I did do a little yelling. But then I decided to take the afternoon and have an outing with Jonah, to the transit museum, and it was awesome (even more so because we did not take Abe, who it would have been a nightmare to keep track of there). He stretched out our visit to two long hours, revisiting each bus multiple times, looking for the "perfect" subway train (one where you can go from car to car without getting off), and even taking great interest in the photo books of old buses (which all appeared to be self-published by a bus freak from New Jersey). We saw a birthday party set up there and it looked pretty nice. Hmmmm.
Josh needed to work on a couple of songs his mom asked him to play at her father's 99th birthday party, on Sunday, in Allentown, PA. One of the songs was, "Young at Heart." On a whim, I grabbed my melodica - a pseudo-instrument that looks and sounds like the spawn of a clarinet and an accordion - and figured out the melody. Saturday night, after the kids went to sleep, we went out to the front stoop (so as not to wake them), and worked on it until we had it. OK, maybe that sounds twee. Maybe it was. But the experience of getting together with my husband and doing something fun with music - that did not involve the kids - was so great. I hope we will manage it again soon.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Plimpton
Abe is walking now, still raising his fists triumphantly for balance. He's a prodigious talker, too, so there is a sense of importance in everything we tell him now - only words that matter! Jonah is finally shedding his bad nervous habits (picking open sores until they re-bleed, chewing on already-chapped lips). I am only nursing three times a day, hoping to drop the naptime feed soon, then the bedtime one, and then say goodbye to nursing altogether. My cycle just started up again, after two years' hiatus (my body takes breastfeeding VERY seriously, it seems - same thing happened last time), so without that benefit - and with Abe so slappy and pinchy at times - it just seems silly to keep at it.
Which leaves me wondering what my next move is. A few months ago, I was sure I'd throw my energy into inventing a new baby product - one that every set of new parents in Brooklyn felt sure they couldn't do without, would have to buy new, and could never be recalled. I checked relevant books out of the library! I did a cursory patent search! I found the exact product I wanted to invent (but made for dogs)! Annnnnnnnnd, that idea went up on the dusty shelf. The shelf that has no end. The shelf holding the file box of my collected works of poetry. And prose. And my career trajectory as a librarian. And and and.
I am feeling restless. It's spring, after all, a time of renewal. I need a bit more than a hardboiled egg, though. I find myself thinking about George Plimpton - what accomplishment of his springs immediately to mind when you see his name? It's amusing, since it could be any one of a number of them. (Probably, since you weren't there, not including the time he spilled a Maker's Mark on Josh, in the darkness of a Paris Review reading held in the Brooklyn Bridge Anchorage, the summer before 9/11 shuttered that phenomenal space for good). I'd love to do that. Be that. Become known for any number of things, not just one thing.
Am I gearing up for a full-blown mid-life crisis come December? Perhaps. Yet I can also remember feeling just about this way when Jonah started walking, talking, and generally not needing me as an infant needs me. I can remember the first time I headed out for some alone time after leaving my job of a decade, Jonah with his favorite sitter, and it being a freezing cold, rainy day. That day, I felt I needed to do something that mattered. Like personal performance art, maybe, but for my consumption only. I took the train to Chinatown, and wandered through a flower market (it was around Chinese New Year), listening to an incongruous thing on my iPod: the Glenn Gould radio piece, The Idea of North, which I had heard about years before and had just purchased on CD. I crossed back into Brooklyn via bridge listening to the end of it.
I took a self-portrait with my cell phone that day, which I just discovered I didn't save. Too bad. I recall my eyes lost in my face, trying to smile but looking touched by madness. Wrapped in an unfamiliar solitude, suddenly adrift with time off I didn't quite know how to use, since the "work" I was to go back to was amorphous in the way that childcare sometimes seems.
I've been unemployed for so long (in the conventional sense) that my little bits of time off no longer feel like opportunities to "work." I wouldn't know what work I'd like to do. Yet at some point in the not so distant past, I was going to libraries, to sit and work on drafts of poems. Once or twice, I was even officially toting a laptop with me, and cooking magazines, working on a freelance project that paid for our weeklong summer beach rental.
But that was eons ago. Now I'm mired to the ankles in mental sludge. And it is time to pull my feet out of this muck, hose them down, and set to work finding my inner Plimpton. No matter how many drinks get spilled.
(Speaking of which, I'm organizing a drink with other moms on Mother's Day night. If I haven't already invited you, and you want to come, let me know.)
Which leaves me wondering what my next move is. A few months ago, I was sure I'd throw my energy into inventing a new baby product - one that every set of new parents in Brooklyn felt sure they couldn't do without, would have to buy new, and could never be recalled. I checked relevant books out of the library! I did a cursory patent search! I found the exact product I wanted to invent (but made for dogs)! Annnnnnnnnd, that idea went up on the dusty shelf. The shelf that has no end. The shelf holding the file box of my collected works of poetry. And prose. And my career trajectory as a librarian. And and and.
I am feeling restless. It's spring, after all, a time of renewal. I need a bit more than a hardboiled egg, though. I find myself thinking about George Plimpton - what accomplishment of his springs immediately to mind when you see his name? It's amusing, since it could be any one of a number of them. (Probably, since you weren't there, not including the time he spilled a Maker's Mark on Josh, in the darkness of a Paris Review reading held in the Brooklyn Bridge Anchorage, the summer before 9/11 shuttered that phenomenal space for good). I'd love to do that. Be that. Become known for any number of things, not just one thing.
Am I gearing up for a full-blown mid-life crisis come December? Perhaps. Yet I can also remember feeling just about this way when Jonah started walking, talking, and generally not needing me as an infant needs me. I can remember the first time I headed out for some alone time after leaving my job of a decade, Jonah with his favorite sitter, and it being a freezing cold, rainy day. That day, I felt I needed to do something that mattered. Like personal performance art, maybe, but for my consumption only. I took the train to Chinatown, and wandered through a flower market (it was around Chinese New Year), listening to an incongruous thing on my iPod: the Glenn Gould radio piece, The Idea of North, which I had heard about years before and had just purchased on CD. I crossed back into Brooklyn via bridge listening to the end of it.
I took a self-portrait with my cell phone that day, which I just discovered I didn't save. Too bad. I recall my eyes lost in my face, trying to smile but looking touched by madness. Wrapped in an unfamiliar solitude, suddenly adrift with time off I didn't quite know how to use, since the "work" I was to go back to was amorphous in the way that childcare sometimes seems.
I've been unemployed for so long (in the conventional sense) that my little bits of time off no longer feel like opportunities to "work." I wouldn't know what work I'd like to do. Yet at some point in the not so distant past, I was going to libraries, to sit and work on drafts of poems. Once or twice, I was even officially toting a laptop with me, and cooking magazines, working on a freelance project that paid for our weeklong summer beach rental.
But that was eons ago. Now I'm mired to the ankles in mental sludge. And it is time to pull my feet out of this muck, hose them down, and set to work finding my inner Plimpton. No matter how many drinks get spilled.
(Speaking of which, I'm organizing a drink with other moms on Mother's Day night. If I haven't already invited you, and you want to come, let me know.)
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Just wow.
I've really fallen off the blog-wagon, haven't I? Not that there were too many people out there to notice. If you are still there, thank you.
Abe is now 13 months, and not walking yet, but poised to do so, perhaps soon. Yesterday, during music class, he stood for a full 30 seconds and even did some deep knee bends (which for him passes as dancing) before tumbling down. The sitter is with him today, and I was worried he'd start walking while I wasn't here to see it. I don't think he did (or else she's keeping it from me).
Now that he's had the full benefit of Mama for 13 months, I'm ready to stop nursing. (I was going to say hang up my hat, but I don't think a hat will ever hang from this pair again...) Yesterday I challenged myself not to nurse during music class, and it went fine. Except for the long, possibly longing, look from Abe when I diverted him to clap along to the song we were singing. I remembered being in the very same place with Jonah, making the same decision, and it was hard not to cry, and even harder not to just give in.
However, this morning I was reminded why I need to end this. Abe is a delight, but he is no longer a sweet cuddly baby 100% of the time. In fact, he's a kicker, a swatter, a slapper. During the day this is merely annoying. At 6 a.m. it makes me hate him, momentarily.
Now that he's getting the hang of sleeping a whole night (after so many rounds of sleep training, I have lost count), I am aiming to cut back on the nursing. I need to be methodical about it, but I can't seem to get a handle on how many times he is nursing these days. Poor Abe. He gets changed on our bed, his clothes are housed in a bookshelf that I only half-emptied for his benefit. It's as though we weren't really planning on having another kid, and as though we have only reluctantly made room for him.
He is asserting himself through food lately - last night he plowed through an entire turkey burger while I was preoccupied with his more fidgety, finicky older brother. When I go food shopping lately I am shocked at how much more we CONSUME as a family.
Older brother has been delightful lately, perhaps owing to quieter nights from Abe. He sleeps until at least 7 a.m. these days, a great help to him during the long school day. And he's going to take a class at an acrobatics studio in the neighborhood. I can't wait to watch him do a forward roll or a handstand against the wall. He needs to learn how to transcend his body, in a way that I don't think I ever did. Last night before bed he was hopping around naked on his bed while Josh and I watched him, amused. He told us how much he loved us, and how happy he was that we all live in the same house together. Then he said, "I hope you don't fall down in dirty mud." So thoughtful.
My body is in dire need of transcendence these days. This morning I woke up achy all over. I daydream about Feldenkrais classes, but never seem to make time to go to them. I consider exercising, then wind up on the couch in my workout clothes eating a brownie during Abe's nap. The imminence of spring has me itching to do something new. I was planning to join a Brazilian percussion troupe, but missed their first rehearsal when Jonah was sick, and now I can't join until they start a new session. Just a bike ride would do me a lot of good. But it needs to stop being FUCKING COLD in order for me to consider it.
Yeah, this is turning out to be a boring read. Sorry.
Abe is now 13 months, and not walking yet, but poised to do so, perhaps soon. Yesterday, during music class, he stood for a full 30 seconds and even did some deep knee bends (which for him passes as dancing) before tumbling down. The sitter is with him today, and I was worried he'd start walking while I wasn't here to see it. I don't think he did (or else she's keeping it from me).
Now that he's had the full benefit of Mama for 13 months, I'm ready to stop nursing. (I was going to say hang up my hat, but I don't think a hat will ever hang from this pair again...) Yesterday I challenged myself not to nurse during music class, and it went fine. Except for the long, possibly longing, look from Abe when I diverted him to clap along to the song we were singing. I remembered being in the very same place with Jonah, making the same decision, and it was hard not to cry, and even harder not to just give in.
However, this morning I was reminded why I need to end this. Abe is a delight, but he is no longer a sweet cuddly baby 100% of the time. In fact, he's a kicker, a swatter, a slapper. During the day this is merely annoying. At 6 a.m. it makes me hate him, momentarily.
Now that he's getting the hang of sleeping a whole night (after so many rounds of sleep training, I have lost count), I am aiming to cut back on the nursing. I need to be methodical about it, but I can't seem to get a handle on how many times he is nursing these days. Poor Abe. He gets changed on our bed, his clothes are housed in a bookshelf that I only half-emptied for his benefit. It's as though we weren't really planning on having another kid, and as though we have only reluctantly made room for him.
He is asserting himself through food lately - last night he plowed through an entire turkey burger while I was preoccupied with his more fidgety, finicky older brother. When I go food shopping lately I am shocked at how much more we CONSUME as a family.
Older brother has been delightful lately, perhaps owing to quieter nights from Abe. He sleeps until at least 7 a.m. these days, a great help to him during the long school day. And he's going to take a class at an acrobatics studio in the neighborhood. I can't wait to watch him do a forward roll or a handstand against the wall. He needs to learn how to transcend his body, in a way that I don't think I ever did. Last night before bed he was hopping around naked on his bed while Josh and I watched him, amused. He told us how much he loved us, and how happy he was that we all live in the same house together. Then he said, "I hope you don't fall down in dirty mud." So thoughtful.
My body is in dire need of transcendence these days. This morning I woke up achy all over. I daydream about Feldenkrais classes, but never seem to make time to go to them. I consider exercising, then wind up on the couch in my workout clothes eating a brownie during Abe's nap. The imminence of spring has me itching to do something new. I was planning to join a Brazilian percussion troupe, but missed their first rehearsal when Jonah was sick, and now I can't join until they start a new session. Just a bike ride would do me a lot of good. But it needs to stop being FUCKING COLD in order for me to consider it.
Yeah, this is turning out to be a boring read. Sorry.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Nearing a year
A year ago I was big as a house. Big, lumbering, fearful of the change about to descend into our lives.
A year later, I am not so big anymore. I am less lumbering. And the fear? That made way for equal parts delight and utter weariness. Most days, I would say, by the time the kids are in bed, I am wearily delighted. Delightfully weary.
Now if I could just regenerate my brain activity... the higher functioning portions... Someone said to me yesterday, "You're a writer, right?" I shook my head. But I used to be, right? I may be again someday? Right now I can't remember the last time I even read a poem.
A year later, I am not so big anymore. I am less lumbering. And the fear? That made way for equal parts delight and utter weariness. Most days, I would say, by the time the kids are in bed, I am wearily delighted. Delightfully weary.
Now if I could just regenerate my brain activity... the higher functioning portions... Someone said to me yesterday, "You're a writer, right?" I shook my head. But I used to be, right? I may be again someday? Right now I can't remember the last time I even read a poem.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Playing hide-and-seek with a baby
As the year mark of Abe's life, and my being a mom of two, approaches, I am hoping I can stop all of the hand-wringing that has gone on this past year and move forward into a more positive way of thinking about my approach to parenthood. I mean, chest-beating is only going to get me so far - the self-awareness of it, I appreciate. The residual (and perpetual) negativity, not so much.
So, coming off of an interrrrrminable day of having both kids home (Jonah has been running a fever for a few days), here's a bright spot from the day's events. Jonah spent a lot of time watching YouTube playlists of Sesame Street clips. A LOT. For a kid whose screen time is usually pretty severely limited, this was revelatory. When I decided that the glaze over his eyes was getting dangerous, I cut him off for a bit, and he decided he wanted to act out a particular Ernie and Bert sketch that fascinated him (though he likes to hide behind furniture to watch it, because the part where Bert finally gets out of the chair seems to scare him). He kept getting frustrated because I (Bert) would flub my lines because I hadn't watched the clip 8,000 TIMES. Plus, he seemed confused between tag and hide-and-seek. So, I suggested a game of hide-and-seek, which he enjoyed when he was 3, but we hadn't played in ages. It may seem ridiculous to play hide-and-seek in an 1100-square-foot apartment, but it is a hell of a lot of fun, especially with a 4 year old who is still not clear on how to be sneaky.
Abe was not napping at the time (his naps and sleep have gone to hell lately), so I took him with me when it was our turn to hide. I chose a classic spot: inside the bathtub, with the bathroom light off and the door closed. It took an insanely long time for Jonah to find us - he kept running right past the bathroom door. But the extra time I got to spend holding Abe was worth it. He wasn't a bit scared to be in my arms in the bathtub in the dark. Rather, he was totally thrilled by it and kept emitting happy shrieks (which Jonah kept trying to use to place us, but failing). It was the best thing he'd done all day, I think. When it came time to hunt for Jonah (who ran to his room to hide, slamming the door), it was such a delight to see Abe approach Jonah's bed and look at the odd lump under the blanket. I could see him trying to figure out what it was, as he stood up next to the bed. Then he pulled back a corner of blanket and LO! a foot! and then, a big brother! Cue screaming laughter!
I don't know if Abe understood what we were doing, but he did seem to sense this was FUN. And he does love his brother. I will choose to remember this from yesterday, and the half-hour I spent making cookies with Jonah, and the joy on his face when his entire class made a get well phone call. The rest of the day, the parts that made me look haggard beyond my years when Josh came home, can just piss off to obscurity.
So, coming off of an interrrrrminable day of having both kids home (Jonah has been running a fever for a few days), here's a bright spot from the day's events. Jonah spent a lot of time watching YouTube playlists of Sesame Street clips. A LOT. For a kid whose screen time is usually pretty severely limited, this was revelatory. When I decided that the glaze over his eyes was getting dangerous, I cut him off for a bit, and he decided he wanted to act out a particular Ernie and Bert sketch that fascinated him (though he likes to hide behind furniture to watch it, because the part where Bert finally gets out of the chair seems to scare him). He kept getting frustrated because I (Bert) would flub my lines because I hadn't watched the clip 8,000 TIMES. Plus, he seemed confused between tag and hide-and-seek. So, I suggested a game of hide-and-seek, which he enjoyed when he was 3, but we hadn't played in ages. It may seem ridiculous to play hide-and-seek in an 1100-square-foot apartment, but it is a hell of a lot of fun, especially with a 4 year old who is still not clear on how to be sneaky.
Abe was not napping at the time (his naps and sleep have gone to hell lately), so I took him with me when it was our turn to hide. I chose a classic spot: inside the bathtub, with the bathroom light off and the door closed. It took an insanely long time for Jonah to find us - he kept running right past the bathroom door. But the extra time I got to spend holding Abe was worth it. He wasn't a bit scared to be in my arms in the bathtub in the dark. Rather, he was totally thrilled by it and kept emitting happy shrieks (which Jonah kept trying to use to place us, but failing). It was the best thing he'd done all day, I think. When it came time to hunt for Jonah (who ran to his room to hide, slamming the door), it was such a delight to see Abe approach Jonah's bed and look at the odd lump under the blanket. I could see him trying to figure out what it was, as he stood up next to the bed. Then he pulled back a corner of blanket and LO! a foot! and then, a big brother! Cue screaming laughter!
I don't know if Abe understood what we were doing, but he did seem to sense this was FUN. And he does love his brother. I will choose to remember this from yesterday, and the half-hour I spent making cookies with Jonah, and the joy on his face when his entire class made a get well phone call. The rest of the day, the parts that made me look haggard beyond my years when Josh came home, can just piss off to obscurity.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Further into Four
Jonah is a memory monster!
He received a beautiful memory game for his birthday. I was always (and believed this still to be true) the reigning champion of memory, any way, any day. My game growing up was Holland Memory, with its entertaining pictures of clogs, windmills, tiles, and strange sweets. Jonah calls his "Coney Island" Memory because it has circus images.
Tonight after dinner, he bounded over to Josh and asked, "Are you in a memory mood?" Abe was safely asleep, so the three of us got to play the game uninterrupted by a marauding 11-month-old. Tonight we played with 50 cards (the full set is 72 cards). Josh, uncharacteristically, possibly because he'd had a nap, and also because he'd not been to a bouncy castle birthday party today, beat the pants off me. What really made my jaw drop is that Jonah beat me, too! I was even more amazed because he was becoming visibly tired as we played, and his body started all of its usual fidgety sensory-seeking behaviors that drive us nuts. I kept chiding him for not paying attention. And yet, he WAS paying attention, to the point that he even did, more than once I think, that amazing move where he nearly turned over the wrong card and caught himself and picked up the correct one next to it. I am humbled by his prowess, even more than I am pissed at myself for losing to my memory-deficient husband at the one game I have always ruled at.
Yesterday began with in-home haircuts for 3/4 of the family (first Josh, then a very reluctant Jonah, and then a stressed-out me). I was so proud of Jonah for rising to the occasion and letting me convince him to get his crazy mane tamed. It was not a major chop, just a cleaning up of the tangly baby hair on the ends, which were the locks that contributed to his mad scientist look. It was astonishing how quickly he transformed. I couldn't quite believe the big boy that started to emerge once his hair was cut. Once he stopped struggling, though, I noticed his body was limp and he had a smile frozen on his face. Which of course sent me to the worrying space: Did we break his will? Is he going to be scarred for life because of a ten minute haircut? The reality is probably that he was relaxed, and happy to watch some favorite YouTube clips on my phone while getting his hair done. When can I stop with the worrying?
I haven't been writing much about Abe. He is pulling himself up to standing, repeating words with uncanny precision ("cookie," "duckie," "all done") and also saying non sequiturs ("bye bye!" very clearly, while he's eating). I will never forget looking at him lying on the bed as we prepared to leave the hospital with him on Day One, saying "hi!" to him, and getting a very similar "ayyyyyyyy!" in response. He and Jonah are getting thick as thieves, particularly during car rides. They almost always hold hands, and Abe provokes Jonah into shrieking and laughter. I'm so glad we added a peg to our car.
He received a beautiful memory game for his birthday. I was always (and believed this still to be true) the reigning champion of memory, any way, any day. My game growing up was Holland Memory, with its entertaining pictures of clogs, windmills, tiles, and strange sweets. Jonah calls his "Coney Island" Memory because it has circus images.
Tonight after dinner, he bounded over to Josh and asked, "Are you in a memory mood?" Abe was safely asleep, so the three of us got to play the game uninterrupted by a marauding 11-month-old. Tonight we played with 50 cards (the full set is 72 cards). Josh, uncharacteristically, possibly because he'd had a nap, and also because he'd not been to a bouncy castle birthday party today, beat the pants off me. What really made my jaw drop is that Jonah beat me, too! I was even more amazed because he was becoming visibly tired as we played, and his body started all of its usual fidgety sensory-seeking behaviors that drive us nuts. I kept chiding him for not paying attention. And yet, he WAS paying attention, to the point that he even did, more than once I think, that amazing move where he nearly turned over the wrong card and caught himself and picked up the correct one next to it. I am humbled by his prowess, even more than I am pissed at myself for losing to my memory-deficient husband at the one game I have always ruled at.
Yesterday began with in-home haircuts for 3/4 of the family (first Josh, then a very reluctant Jonah, and then a stressed-out me). I was so proud of Jonah for rising to the occasion and letting me convince him to get his crazy mane tamed. It was not a major chop, just a cleaning up of the tangly baby hair on the ends, which were the locks that contributed to his mad scientist look. It was astonishing how quickly he transformed. I couldn't quite believe the big boy that started to emerge once his hair was cut. Once he stopped struggling, though, I noticed his body was limp and he had a smile frozen on his face. Which of course sent me to the worrying space: Did we break his will? Is he going to be scarred for life because of a ten minute haircut? The reality is probably that he was relaxed, and happy to watch some favorite YouTube clips on my phone while getting his hair done. When can I stop with the worrying?
I haven't been writing much about Abe. He is pulling himself up to standing, repeating words with uncanny precision ("cookie," "duckie," "all done") and also saying non sequiturs ("bye bye!" very clearly, while he's eating). I will never forget looking at him lying on the bed as we prepared to leave the hospital with him on Day One, saying "hi!" to him, and getting a very similar "ayyyyyyyy!" in response. He and Jonah are getting thick as thieves, particularly during car rides. They almost always hold hands, and Abe provokes Jonah into shrieking and laughter. I'm so glad we added a peg to our car.
Friday, January 14, 2011
How to Make Mama Cry
[Dinner table, end of a semi-trying afternoon]
Jonah: You are the BEST mama.
Mama: Are you sure? What makes me the best? I don't think I'm the best.
Jonah: Because... because you TAKE CARE of us. That makes you the best mama.
Mama: [sobs]
Jonah: I know how I can cheer you up, Mama!
Mama: [sniffling] How?
Jonah: It's called Table Manners. [lifting fork, finally using it] There, now do you feel better? Please, may I please have some milk?
Jonah: You are the BEST mama.
Mama: Are you sure? What makes me the best? I don't think I'm the best.
Jonah: Because... because you TAKE CARE of us. That makes you the best mama.
Mama: [sobs]
Jonah: I know how I can cheer you up, Mama!
Mama: [sniffling] How?
Jonah: It's called Table Manners. [lifting fork, finally using it] There, now do you feel better? Please, may I please have some milk?
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Four
As Jonah moves into his Four-ness (and as I read the appropriate book in the Your ___-Year-Old series), I am suddenly struck by my closeness to and affinity for this particular age.Four seems to be where I started remembering things, really remembering them. Not just the shirt, but what it felt like to wear it. Not just what my room looked like, but what it felt like to sit on the shaggy red carpet, surrounded by my mess, feeling at home in it. So I am assuming that Jonah is the same way, and that everything that happens from now on is going to stay with him.
Also lately I have noticed him repeating something either he or I have said, in a whisper, right after it is said. This is absolutely something I remember doing at his age, and I can't imagine he's seen me doing it (as I trained myself out of it long ago). Very trippy.
Another reason I'm feeling so connected to Jonah these days: our hair.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Mama/Mamma
We have a four year old now, one who is transforming hourly into a very Big Boy. And a ten month old, who could probably eat a car if we fed it to him in small enough bits. Tomorrow is the last of Jonah's three parties, a joint one with another boy at school, with pizza and cupcakes and entertainment by the dads. I can't wait! Perhaps most of all because I don't have to do much for it other than get the pizza. Somewhere in there, I turned 39 as well. And I'm going to stay that age for the next ten years.
So, the yelling. I'd like to say it has diminished a bit. The anger, too. Maybe I've turned it down just a notch or two. Maybe I don't have the heart to yell at a boy who's in birthday mode. Maybe it's because when Jonah cries, Abe now starts crying in solidarity. Or maybe it's because Jonah's gotten more sophisticated, and has realized that he can call me on it. Last week he made an attempt to pour his own milk while I was in the other room changing Abe's diaper. I knew he would probably make an attempt, and I specifically told him not to. I came back to find a pool of milk on the table, Jonah soaked in it, and I started yelling almost immediately. Jonah started crying (which he typically hasn't, not until now), and saying, "Don't yell at me!" After cleaning it up, I may have also said something like, "Drink your damn milk." This also perturbed him and he protested, "Don't say that word!!!"
Could it be that I just needed him to grow up a little? Just a hair's breadth of growing up? After that episode I really haven't had the heart to get mega-pissed at him. He is also becoming savvy about "mistakes" versus pure naughtiness. And I can't really yell at him if he made a mistake, can I? So I guess we are going to give mistakes a wide berth for a bit.
A couple of nights ago, Jonah chose his Italian picture dictionary as bedtime reading. Maybe an odd choice, but not for my language-obsessed little guy (he has these dictionaries for Spanish and Hebrew, too). He asked us which one of us spoke Italian, and I raised my hand. He asked me to talk to him in Italian, and we wound up doing the entire bedtime routine in Italian. He loved it! And it was amazing to see how quickly he was understanding the things I was asking him to do. Then we settled down and I pointed out words and told him how to say them. It wasn't until later that I realized another possible reason he was so enthusiastic about his Italian Mom: She doesn't yell at him.
Italian--Moms--Yelling. This string of three took me straight back to my shared apartment on Via Aretina, in Florence, spring and summer 1992. My bedroom wall adjoined the kitchen of our neighbors, a family with two young boys. On a regular basis, the mother would be cooking and all of a sudden burst into angry invective at one of her sons (probably the younger one, as wailing would quickly ensue). I would lie in bed feeling awful for the little guy, and wondering how any mother could be so quick to anger at such a young kid.
Signora Vieri, I'm sorry I thought you such a bad, evil mom.
So, the yelling. I'd like to say it has diminished a bit. The anger, too. Maybe I've turned it down just a notch or two. Maybe I don't have the heart to yell at a boy who's in birthday mode. Maybe it's because when Jonah cries, Abe now starts crying in solidarity. Or maybe it's because Jonah's gotten more sophisticated, and has realized that he can call me on it. Last week he made an attempt to pour his own milk while I was in the other room changing Abe's diaper. I knew he would probably make an attempt, and I specifically told him not to. I came back to find a pool of milk on the table, Jonah soaked in it, and I started yelling almost immediately. Jonah started crying (which he typically hasn't, not until now), and saying, "Don't yell at me!" After cleaning it up, I may have also said something like, "Drink your damn milk." This also perturbed him and he protested, "Don't say that word!!!"
Could it be that I just needed him to grow up a little? Just a hair's breadth of growing up? After that episode I really haven't had the heart to get mega-pissed at him. He is also becoming savvy about "mistakes" versus pure naughtiness. And I can't really yell at him if he made a mistake, can I? So I guess we are going to give mistakes a wide berth for a bit.
A couple of nights ago, Jonah chose his Italian picture dictionary as bedtime reading. Maybe an odd choice, but not for my language-obsessed little guy (he has these dictionaries for Spanish and Hebrew, too). He asked us which one of us spoke Italian, and I raised my hand. He asked me to talk to him in Italian, and we wound up doing the entire bedtime routine in Italian. He loved it! And it was amazing to see how quickly he was understanding the things I was asking him to do. Then we settled down and I pointed out words and told him how to say them. It wasn't until later that I realized another possible reason he was so enthusiastic about his Italian Mom: She doesn't yell at him.
Italian--Moms--Yelling. This string of three took me straight back to my shared apartment on Via Aretina, in Florence, spring and summer 1992. My bedroom wall adjoined the kitchen of our neighbors, a family with two young boys. On a regular basis, the mother would be cooking and all of a sudden burst into angry invective at one of her sons (probably the younger one, as wailing would quickly ensue). I would lie in bed feeling awful for the little guy, and wondering how any mother could be so quick to anger at such a young kid.
Signora Vieri, I'm sorry I thought you such a bad, evil mom.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The silly season
As my friend calls it. All the parties, all the treats, all the wrapping paper to be carefully fitted over gifts, then ripped mercilessly off. Jonah's birthday (to be celebrated no fewer than three times, as usual), mine a week before (to be celebrated at all because I planned ahead and got a sitter!), Chanukah, and of course ubiquitous Xmas dopiness enveloping all, whether you wish it to, or not. Yesterday I took Abe to a Chanukah program at Jonah's school, the centerpiece of which was a drum circle for all the kids which told the story of the holiday. Each kid got to sit on a drum and play it. There were enough drums that I could snag one for Abe, who went to town. (Seems I've got TWO Little Drummer Boys... ba rum pa pum pum.)
Last night, Jonah asked to watch some old movies, and by old he means, last year. I queued up one where he was playing with a birthday gift, a wooden pizza set, right after turning 3. Before Abe arrived. What a chubby-faced baby he was! And what hit me like a ton of bricks was my voice in the background, patiently explaining to him how to put the toppings on the pizza, how to use the cutter. I was so sweet, so loving, not even a hint of edge in my voice. So it seems I was a good mom, and then went and had another baby and instantly transformed into a bitchy, impatient, angry one (with some help from Jonah who has inhabited Three-ness to the utmost for the past few months). I waited until after the kids were in bed to think and talk about it, and promptly broke down. I don't think I can stand to watch these movies again until we're past the dark age of 3, which I hope will be very soon.
But I'm not always so horrible. Yesterday I decided to take the kids to the library after the school event, and Jonah managed to walk all the way there and back, so Abe could nap in his little stroller sleeping bag. The vibe there wasn't too bad, considering that after-school hours there mean extra cops on duty in the youth wing. We got to have a snack in the library atrium and read a Richard Scarry book together and then go up to the phone booths on the 3rd floor so Jonah could go in and out of them a hundred times. When we came home, we watched the movies mentioned above, and came across one of Jonah dancing to the Pogues, also a year ago. I decided to put on the same song and watch him dance again, and it was so exciting to see how his movement has changed. He said, "The song is telling me how to dance to it!" How long until this creativity is snuffed out of him? Or can we keep it stoked somehow?
Last night, Jonah asked to watch some old movies, and by old he means, last year. I queued up one where he was playing with a birthday gift, a wooden pizza set, right after turning 3. Before Abe arrived. What a chubby-faced baby he was! And what hit me like a ton of bricks was my voice in the background, patiently explaining to him how to put the toppings on the pizza, how to use the cutter. I was so sweet, so loving, not even a hint of edge in my voice. So it seems I was a good mom, and then went and had another baby and instantly transformed into a bitchy, impatient, angry one (with some help from Jonah who has inhabited Three-ness to the utmost for the past few months). I waited until after the kids were in bed to think and talk about it, and promptly broke down. I don't think I can stand to watch these movies again until we're past the dark age of 3, which I hope will be very soon.
But I'm not always so horrible. Yesterday I decided to take the kids to the library after the school event, and Jonah managed to walk all the way there and back, so Abe could nap in his little stroller sleeping bag. The vibe there wasn't too bad, considering that after-school hours there mean extra cops on duty in the youth wing. We got to have a snack in the library atrium and read a Richard Scarry book together and then go up to the phone booths on the 3rd floor so Jonah could go in and out of them a hundred times. When we came home, we watched the movies mentioned above, and came across one of Jonah dancing to the Pogues, also a year ago. I decided to put on the same song and watch him dance again, and it was so exciting to see how his movement has changed. He said, "The song is telling me how to dance to it!" How long until this creativity is snuffed out of him? Or can we keep it stoked somehow?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Nine months of Abe
Dear, sweet, nap-deprived-due-to-his-brother Abe is nine months old tomorrow. Or as Jonah might like to say, 3/4 years old. And the checkup today showed him gaining weight and inches right on target. And the doctor said he was cute. Does she say that to all the babies? Maybe all the nine month olds?
Nine months is quite the age. I had previously thought six months to be the bee's knees, since that's when sitting up unassisted happens. No, nine months, with its locomotion (emphasis on the loco), long strings of babble, and discovery of FOOD! and DRINK! is really where it's at. We met a boy on the playground today who's the same age as Abe, and even though they look nothing alike, they both have these huge, liquid eyes that you could simply drown in. I could probably spend an entire morning gazing at Abe, kissing his soft cheeks, cooing, examining what food is currently plastered behind his ears, etc.
Except I've been treating my nine month old like a newborn, and that needs to stop. Today at the playground I actually PUT HIM DOWN ON THE GROUND to let him explore. I had never done that before. What the hell is wrong with me?! And now it's soon winter, so it will be too cold for him to do that much longer. But Jonah was a winter baby and somehow learned to walk (except that come spring, he had trouble walking on grass).
Jonah is the best big brother. I could never have imagined such tenderness and love between my two boys. They actually have fun together. Maybe it's the improved sleep, but I am feeling pretty grateful these days. I have two adorable boys, a loving husband who hasn't given up on me yet (six years of marriage next Sunday!), and a plan for what to make for dinner tomorrow.
Nine months is quite the age. I had previously thought six months to be the bee's knees, since that's when sitting up unassisted happens. No, nine months, with its locomotion (emphasis on the loco), long strings of babble, and discovery of FOOD! and DRINK! is really where it's at. We met a boy on the playground today who's the same age as Abe, and even though they look nothing alike, they both have these huge, liquid eyes that you could simply drown in. I could probably spend an entire morning gazing at Abe, kissing his soft cheeks, cooing, examining what food is currently plastered behind his ears, etc.
Except I've been treating my nine month old like a newborn, and that needs to stop. Today at the playground I actually PUT HIM DOWN ON THE GROUND to let him explore. I had never done that before. What the hell is wrong with me?! And now it's soon winter, so it will be too cold for him to do that much longer. But Jonah was a winter baby and somehow learned to walk (except that come spring, he had trouble walking on grass).
Jonah is the best big brother. I could never have imagined such tenderness and love between my two boys. They actually have fun together. Maybe it's the improved sleep, but I am feeling pretty grateful these days. I have two adorable boys, a loving husband who hasn't given up on me yet (six years of marriage next Sunday!), and a plan for what to make for dinner tomorrow.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
It gets better
Maybe I shouldn't be appropriating that phrase (or maybe I should, lest it come to mean only one thing?), because this has nothing to do with coming out as a gay person. This has to do with coming out from under what felt like months (in reality maybe 2.5 weeks?) of very early wakeups from Jonah. 5:45 was starting to seem almost reasonable. 4:15 was starting to become too familiar. The constant was a loud, angry reaction to us telling him it was too early to be awake, and an ensuing wakeup from Abe because of the noise. I typically cursed Jonah silently from my bed and sent more level-headed Josh to hang out with him. We racked our brains trying to figure out the source: Going to bed too early? Too late? Eating too much or not enough? Night light angst? Bad dreams?
Last Wednesday, when he rose for the day at 4:15, I called his teacher at 8:15 to tell her he would not be coming to school that day. Embarrassingly, I broke down on the phone while speaking to her. And then, a half hour later, showed up to drop Jonah off to school. I'm not sure what I was thinking, threatening him with not going to school. He didn't really seem to care, he was so zonked. I thought maybe I could take him to the pediatrician, but when I called the office I just didn't have the nerve to say I needed him seen due to lack of sleep. Instead I left a message for a call back. And flipped through Ferber, anxious to find the missing chapter that would explain what was happening here. And couldn't nap myself, because I was on pins and needles, wondering when I'd get the call saying that Jonah needed picking up.
But somehow, he made it through the day. He was up from 4:15 a.m. to 7:30 p.m., without a nap. He was well-behaved at school. He was just really fucking sleepy.
The pediatrician called me that night. The one I tend to not like as much, being that she is rather gruff. I laid out the situation for her (she in disbelief that Jonah goes to school from 9-3, 5 days a week, like I was torturing him or something), and she said without hesitation, "He misses you. He's trying to get back some of the time with you that the baby gets now." Funny, my own mother said something along those lines when she visited a month ago. And I dissed her for it. Hearing it from someone other than my mother, I was more inclined to listen - just as when I struck out on my own in my early 20s and saw a dentist that had not been taking care of my teeth since I was 4, and he told me it was important to floss, I listened, and have flossed ever since. (For the record, the kinder, gentler pediatrician called back the next morning. She only wanted to talk Ferber, Ferber, Ferber. Go figure.)
Wednesday night I gave Jonah a bath (something I stopped doing when pregnancy made it too uncomfortable, and have continued not doing due to laziness). I read to him before bed. When he woke up at midnight, I took him back to bed and read to him again until he fell asleep. He woke at 5:45 and I got up with him. Thursday night, the same routine, no wakeup at midnight. I was up from 5 a.m. waiting to hear him, and he didn't wake up until 6:40. Same thing last night. I am so hopeful we have broken this bad cycle - stolen the seat, trashed the spokes, shredded the tires.
By way of showing me what is to be reaped when I sow extra time-seeds with my primogenito, Jonah did two amazing things today: drew the first stick figure we've seen him draw, on a birthday card for a friend (because it was a girl, he dispensed with his usual rollercoaster/train/truck mashup, and drew a princess for her), and even signed his name, after a fashion. Tonight, he sat at the computer for his usual post-dinner complement of Sesame Street clips on YouTube, then howled when I turned off the monitor, because he'd wanted to do some typing. I opened the multipage document we've been saving his typing to since he first started at the keyboard (age 2.5), expecting another long stream of binary or machine language. Instead, he wanted to spell words. He started with his first name, then his last name, then the name of a friend, then Abe, and finally (with assistance for the "au"), dinosaur. He sounded out the letters, located them on the keyboard, typed them. He can't quite read, but can type? It's blowing my mind.
Abe, not to be outdone, is cutting his two front top teeth at the same time. So Ferber is out the window lately.
Last Wednesday, when he rose for the day at 4:15, I called his teacher at 8:15 to tell her he would not be coming to school that day. Embarrassingly, I broke down on the phone while speaking to her. And then, a half hour later, showed up to drop Jonah off to school. I'm not sure what I was thinking, threatening him with not going to school. He didn't really seem to care, he was so zonked. I thought maybe I could take him to the pediatrician, but when I called the office I just didn't have the nerve to say I needed him seen due to lack of sleep. Instead I left a message for a call back. And flipped through Ferber, anxious to find the missing chapter that would explain what was happening here. And couldn't nap myself, because I was on pins and needles, wondering when I'd get the call saying that Jonah needed picking up.
But somehow, he made it through the day. He was up from 4:15 a.m. to 7:30 p.m., without a nap. He was well-behaved at school. He was just really fucking sleepy.
The pediatrician called me that night. The one I tend to not like as much, being that she is rather gruff. I laid out the situation for her (she in disbelief that Jonah goes to school from 9-3, 5 days a week, like I was torturing him or something), and she said without hesitation, "He misses you. He's trying to get back some of the time with you that the baby gets now." Funny, my own mother said something along those lines when she visited a month ago. And I dissed her for it. Hearing it from someone other than my mother, I was more inclined to listen - just as when I struck out on my own in my early 20s and saw a dentist that had not been taking care of my teeth since I was 4, and he told me it was important to floss, I listened, and have flossed ever since. (For the record, the kinder, gentler pediatrician called back the next morning. She only wanted to talk Ferber, Ferber, Ferber. Go figure.)
Wednesday night I gave Jonah a bath (something I stopped doing when pregnancy made it too uncomfortable, and have continued not doing due to laziness). I read to him before bed. When he woke up at midnight, I took him back to bed and read to him again until he fell asleep. He woke at 5:45 and I got up with him. Thursday night, the same routine, no wakeup at midnight. I was up from 5 a.m. waiting to hear him, and he didn't wake up until 6:40. Same thing last night. I am so hopeful we have broken this bad cycle - stolen the seat, trashed the spokes, shredded the tires.
By way of showing me what is to be reaped when I sow extra time-seeds with my primogenito, Jonah did two amazing things today: drew the first stick figure we've seen him draw, on a birthday card for a friend (because it was a girl, he dispensed with his usual rollercoaster/train/truck mashup, and drew a princess for her), and even signed his name, after a fashion. Tonight, he sat at the computer for his usual post-dinner complement of Sesame Street clips on YouTube, then howled when I turned off the monitor, because he'd wanted to do some typing. I opened the multipage document we've been saving his typing to since he first started at the keyboard (age 2.5), expecting another long stream of binary or machine language. Instead, he wanted to spell words. He started with his first name, then his last name, then the name of a friend, then Abe, and finally (with assistance for the "au"), dinosaur. He sounded out the letters, located them on the keyboard, typed them. He can't quite read, but can type? It's blowing my mind.
Abe, not to be outdone, is cutting his two front top teeth at the same time. So Ferber is out the window lately.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Warming trend
The sun has broken through!
Jonah up at 5:40 today, saying Abe woke him up (well, he was crying, that is true). But strangely, it was a good morning. I tried to get Jonah to sleep more in my bed, and while the snuggle was welcome, he couldn't stop looking out the window. I released him to join Daddy and Abe. When I stumbled in at 7:15, I found a placid scene. Later, Jonah even dressed himself without my needing to be in the room. He was so proud when he came out, fully dressed, with only his shirt on backwards.
Yesterday at school he earned all four stickers on his rest time sticker chart, making me very proud of him indeed. I am starting to believe rest time makes him anxious, though, and it turns out about 80% of the class isn't actually resting, so I hope the teachers are going to make a change to the routine soon.
I'm sure that his name being called at the end of rest time is all he can think about, on his folding cot, in that penumbral classroom. I wish I could magically insinuate myself into the room, enfold him in my arms, and let him surrender to his exhaustion. But then, who am I kidding? I couldn't do that this morning, when it was actually me there, in bed, trying to get him to sleep. No, he is going to have to ride this one out himself.
Jonah up at 5:40 today, saying Abe woke him up (well, he was crying, that is true). But strangely, it was a good morning. I tried to get Jonah to sleep more in my bed, and while the snuggle was welcome, he couldn't stop looking out the window. I released him to join Daddy and Abe. When I stumbled in at 7:15, I found a placid scene. Later, Jonah even dressed himself without my needing to be in the room. He was so proud when he came out, fully dressed, with only his shirt on backwards.
Yesterday at school he earned all four stickers on his rest time sticker chart, making me very proud of him indeed. I am starting to believe rest time makes him anxious, though, and it turns out about 80% of the class isn't actually resting, so I hope the teachers are going to make a change to the routine soon.
I'm sure that his name being called at the end of rest time is all he can think about, on his folding cot, in that penumbral classroom. I wish I could magically insinuate myself into the room, enfold him in my arms, and let him surrender to his exhaustion. But then, who am I kidding? I couldn't do that this morning, when it was actually me there, in bed, trying to get him to sleep. No, he is going to have to ride this one out himself.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Dispatch
Abe now says, "Mama." And he seemed to understand that we were seeing real animals at the zoo today which are the same ones he sees in his picture book at night.
At the nearly-deserted barn, the cow mooed suddenly, loudly, scaring the crap out of us. Jonah bolted, yelling, "We've got to get out of here!!!!"
So, what about this? I try to go for one day without being the cause (or one of the causes) of my son's misery. It seems so simple. Tomorrow, at school, his teachers are going to work together to try to figure out why he can't rest during rest time. Ummm, because he's afraid Mama hates him? I hope that's not it. Tonight I asked him why he thought he could not just rest, and he said, "Because I don't know how long I have to rest before the teacher says, 'It's time to get your shoes on. Rest time is over.' "
At the nearly-deserted barn, the cow mooed suddenly, loudly, scaring the crap out of us. Jonah bolted, yelling, "We've got to get out of here!!!!"
So, what about this? I try to go for one day without being the cause (or one of the causes) of my son's misery. It seems so simple. Tomorrow, at school, his teachers are going to work together to try to figure out why he can't rest during rest time. Ummm, because he's afraid Mama hates him? I hope that's not it. Tonight I asked him why he thought he could not just rest, and he said, "Because I don't know how long I have to rest before the teacher says, 'It's time to get your shoes on. Rest time is over.' "
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Micropost
I think perhaps way back when I started this blog I meant for it to be more terse and um, lyrical? Less pedestrian and angsty? But somewhere along the way I stopped writing in my pen and paper journal as frequently, and all the angst has transferred over here. I want to do a little better. Yesterday:
- Snuggling in bed with Jonah who was tired after waking too early. "I'm going to tell you a story," I said. Creation. God created light, and then water and trees, then (said Jonah) "cows and sheeps." And then, somewhere in there, He found time to make bubble wrap. And it was good.
- A visit to the barge in Red Hook, where Jonah dealt quite well with the fact that he was the only kid aboard, so the barge owner was not going to do a juggling show this time. Abe sat on an oriental rug on the old plank floor and bounced up and down while the waves gently rocked. The smells of old wood, fishiness, history. The owner rang every nautical bell he had for us: a dinner bell, a showboat bell, a trawler bell.
- Dinner with grownups! An old friend of Josh's and his lovely girlfriend, the nicest one he's had in a while, we hope she's a keeper. Good red wine (with no red wine headache), lots of belly laughs, pie for dessert. Before eating we had to go and put the kids to bed, but it didn't take more than 30 minutes (possibly even 20).
- I slept on the couch again (sleep training, phase II) and was awakened at 4 a.m. not by crying but by a loud argument outside on the street. I tried to watch without being seen - it was fascinating watching the two men nearly escalate to violence and then rein themselves in, get louder, then quiet themselves almost to stage whispers. I finally gave up on them and went to sleep in bed. No police tape outside today, so I guess they sobered up and moved on.
- Snuggling in bed with Jonah who was tired after waking too early. "I'm going to tell you a story," I said. Creation. God created light, and then water and trees, then (said Jonah) "cows and sheeps." And then, somewhere in there, He found time to make bubble wrap. And it was good.
- A visit to the barge in Red Hook, where Jonah dealt quite well with the fact that he was the only kid aboard, so the barge owner was not going to do a juggling show this time. Abe sat on an oriental rug on the old plank floor and bounced up and down while the waves gently rocked. The smells of old wood, fishiness, history. The owner rang every nautical bell he had for us: a dinner bell, a showboat bell, a trawler bell.
- Dinner with grownups! An old friend of Josh's and his lovely girlfriend, the nicest one he's had in a while, we hope she's a keeper. Good red wine (with no red wine headache), lots of belly laughs, pie for dessert. Before eating we had to go and put the kids to bed, but it didn't take more than 30 minutes (possibly even 20).
- I slept on the couch again (sleep training, phase II) and was awakened at 4 a.m. not by crying but by a loud argument outside on the street. I tried to watch without being seen - it was fascinating watching the two men nearly escalate to violence and then rein themselves in, get louder, then quiet themselves almost to stage whispers. I finally gave up on them and went to sleep in bed. No police tape outside today, so I guess they sobered up and moved on.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Better
After having a foundation-shaking crisis of confidence in my mothering skills yesterday, one necessitating a nearly half-hour long phone conversation with Josh punctuated by long silences, I did Jonah a good turn today. Due to a strange turn of sleeping habits (Abe is back in the crap sleep zone, and we must re-sleep train him starting tonight, now that he is in the big crib), Abe was up at 5 and wouldn't nurse back to sleep. I was mortally afraid Jonah would be wakened by Abe's crying and decide to get up to watch the clock turn color - again - I had Josh take him to the living room. Then I slept for just over an hour before Jonah woke up for the day. And since Abe was now asleep again, on Josh, it fell to me to keep Jonah company, something I haven't done in the morning for ages and ages.
The first thing I observed was that he was being very anti-social - either burying himself in books or lying down on the floor to play. I decided to make it clear to him that if he's up, he needs to interact with me - and, more subtly, that if he's too tired, he should go back to bed. It took some doing, but I managed to get him to help me empty the dishwasher (something he used to jump up to do without asking), and decide on something new to eat for breakfast (he shunned blueberry yogurt but did eat a bowl of dry Cheerios and a banana).
Since that had gone well, and since (after some prodding) he dressed himself, I decided he might be ready to try a new workbook I bought him, which is for learning to cut with scissors. I hadn't the faintest clue how to show him to hold the scissors, so every time he took them off his hand he'd forget how to get them back on (and I had to keep checking my own hand to see how to explain it). A few times I thought we might have to stop, as he was fidgeting so much. Eventually, he managed to get through not one, but two pages of cutting exercises. When he started cutting a fairly straight line across the first page, I was so excited I was almost shouting, egging him on. He was beaming with his achievement. He took that first completed page to school for show and tell.
Just a quarter-turn in one direction or the other produces such a radically different effect, both on a gas stove and on my big boy. That's the Zen lesson for today, neatly packaged in a white cardboard take-out container. Now to prepare for my night on the couch, hopefully free of the intimations of mortality that the last round of sleep training provoked...
The first thing I observed was that he was being very anti-social - either burying himself in books or lying down on the floor to play. I decided to make it clear to him that if he's up, he needs to interact with me - and, more subtly, that if he's too tired, he should go back to bed. It took some doing, but I managed to get him to help me empty the dishwasher (something he used to jump up to do without asking), and decide on something new to eat for breakfast (he shunned blueberry yogurt but did eat a bowl of dry Cheerios and a banana).
Since that had gone well, and since (after some prodding) he dressed himself, I decided he might be ready to try a new workbook I bought him, which is for learning to cut with scissors. I hadn't the faintest clue how to show him to hold the scissors, so every time he took them off his hand he'd forget how to get them back on (and I had to keep checking my own hand to see how to explain it). A few times I thought we might have to stop, as he was fidgeting so much. Eventually, he managed to get through not one, but two pages of cutting exercises. When he started cutting a fairly straight line across the first page, I was so excited I was almost shouting, egging him on. He was beaming with his achievement. He took that first completed page to school for show and tell.
Just a quarter-turn in one direction or the other produces such a radically different effect, both on a gas stove and on my big boy. That's the Zen lesson for today, neatly packaged in a white cardboard take-out container. Now to prepare for my night on the couch, hopefully free of the intimations of mortality that the last round of sleep training provoked...
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