I peed in front of a perfect stranger the other day. It wasn't my fault. It was Ethan's.
Actually, it was partly my fault. I had been drinking coffee all morning and running errands. By the time I found parking it was already a code red situation. I still had to get the baby out of the car seat, grab the books I was taking to the bookshop, and walk the block and a half to the bookshop.
I made it to the shop. There is only one toilet in this place. It's not like you walk through a heavy outer door especially for women then once inside choose an enclosed stall. This place has just a little bathroom adjacent to an open area. It's a door that you go through and inside there's a sink and a toilet. Like in your house. Thank god the bathroom was free. I cannot imagine (okay, I just did. Agh!!) how much worse this could have been if someone else had been in there. No amount of kegels after pregnancy and birth could have repaired my pelvic floor well enough to give me another 30 seconds. I had to go RIGHT NOW.
I entered the windowless bathroom with Ethan. The light was broken. The reason the light was broken is because Ethan and I had broken it the week before. It's one of those naked lightbulbs in the middle of the ceiling with a chain that hangs down. You pull the chain to turn the light on and off. I let Ethan pull it last week. He baredly tugged on it but the damn thing still came clear off. Oops.
So I left the door open a sliver lest we be plunged into total darkness, put Ethan down, and sat. Ethan promptly pulled the door wide open and ran out into the bookshop.
ETHAN! I yelled. And then Sooorry to the clerk, who had the unfortunate view of my perch.
There was nothing I could do. I certainly couldn't stop. I couldn't reach the door. So I just went right on peeing in full view of anyone who dared to be in the bookshop at the time. Gratefully, it was just the clerk and my wild boy.
When I came out I told the clerk, uhh, the light's broken in there.
Yeah, she answered, some woman came in last week and yanked it really hard.
Lies!! I thought. That ridiculous light was decrepit when we found it! But I kept this to myself.
Then I sold my books and read Ethan a huge truck book half his size that he brought over to me with both hands. I walked out of there holding Ethan's hand like nothing had happened. Who needs modesty?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Excuse me, mama, while I kiss the sky
Parenting in San Francisco definitely has its perks. One of them is the abundance of very cool places to play. Although our urban playgrounds may be bound by metal fences and bordered by busy streets, they tend to have just enough green to soften the city's concrete landscape. Somehow nature creeps in. Ethan and I found ourselves surrounded by natural beauty the other day at the Upper Noe playground.
This playground is new and well attended by kids Ethan's age. It has a sand circle, a play structure with slides of varying heights, and swings. It also has a wild, spinning, Christmas-tree looking thing that Ethan L-O-V-E-S.
The Christmas-tree thing is just a big cone. It has a wide round platform on the bottom with a tall pole stuck through the middle. Spider-webby ropes string up from the outside rim of the platform to the top of the pole. Big kids monkey up the outside of the ropes while the thing is spinning. Little ones like Ethan have to wait for it to stop. Then they crawl through the rope on the bottom and enjoy the circular ride. Sometimes Ethan gets up and runs in the direction opposite of the spin. I think he might knock himself out colliding with another kid or that the centripetal force of the thing will send him shooting out of the ropes. It makes me nervous. So while he's in it I run along outside like a tethered pony in a ring, but not really like a pony because I trip around and around and around sideways so I can be ready to catch Ethan if he actually takes flight. I guess that's more like a galloping crab. With arms. Not only does this look as ridiculous as it sounds, it totally annoys the bigger kids who wish I would get out of the way so they can scrabble off and on at will.
Ethan tried a little bit of everything that day. He spent a few minutes in the swing, just enough time in the sand to ensure gobs of it would later end up in the stroller, and he took a few daring twirls on the Christmas tree until he was too embarrassed by his mother, I'm sure, to continue. He also enjoyed hanging from the monkey bars for as long as my biceps could take it.
Then he took to chasing pigeons. I followed him until he tried to climb under a bench after a bird. At that point I caught him up. I sat down and he stood on my lap, facing me.
Across from us there was a line of eucalyptus trees bordering the playground. They smelled good. As a gentle wind came through they made a lovely rustle. There was a young tree behind us. I don't know what kind of tree it was, but its pliable limbs stretched out close to our heads. Late afternoon sun glimmered between the low, bright green leaves. I imagined I could smell the fresh oxygen coming from the tree - it was like inhaling mountain air.
Ethan seemed to sense my ephemeral drift away from urban playground into the natural. He lifted his face upward, letting the leaves caress his cheeks. He smiled open-mouthed. I could see the sweet pink ridges of his palat and his new round teeth like little pearls budding behind his lip.
He reached his arms to the sides and up, touching the leaves. I held him by his little hips. He glanced down at me as if to say excuse me, mama. Then he tipped back again. He extended up as his whole being expressed while I kiss the sky.
This playground is new and well attended by kids Ethan's age. It has a sand circle, a play structure with slides of varying heights, and swings. It also has a wild, spinning, Christmas-tree looking thing that Ethan L-O-V-E-S.
The Christmas-tree thing is just a big cone. It has a wide round platform on the bottom with a tall pole stuck through the middle. Spider-webby ropes string up from the outside rim of the platform to the top of the pole. Big kids monkey up the outside of the ropes while the thing is spinning. Little ones like Ethan have to wait for it to stop. Then they crawl through the rope on the bottom and enjoy the circular ride. Sometimes Ethan gets up and runs in the direction opposite of the spin. I think he might knock himself out colliding with another kid or that the centripetal force of the thing will send him shooting out of the ropes. It makes me nervous. So while he's in it I run along outside like a tethered pony in a ring, but not really like a pony because I trip around and around and around sideways so I can be ready to catch Ethan if he actually takes flight. I guess that's more like a galloping crab. With arms. Not only does this look as ridiculous as it sounds, it totally annoys the bigger kids who wish I would get out of the way so they can scrabble off and on at will.
Ethan tried a little bit of everything that day. He spent a few minutes in the swing, just enough time in the sand to ensure gobs of it would later end up in the stroller, and he took a few daring twirls on the Christmas tree until he was too embarrassed by his mother, I'm sure, to continue. He also enjoyed hanging from the monkey bars for as long as my biceps could take it.
Then he took to chasing pigeons. I followed him until he tried to climb under a bench after a bird. At that point I caught him up. I sat down and he stood on my lap, facing me.
Across from us there was a line of eucalyptus trees bordering the playground. They smelled good. As a gentle wind came through they made a lovely rustle. There was a young tree behind us. I don't know what kind of tree it was, but its pliable limbs stretched out close to our heads. Late afternoon sun glimmered between the low, bright green leaves. I imagined I could smell the fresh oxygen coming from the tree - it was like inhaling mountain air.
Ethan seemed to sense my ephemeral drift away from urban playground into the natural. He lifted his face upward, letting the leaves caress his cheeks. He smiled open-mouthed. I could see the sweet pink ridges of his palat and his new round teeth like little pearls budding behind his lip.
He reached his arms to the sides and up, touching the leaves. I held him by his little hips. He glanced down at me as if to say excuse me, mama. Then he tipped back again. He extended up as his whole being expressed while I kiss the sky.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
I thought I broke my kid in three places
Ethan fell on his head yesterday. We were rough-housing on my bed. I usually throw him into the pillows, leave him in the middle while I run away and then full-speed run back and pounce on him. I chuck pillows at him. I lift him with my legs to do airplane. I swing him upside-down by his feet.
He yells. He giggles crazily. He throws himself into me and onto the bed. He bounces and loses his balance, little feet flying up above his body.
He loves it. I love it. We are like rambunctious puppies, spilling over each other. The wish for rough and tumble play was one of the reasons why I not-so-secretly wished for a boy when I was pregnant.
But yesterday he actually fell off the side. The top of my bed is a good two and a half feet off the ground. Ethan dove off. He was just barely outside of my reach. I missed him. I did not exactly see how he landed, but it must have been squarely on his head. He looked stunned and contorted on the ground. I thought I had broken my child in three places.
It looked like both his shoulders had been dislocated and I was terrified that his neck had been injured. Thankfully he screamed loudly right away. I consider that a good thing. I have no idea whether there are any medical grounds for this, but I think a head injury can't be that bad if the kid reacts to the pain quickly. It would be trouble, on the other hand, if he were too dazed to cry.
Oh. And by the way, my mother-in-law had witnessed the whole thing. Don't get me wrong, I love her. She's wonderful. But no mama ever wants her mother-in-law to see her as Bad Parent. Good Parents tell their kids no jumping on the bed!
I yell Bonsai! as I drop onto Ethan like a wrestler leaping off of the ropes onto a worthy opponent. Bad Parent.
As I pumped Ethan's arms and elbows, checking them for damage, held his neck, touched his back and head, asked him where it hurt, I was genuinely scared. But I was also mortified that I had been caught in the Bad Parent act. Even as the day wore on and my concern for Ethan's possible concussion waned, my fear of being judged as reckless continued. Later on the playground, as I watched nannies carefully handle their charges I thought, really, I would be fired if I ever tried to be a nanny. I imagined having to tell a potential parent-employer why I lost my last job. Dropped him on his head. No biggie.
I wonder if Ethan is safer with his nanny than with me. I wonder if I should be happy about that, or if I truly need to improve my parenting skills.
He yells. He giggles crazily. He throws himself into me and onto the bed. He bounces and loses his balance, little feet flying up above his body.
He loves it. I love it. We are like rambunctious puppies, spilling over each other. The wish for rough and tumble play was one of the reasons why I not-so-secretly wished for a boy when I was pregnant.
But yesterday he actually fell off the side. The top of my bed is a good two and a half feet off the ground. Ethan dove off. He was just barely outside of my reach. I missed him. I did not exactly see how he landed, but it must have been squarely on his head. He looked stunned and contorted on the ground. I thought I had broken my child in three places.
It looked like both his shoulders had been dislocated and I was terrified that his neck had been injured. Thankfully he screamed loudly right away. I consider that a good thing. I have no idea whether there are any medical grounds for this, but I think a head injury can't be that bad if the kid reacts to the pain quickly. It would be trouble, on the other hand, if he were too dazed to cry.
Oh. And by the way, my mother-in-law had witnessed the whole thing. Don't get me wrong, I love her. She's wonderful. But no mama ever wants her mother-in-law to see her as Bad Parent. Good Parents tell their kids no jumping on the bed!
I yell Bonsai! as I drop onto Ethan like a wrestler leaping off of the ropes onto a worthy opponent. Bad Parent.
As I pumped Ethan's arms and elbows, checking them for damage, held his neck, touched his back and head, asked him where it hurt, I was genuinely scared. But I was also mortified that I had been caught in the Bad Parent act. Even as the day wore on and my concern for Ethan's possible concussion waned, my fear of being judged as reckless continued. Later on the playground, as I watched nannies carefully handle their charges I thought, really, I would be fired if I ever tried to be a nanny. I imagined having to tell a potential parent-employer why I lost my last job. Dropped him on his head. No biggie.
I wonder if Ethan is safer with his nanny than with me. I wonder if I should be happy about that, or if I truly need to improve my parenting skills.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I want to look not old
Last month I attended a fundraising event at Blossom Birth, a little resource center that helps men and women transition into parenthood. The event was all about pampering moms and moms-to-be with mini spa services like aromatherapy, massage, and make-up. Having not slept for longer than 3 or so hours at a time for nearly a year, I needed a lot more than pampering. But it was a start. I signed up for as many services as I could get.
I want to look not old, I said to the pretty girl at the make-up table. She wore purple eye shadows of different shades from the bottom of her eyelids all the way to her brows. She was maybe 20-years-old. She had bright brown eyes and shiny dark hair. Her skin was flawless. She had on a little black outfit with difficult stilettos. She sort of tottered and shuffled around, unable to walk from heel to toe.
She half-laughed at my request, uneasy with what I had tasked her with. I imagined she thought something like, lady, there’s nothing I can do about your being old.
Instead of addressing my needs head-on, she apparently fell back on her trusty color scheme and asked, How do you feel about purple?
I feel fine about it, I replied. Why not? I thought. It might make me look not old.
Pretty in Purple went to work on me. Eye liner. Shadow. More shadow. More shadow. And ten minutes later, voila! She gave me the mirror.
Here’s the sad truth, I really had expected some sort of change. A mask to hide my mama fatigue, my years in the sun without sunscreen, and my serious caffeine consumption. Instead it looked like my eyes were afraid of the rest of my face and were trying to take flight. I had distinct, groovy purple wings swooshing out from my eyelids.
It looks pretty, Purple said.
Mmmmm, I nodded politely. I looked ridiculous, but I thanked her anyway. In her own way, she had done what I had asked her to do. I definitely looked too weird to look old.
Afterwards, my weird, winged-eyes and I mingled among the other mamas. No one said anything about my daring new make-up. I didn't know whether they were quiet out of kindness or horror, but I no longer cared about what they might think. I was feeling grateful for the chance to feel good and different. I had an artist paint a mendhi flower on my hand. I sipped too much coffee. I ate one of those monster chocolate chip cookies. I visited with old friends and met some new ones. I had a great time.
By the end of the afternoon, I was relaxed and happy. It felt so good to care for myself. As silly as it sounds, the purple wings around my eyes somehow lifted my spirit, even if they had not turned back the clock.
I want to look not old, I said to the pretty girl at the make-up table. She wore purple eye shadows of different shades from the bottom of her eyelids all the way to her brows. She was maybe 20-years-old. She had bright brown eyes and shiny dark hair. Her skin was flawless. She had on a little black outfit with difficult stilettos. She sort of tottered and shuffled around, unable to walk from heel to toe.
She half-laughed at my request, uneasy with what I had tasked her with. I imagined she thought something like, lady, there’s nothing I can do about your being old.
Instead of addressing my needs head-on, she apparently fell back on her trusty color scheme and asked, How do you feel about purple?
I feel fine about it, I replied. Why not? I thought. It might make me look not old.
Pretty in Purple went to work on me. Eye liner. Shadow. More shadow. More shadow. And ten minutes later, voila! She gave me the mirror.
Here’s the sad truth, I really had expected some sort of change. A mask to hide my mama fatigue, my years in the sun without sunscreen, and my serious caffeine consumption. Instead it looked like my eyes were afraid of the rest of my face and were trying to take flight. I had distinct, groovy purple wings swooshing out from my eyelids.
It looks pretty, Purple said.
Mmmmm, I nodded politely. I looked ridiculous, but I thanked her anyway. In her own way, she had done what I had asked her to do. I definitely looked too weird to look old.
Afterwards, my weird, winged-eyes and I mingled among the other mamas. No one said anything about my daring new make-up. I didn't know whether they were quiet out of kindness or horror, but I no longer cared about what they might think. I was feeling grateful for the chance to feel good and different. I had an artist paint a mendhi flower on my hand. I sipped too much coffee. I ate one of those monster chocolate chip cookies. I visited with old friends and met some new ones. I had a great time.
By the end of the afternoon, I was relaxed and happy. It felt so good to care for myself. As silly as it sounds, the purple wings around my eyes somehow lifted my spirit, even if they had not turned back the clock.
Friday, June 12, 2009
A poem about Saturdays
My son will wake me early
wanting his milk and cuddle.
I’ll hold him then we’ll stroll
down to the market
in the spare lot.
He’ll chomp on pluots, tomatoes,
and apricots, his favorite.
Using his 7 little teeth.
Juice running down his chin.
We’ll buy fresh eggs, lemon basil,
red and white carrots. Strawberries.
Maybe some chard.
I will eat a scone.
Sweet, crumbling, filling me.
Give my son a taste
as he toddles through the stalls.
Walking home. Uphill.
He sleeps. I sweat.
Hoping this activity
balances my proclivity
for eating pastries.
Swim lessons are next.
Daddy with the baby.
Me in the big pool
back and forth
back and forth
breathing left
right
left
right
then it is time to help Daddy
with the wet baby in the swim diaper.
Back home I can rest.
Or prep vegetables.
And dream of someday having
a Kitchen Aid
to keep alongside
my Dustbuster.
wanting his milk and cuddle.
I’ll hold him then we’ll stroll
down to the market
in the spare lot.
He’ll chomp on pluots, tomatoes,
and apricots, his favorite.
Using his 7 little teeth.
Juice running down his chin.
We’ll buy fresh eggs, lemon basil,
red and white carrots. Strawberries.
Maybe some chard.
I will eat a scone.
Sweet, crumbling, filling me.
Give my son a taste
as he toddles through the stalls.
Walking home. Uphill.
He sleeps. I sweat.
Hoping this activity
balances my proclivity
for eating pastries.
Swim lessons are next.
Daddy with the baby.
Me in the big pool
back and forth
back and forth
breathing left
right
left
right
then it is time to help Daddy
with the wet baby in the swim diaper.
Back home I can rest.
Or prep vegetables.
And dream of someday having
a Kitchen Aid
to keep alongside
my Dustbuster.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Books and Bites
The day I was back in a law library, I was so happy. It was quiet. I had a sturdy chair. I sat behind a desk and could see stacks and stacks of multi-colored books with bold titles on their spines. I was so calm. The books made it seem possible to control damn near anything! It felt like I could boil any problem down to its smallest parts and then follow the steps to solve the whole of it. There were answers.
The big books chunked life into digestible pieces. CONSENT TO TREATMENT, a practical guide. SPORTS LAW PRACTICE. LABOR LAW – BASIC TEXT. I felt grabby. I wanted to pull the books off the shelves with my whole arms and have them. I wanted to lay them open, each book overlapping the next, and reference and cross-reference. I wanted to inhale the information. Internalize it. Have it at my ready disposal so I am never unprepared.
The boundaries were so clear. The carrels marked proper study spots. Beyond the front desk was the space for Art Law. Land Use belonged in the next aisle, next to Gender, Justice & Law. It felt like I was where I was supposed to be. And everything else was too.
In my daily life outside of law libraries – way outside of them, so far away from them in mind and body that I wonder how the attorney part of me can continue to exist – there is so little order. Instead, my darling, love-of-my-life child colors my world with smashed bananas and randomly placed Cherrios. He twirls in loopy orbits and flaps one arm like a chicken wing for good effect. He pulls me. On my hair, on my thoughts, on my heart. He holds on, holds on, holds on to me tightly so I do not put him down. He is in constant motion, climbing up and climbing down, yanking clothes from drawers and heaping them into piles, scattering clattering kitchen utensils on the floor. He drops drumsticks in the bathtub and phones in the trash. He takes laundry out of the laundry basket and puts himself in.
Despite my son’s comfort with the chaos, I am rocked by the unpredictability. I feel entirely unprepared to parent well. No matter how many parenting books and articles I read, I can’t find the Good Parent answers. Boundaries are smudged away by sticky handies.
Today Ethan and I were in a different kind of library, listening as a librarian read about Maisy’s Nature Walk and other toddler tales. Afterwards the little kids tripped around the room, clambering up chairs and onto book shelves. Ethan played with the spring lid on the trash can. I thought about stopping him, but then engaged in chat with a parent on the other side of me. I took my eyes off my son. As I did, a bigger kid bit Ethan hard. Really hard. This kid looked like he was younger, unable to express frustration or control his impulses, but huge for his age. He towered (and teetered) over the other kids like a baby Andre the Giant.
The teeth marks were deep and purple in my son’s skin. I was shocked by the damage. How did that kid have so many teeth?! It was like Ethan had been chewed by a bear. Another mother commented that I should have him checked for rabies!
Ethan was hurt. I was so upset. Andre’s mother apologized sincerely. I said, “it happens” as I hurried my son into the bathroom. His skin was unbroken, but I gave his arm a lengthy washing.
I should have protected you from that big kid, I said to him. I’m so sorry. I should have known he might hurt you. I wasn’t watching when I needed to. I let you play with a trashcan for chrissake.
I think I did the right thing by letting Andre’s mom off the hook. Little kids bite. They hit too. It happens. But where are the proper boundaries? Part of me wishes that I had stood up for my son. I really hope that when it counts I can give the offending child’s parent hell. I am, after all, a lawyer even if I spend most of time reading books like Thomas the Tank Engine in a library very different from the legal kind.
The big books chunked life into digestible pieces. CONSENT TO TREATMENT, a practical guide. SPORTS LAW PRACTICE. LABOR LAW – BASIC TEXT. I felt grabby. I wanted to pull the books off the shelves with my whole arms and have them. I wanted to lay them open, each book overlapping the next, and reference and cross-reference. I wanted to inhale the information. Internalize it. Have it at my ready disposal so I am never unprepared.
The boundaries were so clear. The carrels marked proper study spots. Beyond the front desk was the space for Art Law. Land Use belonged in the next aisle, next to Gender, Justice & Law. It felt like I was where I was supposed to be. And everything else was too.
In my daily life outside of law libraries – way outside of them, so far away from them in mind and body that I wonder how the attorney part of me can continue to exist – there is so little order. Instead, my darling, love-of-my-life child colors my world with smashed bananas and randomly placed Cherrios. He twirls in loopy orbits and flaps one arm like a chicken wing for good effect. He pulls me. On my hair, on my thoughts, on my heart. He holds on, holds on, holds on to me tightly so I do not put him down. He is in constant motion, climbing up and climbing down, yanking clothes from drawers and heaping them into piles, scattering clattering kitchen utensils on the floor. He drops drumsticks in the bathtub and phones in the trash. He takes laundry out of the laundry basket and puts himself in.
Despite my son’s comfort with the chaos, I am rocked by the unpredictability. I feel entirely unprepared to parent well. No matter how many parenting books and articles I read, I can’t find the Good Parent answers. Boundaries are smudged away by sticky handies.
Today Ethan and I were in a different kind of library, listening as a librarian read about Maisy’s Nature Walk and other toddler tales. Afterwards the little kids tripped around the room, clambering up chairs and onto book shelves. Ethan played with the spring lid on the trash can. I thought about stopping him, but then engaged in chat with a parent on the other side of me. I took my eyes off my son. As I did, a bigger kid bit Ethan hard. Really hard. This kid looked like he was younger, unable to express frustration or control his impulses, but huge for his age. He towered (and teetered) over the other kids like a baby Andre the Giant.
The teeth marks were deep and purple in my son’s skin. I was shocked by the damage. How did that kid have so many teeth?! It was like Ethan had been chewed by a bear. Another mother commented that I should have him checked for rabies!
Ethan was hurt. I was so upset. Andre’s mother apologized sincerely. I said, “it happens” as I hurried my son into the bathroom. His skin was unbroken, but I gave his arm a lengthy washing.
I should have protected you from that big kid, I said to him. I’m so sorry. I should have known he might hurt you. I wasn’t watching when I needed to. I let you play with a trashcan for chrissake.
I think I did the right thing by letting Andre’s mom off the hook. Little kids bite. They hit too. It happens. But where are the proper boundaries? Part of me wishes that I had stood up for my son. I really hope that when it counts I can give the offending child’s parent hell. I am, after all, a lawyer even if I spend most of time reading books like Thomas the Tank Engine in a library very different from the legal kind.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Messiest. Day. Ever.
I expected parenthood to be messy. Messy diapers. Spit up. Spills and leaky sippy cups. I have learned to accept most of the messes associated with caring for my young son. Sometimes, however, I am overwhelmed by the sheer volume and constancy of them. Today was one of those overwhelming days.
Adding to the usual messiness, I have decided to start potty training my son. It is unconventional in the U.S. to start potty training at thirteen months. Still, it is not unheard of. Early potty training is common in places around the world where the expense of diapers lends itself to getting children out of them more quickly. I don't particularly like diapers. So I would like to be done with them soon. Ethan may have a different plan in mind.
First things first, I bought Ethan a potty. It is a little pea-green (pee-green?) number with four stumpy dinosaur feet and googly eyes to protect by-standers from seated stream. The potty is in the living room because that is usually where we are and I want to be able to get Ethan to it quickly.
Day 1 was uneventful. On day number 2 he pooped in the potty! No, I did not ask my young toddler if he had to go. He still calls me Dah! so I chose not to bother with chit-chat. I simply waited for the poop face. You know the one. And ran him over to the potty.
He pooped. Naturally I thought it was all done. I gave my son the all done? sign – making jazz hands backwards and forwards above my shoulders. He signed back All done! All done! All done! flapping his arms and hands up and down in front of him with such force that his little body rocked with the movement.
Great. Off you go. Time to clean the potty. No need to put a diaper on yet because he just did his business. Or so I thought. As I cleaned up in the bathroom, he pulled himself up to the coffee table and peed onto one of the legs and the carpet. And then he pooped again.
I watched it happening, powerless to stop it in time.
Quickly I accepted that this was all part of potty training. I said, Uh oh, and accidents happen, as I grabbed the Oxy-clean and wiped up the mess.
Now you must be done, I said, but just in case, let’s get you off the carpet. I took him into the bathroom with me but did not put on a diaper, thinking, how could it get worse? Repetitive pooping is usually not how our bodies work. Usually.
After clean up number 2, I stepped away from my small son to get the diaper. When I got back, there was more number 2. For a third time. All over. He had stepped in it. And moved. A lot.
Into the tub. Then on with the diaper. It would seem like that would be enough mess for one day. Alas, the day was not over.
Next he ran through vomit while we were playing in the park. I had not seen it in time. So gross. I pulled off his little zapatitos (I just love using the diminutive form of Spanish words. Zapatitos. So much more fun, I think, than shoesies.) and socks. Then I sat down with him to think through my dilemma: there was yucky stuff and a hazard – a little running stream – within his toddling distance so I could not leave him to his own devices long enough to rinse the shoes, but I also could not put the unwashed shoes in my car. I just couldn't.
I sat there for a while. Stumped. Then I settled on a solution: ditch the shoes. And I did, for a minute. Then I remembered that these were the only shoes that I could actually get on his feet in under 15 minutes. I pulled the sun hat off his fair little head and wrapped the shoes up in it. Not breathing through my nose, I considered the problem solved and drove home.
I had a meeting that evening, but was having a hard time getting out the door. Ethan was fussing, clinging. To distract him, I got the jello jigglers from the refrigerator.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. It felt so matter of fact, like, doesn’t everyone keep a few jello jigglers on hand for self-extraction purposes? I gave them to Ethan. He did not eat them. He squished them, decapitating the neon-red rabbit shape. (Yes, I cut jello not into squares but into bunnies.)
It worked. He giggled hee-hee. When Ethan giggles, it is a rounded, vibrating sound. His tiny new vocal cords must have more pliability than an adult’s. Hee Hee from an adult comes out just like that: Hee. Hee. With edges. Out of Ethan, it almost sounds like a purrr. I want to keep that sound forever in my memory.
Then the jello jigglers plan stopped working because he began throwing the jello. Sticky red clumps landed everywhere.
Desperate, I picked him up, stripped him down, grabbed the jello shapes with one hand and scudded off to the bathtub with him under my other arm. I dropped him and the jello in together. Go for it, I said, and then chucked a piece of jello at him. It stuck to his belly.
hee-hee
3 poop clean-ups, 2 trips to the tub, 1 vomit incident, and 1 final, late-night cleaning to get the red, bleeding, gelatinous glop off of bathroom fixtures. It was the messiest day yet. But at the end of it I got to hear that ticklish, kitten-like giggle, which was the last thing I thought of as I fell asleep smiling.
Adding to the usual messiness, I have decided to start potty training my son. It is unconventional in the U.S. to start potty training at thirteen months. Still, it is not unheard of. Early potty training is common in places around the world where the expense of diapers lends itself to getting children out of them more quickly. I don't particularly like diapers. So I would like to be done with them soon. Ethan may have a different plan in mind.
First things first, I bought Ethan a potty. It is a little pea-green (pee-green?) number with four stumpy dinosaur feet and googly eyes to protect by-standers from seated stream. The potty is in the living room because that is usually where we are and I want to be able to get Ethan to it quickly.
Day 1 was uneventful. On day number 2 he pooped in the potty! No, I did not ask my young toddler if he had to go. He still calls me Dah! so I chose not to bother with chit-chat. I simply waited for the poop face. You know the one. And ran him over to the potty.
He pooped. Naturally I thought it was all done. I gave my son the all done? sign – making jazz hands backwards and forwards above my shoulders. He signed back All done! All done! All done! flapping his arms and hands up and down in front of him with such force that his little body rocked with the movement.
Great. Off you go. Time to clean the potty. No need to put a diaper on yet because he just did his business. Or so I thought. As I cleaned up in the bathroom, he pulled himself up to the coffee table and peed onto one of the legs and the carpet. And then he pooped again.
I watched it happening, powerless to stop it in time.
Quickly I accepted that this was all part of potty training. I said, Uh oh, and accidents happen, as I grabbed the Oxy-clean and wiped up the mess.
Now you must be done, I said, but just in case, let’s get you off the carpet. I took him into the bathroom with me but did not put on a diaper, thinking, how could it get worse? Repetitive pooping is usually not how our bodies work. Usually.
After clean up number 2, I stepped away from my small son to get the diaper. When I got back, there was more number 2. For a third time. All over. He had stepped in it. And moved. A lot.
Into the tub. Then on with the diaper. It would seem like that would be enough mess for one day. Alas, the day was not over.
Next he ran through vomit while we were playing in the park. I had not seen it in time. So gross. I pulled off his little zapatitos (I just love using the diminutive form of Spanish words. Zapatitos. So much more fun, I think, than shoesies.) and socks. Then I sat down with him to think through my dilemma: there was yucky stuff and a hazard – a little running stream – within his toddling distance so I could not leave him to his own devices long enough to rinse the shoes, but I also could not put the unwashed shoes in my car. I just couldn't.
I sat there for a while. Stumped. Then I settled on a solution: ditch the shoes. And I did, for a minute. Then I remembered that these were the only shoes that I could actually get on his feet in under 15 minutes. I pulled the sun hat off his fair little head and wrapped the shoes up in it. Not breathing through my nose, I considered the problem solved and drove home.
I had a meeting that evening, but was having a hard time getting out the door. Ethan was fussing, clinging. To distract him, I got the jello jigglers from the refrigerator.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. It felt so matter of fact, like, doesn’t everyone keep a few jello jigglers on hand for self-extraction purposes? I gave them to Ethan. He did not eat them. He squished them, decapitating the neon-red rabbit shape. (Yes, I cut jello not into squares but into bunnies.)
It worked. He giggled hee-hee. When Ethan giggles, it is a rounded, vibrating sound. His tiny new vocal cords must have more pliability than an adult’s. Hee Hee from an adult comes out just like that: Hee. Hee. With edges. Out of Ethan, it almost sounds like a purrr. I want to keep that sound forever in my memory.
Then the jello jigglers plan stopped working because he began throwing the jello. Sticky red clumps landed everywhere.
Desperate, I picked him up, stripped him down, grabbed the jello shapes with one hand and scudded off to the bathtub with him under my other arm. I dropped him and the jello in together. Go for it, I said, and then chucked a piece of jello at him. It stuck to his belly.
hee-hee
3 poop clean-ups, 2 trips to the tub, 1 vomit incident, and 1 final, late-night cleaning to get the red, bleeding, gelatinous glop off of bathroom fixtures. It was the messiest day yet. But at the end of it I got to hear that ticklish, kitten-like giggle, which was the last thing I thought of as I fell asleep smiling.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Carwash
I took Ethan to the carwash today. I felt mildly guilty about it, spending the money I mean. I could have saved $20 by scrubbing my car myself, but it is cold outside. And I am lazy.
I talked myself into having someone else wash my car by believing it would be fun for Ethan. There is a reason why carwashes allow people to watch the washing, right? It is cool to see the car drive itself through the mechanized tunnel of shooting water and sudsy soap. I thought Ethan would get a kick out of it and I might knock out 15 minutes of my day having someone else entertain him.
In fact, Ethan loved watching the car washing. Cars drove themselves into the tunnel. Then, after the initial rinse and soap application, four men in rubber boots and aprons scrubbed down the car. As car after car moved along, the men stooped and scrubbed, getting a break only long enough for the first car to enter the rinse area and the next car to scoot along the conveyer belt between them. Maybe 30 seconds. It looked like hard work. It was obviously tedious and probably cold on a day like today. These guys have to get wet, and it did not look like the tunnel sheilded them much from the wind.
Ethan smiled at the men working in the tunnel. They smiled back. They engaged with him in the seconds they had between car washes. Ethan pointed and waved. They made silly faces.
Next to us at the window, two young kids watched a portable DVD player and goofed off. A woman came up behind them. She was short, even shorter than I am. At almost 5 foot 3, I was a good head taller than she was. The woman opened up a plastic grocery store bag and took out some grapes. She told the boys to eat their lunch and then noticed me watching her. "They're out of school today," she said apologetically while smoothing one of the boy's hair.
I gave her my best oh no! Gotta deal with the kids, eh? I hear ya! look. I asked, "which holiday do they have today?"
"It's spring break, " she responded, then turned back to her boys to spend the time she had on her lunch break with them.
I felt terrible for all the times I have resented my stay-at-home motherhood. I know that my life, not working outside the home and still with plenty of childcare options, is my life. Her life is different, which is nothing I should feel terrible about. Still, I had brought my son to the car wash for fun. For 15 minutes. Her kids had to sit there. All day.
I went outside with Ethan to watch the workers touch up and dry the car. It looked beautiful, shiny and reflecting the cold sun's rays off of the sleek red finish. I was proud of my car, glad to have such a luxury.
The last woman who dried my car held up her towel, signalling that it was ready to go. I bustled over with my toddler on my right hip, my diaper bag slung over my left shoulder and my purse hooked over my left wrist. I still had to get my claim check out of my purse somehow. I plopped Ethan down in the back seat. The woman smiled big at Ethan. She cooed at him while I rummaged through my purse. "What is his name?" she asked.
"Ethan," I told her.
"Beautiful name, " she smiled. "How old is he?"
"Just one year, " I said. Officially, he's 13 months. Most parents use months when telling a child's age under two. I am so grateful for making it through the first year, however, that I keep saying "one year" over and over, like some comforting self-validation.
"My son is one year too," she said. "His name is Sebastian."
"Beautiful name, " I said, and handed her the tip and claim check. She kept smiling. Then she turned to get a new towel to start drying, drying, drying, the next car.
Feel lucky, I told myself. Then I felt bad. Why should I need reminders to feel lucky? Why at someone else's expense? This mother did not seem unhappy, just as the mom inside had not, just as the men who made silly faces at Ethan (maybe missing their little ones at home? maybe just nice guys) had not seemed to resent their repetitive jobs in the wash tunnel.
Maybe they look at me, without a paying job, balancing - but badly - a toddler, a diaper bag, and a purse, and think to themselves, feel lucky.
I talked myself into having someone else wash my car by believing it would be fun for Ethan. There is a reason why carwashes allow people to watch the washing, right? It is cool to see the car drive itself through the mechanized tunnel of shooting water and sudsy soap. I thought Ethan would get a kick out of it and I might knock out 15 minutes of my day having someone else entertain him.
In fact, Ethan loved watching the car washing. Cars drove themselves into the tunnel. Then, after the initial rinse and soap application, four men in rubber boots and aprons scrubbed down the car. As car after car moved along, the men stooped and scrubbed, getting a break only long enough for the first car to enter the rinse area and the next car to scoot along the conveyer belt between them. Maybe 30 seconds. It looked like hard work. It was obviously tedious and probably cold on a day like today. These guys have to get wet, and it did not look like the tunnel sheilded them much from the wind.
Ethan smiled at the men working in the tunnel. They smiled back. They engaged with him in the seconds they had between car washes. Ethan pointed and waved. They made silly faces.
Next to us at the window, two young kids watched a portable DVD player and goofed off. A woman came up behind them. She was short, even shorter than I am. At almost 5 foot 3, I was a good head taller than she was. The woman opened up a plastic grocery store bag and took out some grapes. She told the boys to eat their lunch and then noticed me watching her. "They're out of school today," she said apologetically while smoothing one of the boy's hair.
I gave her my best oh no! Gotta deal with the kids, eh? I hear ya! look. I asked, "which holiday do they have today?"
"It's spring break, " she responded, then turned back to her boys to spend the time she had on her lunch break with them.
I felt terrible for all the times I have resented my stay-at-home motherhood. I know that my life, not working outside the home and still with plenty of childcare options, is my life. Her life is different, which is nothing I should feel terrible about. Still, I had brought my son to the car wash for fun. For 15 minutes. Her kids had to sit there. All day.
I went outside with Ethan to watch the workers touch up and dry the car. It looked beautiful, shiny and reflecting the cold sun's rays off of the sleek red finish. I was proud of my car, glad to have such a luxury.
The last woman who dried my car held up her towel, signalling that it was ready to go. I bustled over with my toddler on my right hip, my diaper bag slung over my left shoulder and my purse hooked over my left wrist. I still had to get my claim check out of my purse somehow. I plopped Ethan down in the back seat. The woman smiled big at Ethan. She cooed at him while I rummaged through my purse. "What is his name?" she asked.
"Ethan," I told her.
"Beautiful name, " she smiled. "How old is he?"
"Just one year, " I said. Officially, he's 13 months. Most parents use months when telling a child's age under two. I am so grateful for making it through the first year, however, that I keep saying "one year" over and over, like some comforting self-validation.
"My son is one year too," she said. "His name is Sebastian."
"Beautiful name, " I said, and handed her the tip and claim check. She kept smiling. Then she turned to get a new towel to start drying, drying, drying, the next car.
Feel lucky, I told myself. Then I felt bad. Why should I need reminders to feel lucky? Why at someone else's expense? This mother did not seem unhappy, just as the mom inside had not, just as the men who made silly faces at Ethan (maybe missing their little ones at home? maybe just nice guys) had not seemed to resent their repetitive jobs in the wash tunnel.
Maybe they look at me, without a paying job, balancing - but badly - a toddler, a diaper bag, and a purse, and think to themselves, feel lucky.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Redistribution
Around twelve months of age, children go through what child-development experts call a "redistribution" period. They like to take things from one place and put them in another place. It is hilarious to watch Ethan sort and categorize the big peoples' world in a way that makes sense to him.
The bottle scrubber, for example, fits perfectly in my Ugg boot. I watched him take the scrubber, toddle out of the kitchen, and then thonk sink it into the boot as if thinking, there. Yes. That's perfect. He slid the large wooden salad spoon into a hole of just the right size in the box holding his plastic bottle liners. He has put bits of banana in drawers and puzzle pieces in the diaper genie. Everything from bibs to balls has gone into the kitchen trash can.
I am delighted every time I see him practice this sense of order. Open. Put thing in. Shut. This evening he put himself into the laundry basket. He took the liner off this low, square wicker basket. Then he put his rain maker toy in. He climbed in after it and discovered that he fit quite nicely. I peeked in on him as he played in his basket in his bedroom. Who-waa he whispered to himself. He rocked the basket. He sat on his bottom and reclined.
The more Ethan redistributes, the more things have gone missing. I found the flash light in his book basket and the TV remote in his dump truck. Other things that usually belong in the kitchen are suspiciously absent. I imagine that Ethan threw them away and I failed to notice them when I took out the trash. At least he has not yet flushed anything down the toilet that I know of, but I'm sure that day will come.
The bottle scrubber, for example, fits perfectly in my Ugg boot. I watched him take the scrubber, toddle out of the kitchen, and then thonk sink it into the boot as if thinking, there. Yes. That's perfect. He slid the large wooden salad spoon into a hole of just the right size in the box holding his plastic bottle liners. He has put bits of banana in drawers and puzzle pieces in the diaper genie. Everything from bibs to balls has gone into the kitchen trash can.
I am delighted every time I see him practice this sense of order. Open. Put thing in. Shut. This evening he put himself into the laundry basket. He took the liner off this low, square wicker basket. Then he put his rain maker toy in. He climbed in after it and discovered that he fit quite nicely. I peeked in on him as he played in his basket in his bedroom. Who-waa he whispered to himself. He rocked the basket. He sat on his bottom and reclined.
The more Ethan redistributes, the more things have gone missing. I found the flash light in his book basket and the TV remote in his dump truck. Other things that usually belong in the kitchen are suspiciously absent. I imagine that Ethan threw them away and I failed to notice them when I took out the trash. At least he has not yet flushed anything down the toilet that I know of, but I'm sure that day will come.
My scone habit
Scones have been important to my development as a mother. My dependence on them began very soon after my son was born. Now he is 13-months-old and I still need scones regularly.
During pregnancy, food and I were not friendly. Although I had been looking forward to eating things like carrot cake on a daily basis, I could not walk into a grocery store without fear of vomiting. Ginger made me sick. Tea made me sick. To make matters worse, there is not a ton of room in there beneath my stomach and lungs. Even when I could keep food down, I could not get much in because Ethan took up the space inside me.
I expected to be hungry during pregnancy. Everyone says you can eat for two. I was not hungry until after Ethan was born, but then I was ravenous. There was the time when I ate pizza out of the box like an animal while wearing Ethan across my chest in a baby sling. I kept dripping tomato sauce and cheese on him...and then I ate that off of him, licking my greasy fingers. I could not stop eating even long enough to nurse him.
Once I dropped a peanut in his little ear as I scarfed trail mix above him. It was late at night. No one had gotten much sleep. I was in bed. The baby was next to me. I was starving but I did not want to get up because I needed the baby to sleep. Then I remembered the trail mix in my diaper bag at the foot of the bed. With my foot I hooked the bag's strap. Then I dragged it up to my hand. In the darkness I rummaged through the pockets for the plastic baggie containing stale nuts and chews. Found it! There was no need to lift myself. I just shuttled my hand back and forth from baggie to mouth, sometimes dropping snacks on my body, my bed, and on/in my son.
At night I snacked. During daylight hours I hit the bakeries. I felt like I was mourning the loss of my former life. I could not sleep. I could not exercise much. Nothing fit. I had no income so I could not feel good about buying new clothes or treating myself to expensive body treatments. I was lonely and missing my job. I could not blunt the sense of grief with coffee or a glass of wine, which were my crutches of choice before pregnancy. It seemed so unfair to have to give them up during pregnancy and for a whole year afterwards as I nursed my son. Although I learned to take pleasure in other things, like the sunrise, even that got old as I watched it almost every day for ten and a half months. Ethan did not take to sleeping through the night. I needed something. Scones to the rescue.
Donuts seemed too self-depricating. Cake was too decadent and maybe too special. I like that I like cake on birthdays, and that's about it. I don't like cupcakes. I think they're useless, just my opinion. For the same funny-shapey, crumbly, too-much-left-in-the-paper-to-bother reason, I don't like muffins much either. Brownies are okay, but I can never eat just one. Cookies are very good, but I tend to eat way too many of those too. Scones are just right.
Scones are a respectable breakfast. They are properly served with tea in the afternoon. They are hearty, sweet, warm, and wonderful. I have fallen in love with them. I have developed a scone habit and it continues to suit me now that I could replace it with all of the stomach-eroding coffee and brain-inhibiting alcohol I please. But I do not want to replace it, despite a small but nagging fear somewhere in the background that the price will be paid by my backside.
They, the scones, make me happy. They are a happy habit.
During pregnancy, food and I were not friendly. Although I had been looking forward to eating things like carrot cake on a daily basis, I could not walk into a grocery store without fear of vomiting. Ginger made me sick. Tea made me sick. To make matters worse, there is not a ton of room in there beneath my stomach and lungs. Even when I could keep food down, I could not get much in because Ethan took up the space inside me.
I expected to be hungry during pregnancy. Everyone says you can eat for two. I was not hungry until after Ethan was born, but then I was ravenous. There was the time when I ate pizza out of the box like an animal while wearing Ethan across my chest in a baby sling. I kept dripping tomato sauce and cheese on him...and then I ate that off of him, licking my greasy fingers. I could not stop eating even long enough to nurse him.
Once I dropped a peanut in his little ear as I scarfed trail mix above him. It was late at night. No one had gotten much sleep. I was in bed. The baby was next to me. I was starving but I did not want to get up because I needed the baby to sleep. Then I remembered the trail mix in my diaper bag at the foot of the bed. With my foot I hooked the bag's strap. Then I dragged it up to my hand. In the darkness I rummaged through the pockets for the plastic baggie containing stale nuts and chews. Found it! There was no need to lift myself. I just shuttled my hand back and forth from baggie to mouth, sometimes dropping snacks on my body, my bed, and on/in my son.
At night I snacked. During daylight hours I hit the bakeries. I felt like I was mourning the loss of my former life. I could not sleep. I could not exercise much. Nothing fit. I had no income so I could not feel good about buying new clothes or treating myself to expensive body treatments. I was lonely and missing my job. I could not blunt the sense of grief with coffee or a glass of wine, which were my crutches of choice before pregnancy. It seemed so unfair to have to give them up during pregnancy and for a whole year afterwards as I nursed my son. Although I learned to take pleasure in other things, like the sunrise, even that got old as I watched it almost every day for ten and a half months. Ethan did not take to sleeping through the night. I needed something. Scones to the rescue.
Donuts seemed too self-depricating. Cake was too decadent and maybe too special. I like that I like cake on birthdays, and that's about it. I don't like cupcakes. I think they're useless, just my opinion. For the same funny-shapey, crumbly, too-much-left-in-the-paper-to-bother reason, I don't like muffins much either. Brownies are okay, but I can never eat just one. Cookies are very good, but I tend to eat way too many of those too. Scones are just right.
Scones are a respectable breakfast. They are properly served with tea in the afternoon. They are hearty, sweet, warm, and wonderful. I have fallen in love with them. I have developed a scone habit and it continues to suit me now that I could replace it with all of the stomach-eroding coffee and brain-inhibiting alcohol I please. But I do not want to replace it, despite a small but nagging fear somewhere in the background that the price will be paid by my backside.
They, the scones, make me happy. They are a happy habit.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The garage sale
I made almost $80 at a garage sale today! Yes, it is pathetic to be excited about almost $80. But I feel sooo satisfied.
The sale was at a friend's home. I packed up the car and my little son at 7:30 a.m. I was a little scared about selling my stuff and occupying my toddler at the same time. This whole business could have been a disaster, but somehow it all worked out. My friend and her husband were wonderfully helpful. There were doggies there too, so Ethan was delighted.
When Ethan sees dogs he says, Dah! Dah! Such a clever and efficient boy, he also says Dah for Dad, Duck, Down, and That. It works for Mom and Bird too.
As Ethan amused himself with dogs nearby, airplanes high above, and every sort of cast-off crap all around us, I sold my wanna-be-a-cowgirl hat. I sold my clunky jewelry. I sold the pictures that used to hang on the walls of my office when I used to have an office. I sold books. Truman Capote's In Cold Blood was one of them. Good friggin' book. Glad someone else will be reading it.
Afterwards I went down to the bank to deposit my garage-sale income. One of the hardest adjustments I have had to make as a SAHM is the loss of that bi-weekly paycheck. God I miss making my own money. I know, I know, I know, my services at home are valuable to the household. But no one is paying me for my services. I like to be paid for my work, go figure.
Ethan accompanied me to the bank on his little ride-on roadster, a gift from grandma and grandpa. The stearing wheel makes sounds when Ethan pushes the buttons on it. It goes beep-beep! as well as Vvvvrrrrrrooommmmm and RRrrrrcccchhh!! The sounds of an accelerating car breaking loose around a corner. Right. Gotta be sure to expose him to reckless driving skills while he's still young or he may never develop them later.
Ethan pointed to the ATM as we neared it. He also pointed to two terriers, one yellow and one black, tethered to a pole outside the post office. I stopped so he could oogle the doggies. When the black dog's person emerged from the post office, he and his dog put on a little show for Ethan. The dog pirouetted on its hind legs, weaved through its person's legs, spoke, played dead, and jumped high. Ethan was ecstatic. His little body shook with excitement and he screamed with glee.
After the dog show we made the heady $80 deposit and continued to the playground. Ethan pointed to the big kid swings. I obliged. I sat in one and let Ethan stand in my lap, holding onto the chains facing me. I wrapped one arm behind his legs, grabbed the chain with my free hand and pushed off. The sun shone on Ethan's smiling face. Wind ruffled his peachy hair. A dog walked by. Dah! He exclaimed and pointed, falling into me as he let go of the chain. I breathed in the sweet smell of his darling head.
Almost $80. Dancing dogs. Shining sun. Darling Ethan. I think this is one of the best days of my life.
The sale was at a friend's home. I packed up the car and my little son at 7:30 a.m. I was a little scared about selling my stuff and occupying my toddler at the same time. This whole business could have been a disaster, but somehow it all worked out. My friend and her husband were wonderfully helpful. There were doggies there too, so Ethan was delighted.
When Ethan sees dogs he says, Dah! Dah! Such a clever and efficient boy, he also says Dah for Dad, Duck, Down, and That. It works for Mom and Bird too.
As Ethan amused himself with dogs nearby, airplanes high above, and every sort of cast-off crap all around us, I sold my wanna-be-a-cowgirl hat. I sold my clunky jewelry. I sold the pictures that used to hang on the walls of my office when I used to have an office. I sold books. Truman Capote's In Cold Blood was one of them. Good friggin' book. Glad someone else will be reading it.
Afterwards I went down to the bank to deposit my garage-sale income. One of the hardest adjustments I have had to make as a SAHM is the loss of that bi-weekly paycheck. God I miss making my own money. I know, I know, I know, my services at home are valuable to the household. But no one is paying me for my services. I like to be paid for my work, go figure.
Ethan accompanied me to the bank on his little ride-on roadster, a gift from grandma and grandpa. The stearing wheel makes sounds when Ethan pushes the buttons on it. It goes beep-beep! as well as Vvvvrrrrrrooommmmm and RRrrrrcccchhh!! The sounds of an accelerating car breaking loose around a corner. Right. Gotta be sure to expose him to reckless driving skills while he's still young or he may never develop them later.
Ethan pointed to the ATM as we neared it. He also pointed to two terriers, one yellow and one black, tethered to a pole outside the post office. I stopped so he could oogle the doggies. When the black dog's person emerged from the post office, he and his dog put on a little show for Ethan. The dog pirouetted on its hind legs, weaved through its person's legs, spoke, played dead, and jumped high. Ethan was ecstatic. His little body shook with excitement and he screamed with glee.
After the dog show we made the heady $80 deposit and continued to the playground. Ethan pointed to the big kid swings. I obliged. I sat in one and let Ethan stand in my lap, holding onto the chains facing me. I wrapped one arm behind his legs, grabbed the chain with my free hand and pushed off. The sun shone on Ethan's smiling face. Wind ruffled his peachy hair. A dog walked by. Dah! He exclaimed and pointed, falling into me as he let go of the chain. I breathed in the sweet smell of his darling head.
Almost $80. Dancing dogs. Shining sun. Darling Ethan. I think this is one of the best days of my life.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Hot mamas
Almost four years ago I developed a bizarre skin disorder. It was so unusual that it had been medically classified as other or miscellaneous disease. I was misdiagnosed twice by two different dermatologists. Very few doctors had ever seen it before.
At my worst point, ninety percent of my body was covered in lesions. If I increased my heart rate at all, my skin would turn an angry purple. I was miserable.
This happened just five months before my wedding. I never thought a wedding day would somehow transform me -- maybe not from an ugly duckling, but definitely from an ordinary girl -- into a princess. Still, I bought into the whole wedding fantasy a little bit in my desire to be my most beautiful as a bride. Well, lesions are not beautiful. I think everyone would agree that they are ugly things.
I controlled what I could. My face was spared. My dress was stunning. My wedding was a dream come true. It took place on the beach under a full moon. I married the world's most handsome, kind, and thrilling man. I love him crazy. There was a lot of beauty that day and in my life.
Although the disease had taught me what ugly was, as I healed I learned to recognize the beauty in me regardless of the condition of my skin. I had always been greater than the sum of my imperfections. Only after I had been sick, however, could I appreciate my wholeness. I told myself I would never, ever take my body for granted again. Cellulite? Ten extra pounds? A wrinkle? I'll take it! I thought. That is not ugly. I know ugly.
When I later became pregnant I was amazed by my body. Me! Growing a baby! I was so proud to bring my son into the world. In those first exhausting months after the birth, however, I forgot how to see myself as beautiful. I felt ugly again. On principle, I would not wear my maternity clothes. Yet nothing normal fit, so I wore sweats over and over again. My husband had to return to work after just one week. Consequently, the night feedings (and the day feedings of course) were all mine. I came down with mastitis. I was so depleted that I could barely get myself dressed, much less shower or put myself together.
I would go to the grocery store with my baby in a sling close to my heart. Except for my beautiful child, I believed I was the perfect image of disaster. My hair was falling out. Whatever hair that managed to hold on sprung from my scalp as dark, greasy roots that gave way to frayed bottle-blonde. Dark bags hung from my eyes. My skin, deprived of estrogen, was dry and showing every wrinkle. My hands were chaffed from washing, washing, washing, after every diaper change. My clothes were stained with spit-up from Ethan and breastmilk that had leaked from me.
Ugly. I thought. Ugly.
I'll get my groove back one day, I consoled myself.
I have yet to get my groove back, but I do look and feel healthy again. At least I get some sleep and a shower most of the time. Only last night my son woke up three times, so I did not sleep well. When I was back in the grocery store today, I had not had a shower. That old, sad feeling of ugliness was creeping back.
Then I saw mother after mother with tiny, new babies in Bjorns or Ergos or propped on the grocery cart in their carriers. The moms clearly were exhausted. They moved their bodies slooowly down the aisles. Dark circles were under the eyes. They wore sweat pants and old jeans. And they were beautiful. Really, truly beautiful.
There was strength in them as they carried or pushed their babies and balanced their groceries. There was light behind those darkly circled eyes. The old clothes were somehow defiant and freeing. The women wore no make-up. Their skin looked good. Yes! Good! Wrinkled, maybe. Discolored due to the pregnancy, maybe, but nonetheless healthy. Hair was clumsily held back by head bands or pony-tails, but there was grace in each woman's slow, purposeful steps.
Strength. Light. Freedom. Health. Grace.
As I recognized the beauty in these women, I remembered how to respect myself again. These mothers were beautiful and I was one of them.
At my worst point, ninety percent of my body was covered in lesions. If I increased my heart rate at all, my skin would turn an angry purple. I was miserable.
This happened just five months before my wedding. I never thought a wedding day would somehow transform me -- maybe not from an ugly duckling, but definitely from an ordinary girl -- into a princess. Still, I bought into the whole wedding fantasy a little bit in my desire to be my most beautiful as a bride. Well, lesions are not beautiful. I think everyone would agree that they are ugly things.
I controlled what I could. My face was spared. My dress was stunning. My wedding was a dream come true. It took place on the beach under a full moon. I married the world's most handsome, kind, and thrilling man. I love him crazy. There was a lot of beauty that day and in my life.
Although the disease had taught me what ugly was, as I healed I learned to recognize the beauty in me regardless of the condition of my skin. I had always been greater than the sum of my imperfections. Only after I had been sick, however, could I appreciate my wholeness. I told myself I would never, ever take my body for granted again. Cellulite? Ten extra pounds? A wrinkle? I'll take it! I thought. That is not ugly. I know ugly.
When I later became pregnant I was amazed by my body. Me! Growing a baby! I was so proud to bring my son into the world. In those first exhausting months after the birth, however, I forgot how to see myself as beautiful. I felt ugly again. On principle, I would not wear my maternity clothes. Yet nothing normal fit, so I wore sweats over and over again. My husband had to return to work after just one week. Consequently, the night feedings (and the day feedings of course) were all mine. I came down with mastitis. I was so depleted that I could barely get myself dressed, much less shower or put myself together.
I would go to the grocery store with my baby in a sling close to my heart. Except for my beautiful child, I believed I was the perfect image of disaster. My hair was falling out. Whatever hair that managed to hold on sprung from my scalp as dark, greasy roots that gave way to frayed bottle-blonde. Dark bags hung from my eyes. My skin, deprived of estrogen, was dry and showing every wrinkle. My hands were chaffed from washing, washing, washing, after every diaper change. My clothes were stained with spit-up from Ethan and breastmilk that had leaked from me.
Ugly. I thought. Ugly.
I'll get my groove back one day, I consoled myself.
I have yet to get my groove back, but I do look and feel healthy again. At least I get some sleep and a shower most of the time. Only last night my son woke up three times, so I did not sleep well. When I was back in the grocery store today, I had not had a shower. That old, sad feeling of ugliness was creeping back.
Then I saw mother after mother with tiny, new babies in Bjorns or Ergos or propped on the grocery cart in their carriers. The moms clearly were exhausted. They moved their bodies slooowly down the aisles. Dark circles were under the eyes. They wore sweat pants and old jeans. And they were beautiful. Really, truly beautiful.
There was strength in them as they carried or pushed their babies and balanced their groceries. There was light behind those darkly circled eyes. The old clothes were somehow defiant and freeing. The women wore no make-up. Their skin looked good. Yes! Good! Wrinkled, maybe. Discolored due to the pregnancy, maybe, but nonetheless healthy. Hair was clumsily held back by head bands or pony-tails, but there was grace in each woman's slow, purposeful steps.
Strength. Light. Freedom. Health. Grace.
As I recognized the beauty in these women, I remembered how to respect myself again. These mothers were beautiful and I was one of them.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Ethan discovered the toilet yesterday
My son Ethan turned one three weeks ago. No longer a baby, he toddles around exploring everything. Yesterday he discovered the inner world of the toilet.
He already knew how to flush. He loves to flush. In fact, he flushes repeatedly whenever given the chance to do so. He knows that flushing causes the water in the bowl to swirl, which is apparently too enchanting not to splash about. And so he did. He plunged his little hands right in and delighted in the sound and feel of the whirlpool before him.
Ew. I know. But it gets grosser.
Mind you I did not intend to allow toilet play. I had a toilet lock on the thing. Ethan broke it off days ago. My husband is out of town and I, having my hands full flying solo for the week, have not had the energy to replace it. I bought a new toilet lock. I just have not put it on yet.
We were in the bathroom because it was bath time. E loves bath time. I put down the bath mat, started the water, and stripped him down. In his sweet nakedness he checked the bathroom accoustics by shouting "ta - DAH ta - DAH sshhhAAA" and selected bath toys. He threw his duck that looks like a cow into the water. That's right, my son has a bath toy with cow spots, little horns and a cow bell, but it's shaped like a duck with a beak and ducky tail. Yeah. Because life is not confusing enough. Anyway, I leaned in to check the water temperature and that was when he made his move. He turned with the lightning speed that all young children possess and whoosh flushed the toilet. In the next instant his hands hit the potty water. SPLASH SPLASH SPLASH! Water sploshed out onto the seat, onto the floor, onto my pant leg.
Nooooo! No hands in the toilet! I yelled as I struggled to grab his wrists to tug him away. I wanted to lift him into the tub, but I did not want to touch the potty hands! So I faltered and struggled and right at that moment...
he pooped. On the floor.
I started screaming. I don't care how many diapers a person has changed. Poop on the loose is still scary.
There was toilet water on the floor and on me. There was poop on the floor and on him. The potty lid was still open, inviting more play time. At that moment I became one with the yucky. I let him play in the toilet, damnit. Hell, I had to grab some wipes in the other room so I just let him go for it.
I did get him in the bath eventually. And thankfully we have a tile floor so clean up was not as bad as it could have been. In the bath Ethan kicked his leggies. He poured water out of cups. He submerged his cow/duck. He grinned up at me with his four-teeth-toothy grin. Bliss. Love.
So I spend most of my days cleaning something up. If I had a holster for my dustbuster then I would wear it. It has taken a year for me to accept that my "important" job does not come with a pay check or promotion or other career opportunity. It comes with wipes (not earth friendly) and bottle upon bottle of Baby-ganics or some other expensive earth-friendly cleanser. (Balance, see? With the earth, I mean. Not yet with the life.) But surprisingly, at the end of yet another marathon day of mothering, teaching, feeding, playing, bathing, and (sigh) cleaning, I am usually satisfied. I have found that the messes can be worth it. Ethan is happy. I am learning to be happy too.
He already knew how to flush. He loves to flush. In fact, he flushes repeatedly whenever given the chance to do so. He knows that flushing causes the water in the bowl to swirl, which is apparently too enchanting not to splash about. And so he did. He plunged his little hands right in and delighted in the sound and feel of the whirlpool before him.
Ew. I know. But it gets grosser.
Mind you I did not intend to allow toilet play. I had a toilet lock on the thing. Ethan broke it off days ago. My husband is out of town and I, having my hands full flying solo for the week, have not had the energy to replace it. I bought a new toilet lock. I just have not put it on yet.
We were in the bathroom because it was bath time. E loves bath time. I put down the bath mat, started the water, and stripped him down. In his sweet nakedness he checked the bathroom accoustics by shouting "ta - DAH ta - DAH sshhhAAA" and selected bath toys. He threw his duck that looks like a cow into the water. That's right, my son has a bath toy with cow spots, little horns and a cow bell, but it's shaped like a duck with a beak and ducky tail. Yeah. Because life is not confusing enough. Anyway, I leaned in to check the water temperature and that was when he made his move. He turned with the lightning speed that all young children possess and whoosh flushed the toilet. In the next instant his hands hit the potty water. SPLASH SPLASH SPLASH! Water sploshed out onto the seat, onto the floor, onto my pant leg.
Nooooo! No hands in the toilet! I yelled as I struggled to grab his wrists to tug him away. I wanted to lift him into the tub, but I did not want to touch the potty hands! So I faltered and struggled and right at that moment...
he pooped. On the floor.
I started screaming. I don't care how many diapers a person has changed. Poop on the loose is still scary.
There was toilet water on the floor and on me. There was poop on the floor and on him. The potty lid was still open, inviting more play time. At that moment I became one with the yucky. I let him play in the toilet, damnit. Hell, I had to grab some wipes in the other room so I just let him go for it.
I did get him in the bath eventually. And thankfully we have a tile floor so clean up was not as bad as it could have been. In the bath Ethan kicked his leggies. He poured water out of cups. He submerged his cow/duck. He grinned up at me with his four-teeth-toothy grin. Bliss. Love.
So I spend most of my days cleaning something up. If I had a holster for my dustbuster then I would wear it. It has taken a year for me to accept that my "important" job does not come with a pay check or promotion or other career opportunity. It comes with wipes (not earth friendly) and bottle upon bottle of Baby-ganics or some other expensive earth-friendly cleanser. (Balance, see? With the earth, I mean. Not yet with the life.) But surprisingly, at the end of yet another marathon day of mothering, teaching, feeding, playing, bathing, and (sigh) cleaning, I am usually satisfied. I have found that the messes can be worth it. Ethan is happy. I am learning to be happy too.
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