P.S. I like letters

It's getting better. I can see a speck of light- really a warm glow- at the end of the sleepless tunnel. We've had two nights of two feedings each (with one extra rising to sing to Stella- WHY? I don't know).

So I'm actually up after 10pm, happily noodling away on the computer, joining Facebook like a co-ed. I was shocked to find 6 people from my address book already had Facebook pages. (Three of them are my 20-something cousins, but anyway...). I haven't figured it out yet- just what exactly it is that I can get out of Facebook, but I am gathering friends and have already"poked' two people. I don't know what happened to them when I did it, but i hope it felt as fun as it sounds (although poking my own cousin doesn't sound legal).

I also found this article in a cool new mag I found after joining Work It, Mom!. The author writes a letter to a seat mate traveling alone with two small children. I can't tell you more because I don't want to ruin your read. Just the other day I received a letter from Southwest Airlines letting me know that they forwarded my thank you note to the flight attendant who helped me on my return flight with the kids. I also wrote a note to the passenger who helped me on the outbound journey. After reading the piece by Vibrating Liz, it's interesting to imagine what their experience was. It's also a reminder to slow down.

And why am I still awake?

Sleep is one of those essentials like food and water. Sleep deprivation is a common form of torture that is deplored by human rights groups. This is Otto’s sleep schedule from last night:

8 pm go to sleep in crib

12:30 nurse in chair, go back to crib

2:30 cry for 12 minutes, fall back asleep while mom buries her head under the pillows

3:30 come into bed, nurse

5:30 nurse in bed

7 am wake up

I went to bed at 10pm, so I was up 4 times with a maximum 2.5 hour stretch. Did I feel tortured? A bit. Otto is 5 months old and weighs over 13 pounds. He should be able to sleep longer stretches than 2 to 4 hours. Add to this rumination playground chats about babies who actually do sleep, mamas who have a glow in their cheeks, and in-laws who think letting a baby cry is cause for calling Amnesty International, and we have one crazy, exhausted, working mama in Oakland.

He got 2 decent naps today, 10- 11am & 2-5 pm so we’ll see how tonight goes… Supposedly sleep begets sleep. I better start mine.

Working Mother

Today was my first day back at work. Not only did I survive it, I loved it! When I left Stella when she was 3 1/2 months old, I cried all the way there and called no less than 3 times before I returned home. Today I felt a lump in my throat as I kissed Otto, but it was brief. I only called to say I'd be a little late. When I got home, Stella ran to hug me and Otto took me back without question. I felt like a whole person. It didn't hurt that my in-laws were caring for the kids.

I loved seeing patients, catching up with my coworkers, and finding my drawers organized and ready to go. The work made me dig into my mental reserves. I forgot some paperwork details, how Sickle Cell Genetics work, took too long to chart my visits, and found myself chatting away with patients while I had others waiting. Midwifery is like riding a bike; it will come back very soon.

Talking was the best part. I thrive on grownup conversation. Uninterrupted experience. That's what I get at work that I don't get at home. And it's behind a closed door- no one to bother us! It's a marvelous thing. Pumping wasn't too bad. I got 3oz out of 2 sessions. That's half of what some women get from one boob in 5 minutes, but for me, it was ok. The pump didn't romance me the first time, so I wasn't expecting much. Otto will start eating cereal in a few weeks, and I have about 30 oz of frozen milk, so I'm not stressed.

It was a challenge to write, however. My handwriting has always been a mess, but after six months of writing only shopping lists, checks, and brief thank you notes, it is officially illegible. Once my father received a note from me and asked politely, "Did you write it so that I couldn't read it... on purpose?" I'll work on the writing. Every year it's my resolution- that and flossing. I never achieve my goals.

Pile of Milestones

We are a house of milestones. Every time we arrive at putting on a shirt, zipping a boot, descending stairs, we get smarter, more confident in our parenting. Then we have a new set of skills to master, a new type of tantrum to face. And we question ourselves.

Stella is completely diaper free. She’s been 5 nights in “unterVear.” Last night she gave away the rest of her diapers to a friend. She’s really excited about pooping in the toilet. So much so that she waits to flush (another favorite activity) and runs to her father or grandmother and says, “Look, I pooped. Come see!” She then leads them to the bathroom. Once when Augusto was at work, I convinced her that saving her stinky poop in the toilet all day was not a good option, she drew a picture of it. A really good picture. Her first representational picture. I’m a proud mother, what can I say?

Otto is laughing at Boo and Raspberries, flipping over onto his belly at every chance, doing push-ups and breakdancing (the wave?). He’s working on some teeth. He’s also sleeping longer stretches of 5 or 6 hours. They’re happening mostly before I go to bed, but I know it’s a start. After three plus weeks of travel, sleeping in a small bed with him, and sharing a room for all four of us, he became a boob monster and baby who needed too much parenting to sleep. So instead of following the progress to a likely place of jiggling or nursing for 45 minutes before bed every night, we started crying it out. He’s 3 month’s younger than Stella was when we did it to her. He’s never really cried more than 30 minutes in his whole life, but I don’t want to get to that awful angry place we went with Stella before we finally caved and let her cry to sleep learn to sleep on her own. Ideally, we would have completed the job before the Vovos (grandparents) arrived, but we didn’t. For naps and nighttime he usually fusses and/or cries for 5 or 6 minutes- but it ranges from 1 to 14 minutes. It is hard to listen to, but I do believe it is ultimately good. Or else my kids will need years of therapy to undo all of our parenting mistakes.

It’s so hard to know what is “right.” It’s also hard to let go or stop worrying about what is “right.” Every parent chooses her own way to teach, discipline, feed, clothe, diaper, talk to, or even play with their child. Of course we want “the best” for our kids. But that judgment varies widely. I have spent countless privileged hours researching schools, sleep tactics, diaper choices, baby carriers, recipes, and even toddler chair and table heights. I have stayed up hours later than is good for me, twisted my neck and shoulder out of whack, and lost actual face to face time with my husband or kids or even other people. Sometimes I think it pays off. We end up with a product or routine that works for us. But how can I really know if I wouldn’t have been as happy (or happier?) with something entirely different?

I need to remember that every time we let go of our expectations or fears, something good happens. Like with diapers. I wanted Stella to be out of diapers before Otto was born. Then soon after. Then I gave up. That’s when she mounted the toilet at my Mom’s house. It is the same thing with preschool. I stressed so much in the beginning, found a fantastic school, stressed more about it, missed the deadline for mailing in our deposit, kicked myself, then got waitlisted at our “inferior” neighborhood school because we’re not a “working class” family that wants 5 days/ week. So I just gave up. Then a new school opened that I think we’ll love when we see it next weekend. Will it be perfect? Will it be right? Will it be better for Stella than Montessori or any of the half-day (which doesn’t work for a working couple like us), wait-forever pay-a-fortune schools in our area? I don’t know. And I think I don’t care- as long as she loves it.

The Brazilians have arrived!!

After 30 hours of travel, my in-laws are here. Most of my friends think I’m crazy or lying when I say I have been eagerly awaiting their arrival. They will live with us for the next three months. Three whole months. In this time I will return to work, Stella will learn more Portuguese, Augusto and I will have weekly date nights and a night away, and we will coexist in the kitchen, living room, and daily stuff of our lives.

I get along with my in-laws. Well. I always have. The initial language barrier probably smoothed the way. It’s hard to argue when the English conversation is limited to food and sights. We have since switched to Portuguese, which actually makes us have accidental debates which spin off of a minor misunderstanding. Augusto and Auri are gracious people. They don’t occupy much space. They clean up after themselves (and us). They LOVE their grandchildren. They can play with them for hours, listen to any pitch or volume of screaming, and hold them for an hour forgoing a potty break. There are the expected debates over sweets and bedtimes and the daily “No, I’ll do it.” But it is overwhelmingly good.

I do speak from experience. When Stella was 2 months, they lived with us for 8 weeks. When we hugged goodbye at the airport, I sobbed huge, attention grabbing tears second only to the crying many years ago when I had to leave my sick grandmother in Baltimore and I couldn’t convince anyone at the airport to give me a change of ticket for less than $1000. So this time I suggested they stay longer.

The fridge is a little more packed than I like it and I’ve already said no to half a dozen grandmother-suggested sweets in less than 48 hours, but I am NOT complaining. We are so grateful they are here.

Midwives Misunderstod.... Again

Every time Augusto puts some midwife news from the SF Chronicle in my To Read pile by the toilet, I feel dread. Truthfully, the dread follows naïve excitement- ooh! Somebody is paying attention! Quickly I come to my senses. I remember that only a select group understands midwives. The mainstream media is not part of this group.

Glaring from the pile is the headline “Fewer options for those who seek natural births: Midwives becoming less popular as cesarean sections gain ground.” The empathetic (?) journalist covered the upcoming closure of Homestyle Midwifery. Homestyle is a popular, personalized in-hospital midwifery service. Contrary to the headline, I actually met two people in Hawaii who delivered with that service. After we passed on our homebirth practice, my former partner, Cynthia Banks, worked for Homestyle for a couple of years. She is an excellent midwife, and she loved that practice. Then California Pacific Medical Center came in, took over St. Luke’s Hospital, and the well-loved, extremely safe midwives are done.

It’s all very sad, but what is worse is that the media can’t get it right, so the general public doesn’t understand, and with the pressure of OBs who are threatened midwives will steal their normal birth- big business, i.e. medical systems like CPMC, follows suit. Let me state two facts:1.Midwives are autonomous providers. 2. Birth with midwives is safe. The article gets it wrong on both accounts. It’s a common misconception, as follows:

1. “For doctors, the decision to allow a midwife to handle the birth or to intervene medically is often a matter of weighing the potential risks against a woman's wishes during labor. The vast majority of births are trouble-free, but few doctors want to risk complications just because a woman would prefer to avoid a medical procedure, physicians say.” Doctors don’t decide to ALLOW a midwife to do anything. We have our own patients. If they meet set criteria for having a low-risk pregnancy, they choose us. When there is a concern of complication with a woman’s health, we consult with a doctor. That means we ask for their opinion, consultation, guidance, or to take over care of the patient- whatever is appropriate.

2. "Some women may say, 'I'm willing to risk a little in terms of safety to have the birth I want.'” Dr. Elaine Gates, vice chair of the obstetrics and gynecology department at UCSF made that statement. Birth with midwives has been shown over and over again to be as safe as or safer than birth with OB-GYNs when you match women of similar risk in similar settings.

It’s really a shame that midwifery is so misunderstood- since the research also shows that patients of midwives are overall more satisfied with their experiences than patents of doctors.

The Attack of Everything

The end of the Attack of Snot is near. I hesitate venturing into the subject, but what would a parent’s musings be without snot? There’s so much of it everywhere.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“Just a second, I’m getting some paper.”

“Runny nose, Mama!”
“Runny nose, Mama!”

“OK, blow”

Day care allows runny noses, but no other ill children. No fevers or coughs (although a few sneak through). Definitely no puking or diarrhea. Stella’s runny nose is nearly constant- usually clear and allergy related, I believe. But this nose is impressive. Rivers of yellow-green snot. And she spiked a fever of 106.2. You read it right. 107 is seizure-zone, so I was just a bit freaked when I took her back to the vet pediatrician (she’s 2 ½ and I keep saying it wrong). Yes, back. We had been there in the am and were told to watch and wait, but by the time we got home her fever was climbing faster than I could find the office number. Thanks to ibuprofen, it went down that fast too. But the doc said get your butt here ASAP, so I lugged sleeping infant in car seat and roasting toddler on my hip the thirteen stairs to the car, 10 minutes to the office and a long lot from the car. She improved while we were there and found that she doesn’t have a septic kidney infection (cheer!), but probably has some resistant sinusitis that’s in our community. While we waited for her Augmentin and probiotic, she explored the lobby barefoot. I forgot her shoes at home. Nothing gets disapproving stares like a barefoot child in a medical setting. Add the unkempt hair, unshowered mama, and all three people in messy clothes- certainly not “outfits.” We looked like a mini old mother and the shoe or whatever it is.

I was apprehensive about the big-gun antibiotic, but more apprehensive about the wacky high fever. I was also making decisions on 5 hours of breastfeeding-interrupted-jetlag sleep. I didn’t even have time to get my caffeine. It was one of those days that makes me the woman who is always in the center of a crisis. You know that friend or cousin who has some shit happening every time you just call you say hi.

“Hi, Friend, How are ya’?”

“Well, not so great. My car got broken into when I was at the DMV trying to replace my lost license and then I couldn’t get anyone to care for the kids so they’re here with me while I’m giving the police report. Shit- I just dropped my keys in the mud! I gotta go.”

Yeah. I’m THAT friend these days. Every week it’s something new. I hate to hear myself speak. While we were dealing with Stella yesterday, I completely ignored the cat- not the one who got sick and ran away/died last month, but the other one who has a rectal mass and can’t make a bowel movement. She looked so miserable this morning, trying to poop in vain, crying out. She’s lighter than a week ago. Which was lighter than two and three weeks ago. Her skin is tenting with dehydration. She wobbles. She’s had two enemas just so she can shit (that’s added some lightness to the conversation: California Freaks Give High Colonic to Cat). What an embarrassment for the fastidious cat. I have an appointment for her tonight. This might be it. I don’t want to say goodbye to her too, but I hate seeing her suffer- and know it won’t turn around. The vet says it’s cancer. Inoperable. And I’m not putting a 16-year-old cat through chemo or some other miserable treatment. The kids will be up soon and they will simultaneously need me for everything, so I’m going to go pet the cat and/or bury my head in the unused kitty litter.

Today Stella’s temp is lower and her mood improved. But her nose is still flowing.

“Runny nose, Mama!”

“You know, you need to learn to do this yourself...OK, blow.”

“Mama, runny nose again!”

Pay for Shade?

Last night we returned from 9 days in Hawaii. I didn't mention it before because I have this thing about announcing to the world that we're going out of town. My husband is that way when I shout it across the street so the neighbors know to look out for our house. He is sure some opportunistic robber will over hear. I think he's too paranoid about the street thing. But I'm like that in my blog. Crime is up in our hood. We're both a little jittery.

Anyway, Augusto had a conference at the Ritz in Maui. The Ritz- I KNOW, what luck?! How could the kids and I not tag along? By coincidence, friends with kids the same ages as ours were staying nearby. A few of the days we all went to the beach as one gear-toting hoard and took turns with the kids. Travel with other families is fantastic. Every time we've gone somewhere with another family or more, it has been a huge success for all involved. Even when the kids aren't playing well together, we adults can share responsibility for redirecting, imagining creative games, cooking and all the other parenting jobs. It also shakes up our own family dynamics, so we end up having less stupid bickering and more overall quality adult time. I can't recommend it enough.

Hawaii was lovely. The sun was out. The views were stunning. Our marble bathroom had a separate room for the toilet. The ocean was warm and seemingly stocked for our snorkeling pleasure. There were two major exceptions to the loveliness: 1. the food and drinks at the resort are too expensive for a person of regular means to consume on a daily basis; and 2. guests are expected to pay for shade. Yes, I said pay for shade. So we tired of kid grilled cheese (pool bar, $5), instant oats (brought from home), and baby carrots (Safeway in Lahaina) while we kept moving to stay in the wispy shade of the tall palms. The Ritz has cabanas for four people and pairs of lounge chairs with awnings. These can be reserved for $75 and $50 per day! They do not provide any other umbrellas at the pool or beach. I can't get over either of these ridiculous features of the Ritz. As I nursed Otto under a shade tent made by stretching a kanga from my Oakland baseball cap to my knees, I scanned the pool menu thinking I must have missed the one affordable item (chips and salsa $11, chicken sandwich without fries $16, cup of coffee $5). I imagined the staff gathered at some planning meeting, wringing their hands, whining and cackling..."If they'll pay $300 and up for a room at a resort a 10 minute drive from the nearest hotel, we can charge $13 for a Mai Tai and $15 for a mediocre Pinot Gris no problem. And why the hell not?! Get 'um for all they're worth. Hey, let's charge for SHADE while we're at it. It'll be hilarious!"

Adventures at Longs Drugs

I was browsing the clearance section at our local Longs Drugs when I spied the home highlighting kit. I was there on a separate mission, but got distracted (as I can when I am shopping only with Otto (which is pretty much like shopping alone)). I have colored my hair only a few times in my life once I stopped using Sun In-- in, like, 1986? Once I had a semi-permanent copper last until it grew out. And when Stella was an infant I got a choppy cut with high and lowlights. And that’s it. So, being in my funk and finding a kit for only 5 bucks- as opposed to the nearly $200 for the last job- I bought it. I thought it might add some juice to my mojo. Perk up my spirits. I followed the directions to the letter- including cutting off a strand of hair for testing. I decided on 20 minutes for a few tastefully, yet artfully, placed shocks of blonde. I didn’t want to look like the box’s eager co-ed with the zebra head, yet I did want the effect to be noticeable.

Well, noticeable it is. Yup. Woo hoo.

What a mess. Brassy. Splotchy. Cheap like 5 bucks. And I look exactly like the girl on the box, plus 15 or 20 inappropriate years. It’s not a pretty sight. But as my friend Karen of Great Hair Knowledge said, “A hair accident always makes for a good story. You could just say you were passed out drunk and you don’t know how it happened.” I suppose I never had my share of hair accidents. In retrospect the Sun In was a whole era of accident, but I was blissfully ignorant.

The family hasn’t noticed, or maybe they’re being polite. But at least now I have something lighter to complain about.

I Write Poems Sometimes.

I write poems sometimes. Usually in the winter and after some major life event. Pregnancy, birth and parenting have been excellent muses- along with my mother’s cancer, tensions with my husband, and trips to Brazil. When the summer arrives I turn the soil and rip out the ever-persistent Bermuda grass. Keyboards and scraps of paper for poetic flashes get shuffled down the priority list. Garden bolts to the top. This funk keeps me from doing much of anything- and keeps me inside complaining about it in this forum. Poems are bubbling inside.

Before the funk, I gardened like mad. And the garden does look smashing- a wonderful place to sit and watch Stella play. The day my grandfather died, we were featured on a “green” gardening tour. Our garden is tolerant of the Northern California summer droughts and winter rains, is free of pesticides and fertilizers, and has clover instead of grass for the lawn. We have a Trex deck. We ripped up concrete and built walkways and raised beds, used years of broken plates for a mural on a retaining wall. Having lived here only 5 years- and being novice gardeners- the plantings still have room to grow, and the aesthetic is definitely “home grown.” But I am truly pleased.

Perhaps I can work through my loss with some off-season poems, celebrate life with the veggie beds, and move back to my big dog self. In summer camp one of the counselors said I was like a ball- I always bounced back quickly from whatever problem. I hope her assessment holds true today.

So Long, Old Friend

My grandfather, 72 hours before he died. He was so happy to see his great grandchildren.

Reduced to Bones

The cat hasn’t come home. It’s been over a week. The constants in my life are sneaking away one by one. It started in pregnancy when a good night’s sleep gave way to multiple trips to the bathroom. Then there was the baby and everything that went with her. Movies. Dinners. Free arms. Down time. Total focus on any one task- instead of one ear/ eye/ nostril trying to make sure everything is all right with the baby. Then the second baby- ditto all the above. These disappearances came with the (mostly) joy of family.

But now my grandfather and the cat. And my hair is falling out again. It’s amazing, my home is packed with toys, my car jammed with kid stuff, and my schedule filled with parks and playdates and cooking healthy food- yet I’m feeling small. Like I’ve been shaved or peeled. In the middle of so much vibrant and joyous noise, I am less. I’m not used to being less. I’m always the one who is more. The one who is too much, actually. The big wet nosed dog knocking down the skinny old ladies. That’s me. Not these anxious, complaining naked bones. I am grating against everything without my slobber and fur.

An inventory of what was lost

What six, eight weeks can bring. Augusto went to Japan twice, and I got to try single parenting for nearly 20 nights. I took the kids to Baltimore on my own for part of his trip, and passed another parenting milestone- air travel with two. I am amazed at my ability to keep everyone fed and clothed (not necessarily clean). It’s all dependent on organization, sacrifice of any personal time, and a glass of wine a few times a week. I am completely convinced that being a primary caregiver should be a prerequisite to the presidency- or air traffic control.

The high of accomplishment is over and now I am stuck in a funk. My 93-year-old grandfather died on Sunday. He was assembling an IKEA chair. I loved him so much.

An inventory of what was lost:

1. A wise, handy, loving old guy how didn’t want to die for fear of missing something.
2. Our orange cat, left home 4 days ago after a rapid onset illness.
3. Fear of parenting alone
4. Daytime diapers!!

What was learned?

1. My strong urge to visit family was worth heeding- my grandfather met his great grandson 3 days before he died.
2. I regret shooing the cat off my desk nearly every evening for the past 3 months.
3. If I can handle two kids for 2 weeks on my own, I can do just about anything
4. Wait to let the kid potty train; they’ll do it quickly when ready.

I saw two women in stirrup pants yesterday. I need to make that odd sighting into a sign that things are looking up. That, and Otto found his toes.

Day care makes kids act out?

Of course I’m screwing up our kids. If I were a stay-at home mom everything (except my sanity and personal satisfaction) would be perfect. Now it appears that kids who spend more than 10 hours a week in the care of someone other than their mothers act out more in the 6^th grade. So what about SAHDs or grandma? I haven’t read the study, only the news (which is an amazing fact in itself).

We all love Stella’s 12 to 20 hours a week of day care. She even woke up once at 3 am crying to go there. I just can’t think it is that bad for her. All over the world children are raised by communities of people. Even 30 years ago in this country a mother had the help of her mother or mother-in-law on a regular basis.

I’m gonna let it go.

Or not.

Rain!

The rain finally did the watering for us. We put in trees and plants and a clover lawn in the past few months. It’s usually the best time in Northern California for planting- because we get so much rain. But rain has been scarce this year.

It rained yesterday- just enough to wet the roots and be reason for Stella to wear her rain boots. She stomped around in some puddles and our clover got a little taller. After 12 years in the Bay Area, I finally feel the rhythm of the local seasons. After years of needing to check the calendar to know what time of year it was, I now notice the tiny wildflowers of spring and brown hills of fall. There were many times over the last decade I would be dumbstruck on the street, smelling… fall? Or was it spring? Or thinking a summer storm was coming, but it was only the thick of summer fog lowering the sky and lifting the leaves. I would search my brain for some answer- like trying to find a lost name, just on the tip of my tongue.

My children will know these seasons like I know those of Maryland- where a tree of flames means back to school sales and crocuses don’t fool me of summer any time soon.

Make the Headlines

It was a murder-suicide kind of day. The kind of day that brings out the mean mama in me, that brings me closer to other mothers of two-year-olds. You only need to say, ”It was a two-year-old morning,” and I know what you mean. It seems we’re having a two-year-old month.

Things that happen right before a tantrum:

1. I won’t let her apply my husband’s sample of musk deodorant all over her face.
2. She can’t get her sock on.
3. I won’t let her take a paper bag of nails to daycare.
4. She doesn’t want to change her poopy diaper.
5. I won’t let her rock her brother so vigorously his head flings around over his body.

Two. It explains everything. So I call my husband and try not to sound too desperate when I ask how long until he gets home because I gave her lentils when she wanted oatmeal and the baby is crying and I’m trying to cook risotto and the ants invaded the cat food and I’m dehydrated and have a headache the size of Texas and if he doesn’t get home soon there will be a murder-suicide. He knows what I mean and steps on the gas- the other direction!

It Finally Happened

It finally happened. I fell while holding Otto. It wasn’t anything like I had feared. He was strapped into his car seat, there weren’t any stairs or vehicles involved, and no blood (his or mine) was shed. It did shake the shit out of me. I’m so glad it didn’t happen with my first. I was so nervous about everything with her, it might have sent me packing.

So there I was, a carefree second-time mother, entering Stella’s daycare via the forbidden old herringbone brick driveway (not on the required, level sidewalk). Out of nowhere, an unset brick grabbed my shoe and sent me in one direction and the shoe in another. Otto and his seat went on a third trajectory despite my valiant efforts to prevent such an event. I landed on the ground with a dirty palm and bruised knee and saw that Otto was there too, in his car seat on its side. He wailed, and I gathered him and my shoe as quickly as possible. When I got into the daycare I checked to see that all four of his limbs were moving independently and there wasn’t any blood. Then I handed him off to the daycare provider and washed my hands and caught my breath.

A friend fell on the stairs while her five week old was in the sling. She turned and broke the fall with her arm- which broke. It was the desired result, of course. I ran into her at a café with her cast and slinged baby. Stella was just starting to walk at the time, so her accident ruffled every fear I had. I realized it was actually possible for one of them to come true. Seeing her arm reminded me of the power of mothers to save their children from some harm, but also scared me to the core. As I was leaving her, she asked her male friend to crane her full breast out of her shirt for her baby to nurse. He had to use both hands to do it. Now that amazing sight- on a busy street- almost made the fear worth it.

It's Only a Joke!

"Do you know what this is?"
"Brain Sucker."
"Do you know what it's doing?"
"Starving."

Stella and Otto, only 5 weeks into their sibling relations.

Celebrity Watch

Britney Spears shaved her head and checked into (and out of) rehab. I have no doubt about it. Her two kids are HOW close in age? And she went from famous kid with a kick-ass play life to divorcing mother. You can’t get out of being mother no matter how famous you are (unless you check into rehab, I guess). Britney’s youngest is right at the point where all of my luxurious pregnancy hair started falling out. That nearly threw me over the edge (without the second kid and crash into reality life). Our cleaning lady mentioned it, “Your hair is everywhere.” “I know, it’s all over the bathroom,” I said. “No, it’s all over the house!” she replied. I think she thought it was cancer. I wanted to shave my head every morning. I was a little less drastic and got a short mommy-do. But I considered it when I couldn’t shower and/or stand the sight of myself. Actually, I couldn’t stand the feel of myself- leaky breasts, sweaty pits, tangled, dirty hair. Shaving seemed the quickest way to sustained cleanliness and a sense of style. Yeah for Britney for doing what I was too weak (or sober) to manage.

I hope as I approach the next hair-falling out phase, I hope I will get through it drug-free. I also hope the pop star gets better soon.

News and Confessions

He took it! He took it! Otto took milk from a bottle! It took us five days to get around to the big attempt, but he sucked it up without complaint. We were waiting for the “perfect opportunity,” a.k.a Stella not around and Otto hungry. We should know by now that perfect opportunities of any kind rarely present themselves. So finally we had a relaxed Friday night with my visiting father putting Stella to bed. Otto woke from a nap, and I sneaked off into hiding. Augusto presented him with the warmed milk and gave the thumbs up.

This victory means the Habitrail run is a little shorter and dinner and a movie or a professional massage are in my foreseeable future.

Other breaking news just in: Otto smiled and cooed repeated times today despite the fact or because I am a bad mother. This is the confession: Sometimes I put him to sleep on his stomach. He sleeps so much better on his stomach. Truly better, longer, quieter. I preach Back To Sleep to my patients and even use a logo-adorned official sleep sack. But Otto is loud and gassy and loves being on his belly. And I am full of excuses. If he’s not on his belly he grunts most of the night. He sleeps through it, but Augusto and I are kept awake. I figure I slept on my stomach because my mother was told if I slept on my back I would choke on my spit up and die. People thought hormone replacement therapy was safe. People thought caffeine in pregnancy was dangerous. Research can be refuted a decade later. And we don’t smoke or over bundle or do any of the other things that are associated with SIDS. So at 3 or 5 in the morning when I’ve had a little sleep and am therefore not sleeping so deeply the rest of the night, and when Otto is grunting loudly enough to wake the neighborhood, I just roll him over. Does it worry me? Of course. But I do it anyway.

Pumping Gold

I pumped the liquid gold for the first time this morning. We’re in the 4 to 6 week-window for introducing the bottle, so we needed something to put in it. I was anxious because pumping for Stella was, at best, like bad scheduled sex. There was no romance and little reward for a bodily function so intimate and dependent on a delicate mix of hormones, timing, mindset and physical stimulation. I could pump four times in a day and get a grand total of 3 ounces. This time I am determined to get it going early so I can develop a fine relationship with the Passionate Sucker, (a.k.a Medela Pump-in-Style) and, more importantly, pack the freezer with the products of our love so I can go to work or- imagine! - a movie and leave Otto behind.

He is four weeks old today, and the honeymoon is over. Two weeks ago I told a friend how much better it was with the second child. I told her that I didn’t have that postpartum sense of doom that my life was over. My former life ended with the first child, so there was nothing left to lose. What a relief! This theory still holds true, but I have the other doom that I had forgotten: The Hamster Wheel Effect. Any mother knows it- and then forgets it so that she has a small chance of wanting to have more children. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. Pretend to go to bed at night. Nurse. Burp. Change. Soothe. It’s a prison. I’m just grateful I have a husband who is helpful when he’s around, a freezer stocked with food from good friends, and a predictable post-milk smile from this little guy.

Tonight Augusto will try to give my ounce and a half to Otto and thus give me speck of light at the end of my Habitrail.

It WAS the Real Deal

It’s been two weeks since those irregular contractions. Our son is two weeks old. At 2:30 pm, just after I last wrote, I tried to take a nap, but lay awake noting every twelve minutes on the clock. After an hour or so, I called Augusto and asked him to come home. His commute can often take more than an hour, so I wanted to be sure he was on his way. I chatted with my neighbor about her plans for a Sunbrella hot tub cover. Every few minutes I paused to lean over her compost bin or kitchen table and breathe a little bit. Stella would be awake soon, so I dashed back inside and was greeted by her waking-up sounds. I brought her downstairs and got her snack ready, then my body let loose. The contractions were three to six minutes apart and took my full attention. I made sure Augusto was close then called the midwives and our friend Libby to pick up Stella. Augusto and Libby arrived at 5pm, just two and a half hours after I had laid down for my nap.

By this time I was burying my face into pillows, towels, and blankets while digging my still-humid pedicure into the rug. The sounds from my throat were curious- somewhere between a Gregorian chant and a large animal near death. While Augusto installed our car seat in Libby’s car, Libby slid her fingers across the small of my back. The light touch gave some relief from the band tightening on my middle.

When Augusto and I were finally alone, I waddled to the bathroom for the epic emptying of my bowels. At 2-minute intervals, I threw myself onto my hands and knees and made the dead animal chant then climbed back up to the toilet for more. Augusto ran the tub and then ran around the house. I could hear his feet stomping down the hardwood at a hare’s pace. Run to get water. Run to get the phone. Sprint for the phone list. Race back to stroke me when the contraction comes again. The baby’s head was low, but my dilation was unclear when I checked at 5:30pm. We paged the midwives. The tub didn’t provide the relief I wanted. With contractions on top of one another, all I wanted was one moment of rest. I also wanted to pee. The need to go was so strong- yet I was completely unable to sit on the toilet or release any pee in the tub or anywhere else I tried. A little after 6, when one midwife had arrived, the bright orange rug on bathroom floor called to me. I lay down on my side and stayed there until the end. I still couldn’t pee, but the contractions spaced out enough to drink some water and rest for a glorious minute.

Pressure. I felt pressure. Two contractions later I was pushing. We had just decided to check my dilatation, and I had only half-jokingly declared if I was 2 cm, we were heading to the hospital for a c-section. With only the tip of her finger inside my vagina, our midwife felt the head. Since I still needed to pee and the head was right there, I reached around my belly and felt his head myself. It was exciting to know I was close, and my hand between my legs gave a grammar school relief to my peeing urge. I could feel his head descend with every push. The feel of his squishy scalp over his firm skull made me forget everything else. It helped me focus on the task of getting him out. I pushed until my labia burned, then I puffed air until the burning stopped.

A few minutes into it, the other midwife arrived, and I gave her detailed directions on where to find and how to turn on the camera. I was vividly alert and knew exactly what to do. I instructed my husband to hold my leg in just the right place. I knew just how much to push each time. I asked for water when I wanted it. I smoothed my fingers over my baby’s head as he emerged a little more with each effort. There was no fear. No doubt. There was only the strength of each push and the burn as my body stretched to accommodate our second child.

At 6:37 pm, in our house in Oakland, Otto squeezed out with a tiny cry. His father, joyous with laughter, lifted him to me. Otto blinked his eyes and looked at my face, my breast, my belly that had been his home. He was pink, and warm and calm. I was elated.

Correction: Prodromal Labor

It’s prodromal labor. That means I can’t announce that the baby is coming anytime soon- but there is something going on. Cervical ripening, descent of the baby, etc. Yesterday’s contractions slowed and stalled, and I knocked them out completely with 2 glasses of yummy red wine. After months of near tee totaling, I was wobbly-legged after dinner and the hot tub. I went promptly to bed. About ten times I was woken by a tightening in my belly and back, had to do some deep, slow breaths to keep comfortable, then went back to sleep. Today has been much of the same. While driving to get kitty litter I was gripped by one powerful contraction that made me plan an exit strategy if a second came along. The bleeding continues, so I can assume some change in my cervix, but it is too high and my sciatica is too bad for me to be able to do an accurate self-dilation check. Not for lack of trying! I know it won’t help me predict the future, but I am curious what these irregular, tolerable contractions are accomplishing. Here comes one now…

Early Labor?

Stella was born two days before her due date. When this boy’s due date came and went two days ago, I felt late. Over a 48-hour period this week at least five people called to see if I had had the baby yet. I snapped on the last one. Obviously we will let everyone know when he is born. I even have the birth announcement layout already done. It was a set up, though. I was convinced that I would have him the first week of January- and told people about it. What a mistake!

Well, to anyone paying attention, I am in some kind of early labor right now. I’m not going to call anyone right away or get my mother worrying so early in the day. But from 7 to 8 am I had regular light contractions every 3 minutes followed by some bloody show. I came downstairs to announce the good news to the family, and Augusto told me that the midwife had just called and said we shouldn’t go into labor today because she has two other clients laboring. That call killed the regularity of my contractions, but the blood still spots an hour later.

No Vegas, No Baby

I didn’t “let” Augusto go to CES in Vegas because I’m almost 40 weeks and don’t want him to miss the birth. Well, I’m still almost 40 weeks. In retrospect, he could have gone, but I didn’t want to risk it. He had some very important meetings and was only going to be there 12 or 24 hours- but that was too much for me considering once you’re in Vegas, there’s no getting out after midnight. I willed the baby to pop, tried the tricks I know (short of castor oil or an enema). The baby is break dancing in there right now- and posterior. I lost the beginnings of the mucous plug over the past 4 or 5 days and have been having more intense Braxton Hicks. But no labor. So he’s pissed, but hiding it well. And I am just relieved he didn’t go.

Despite months of practically ignoring the pregnancy and drawing a blank each time I imagined being the mother of two kids in diapers, I’m really ready now. I want to meet him on the outside. Stella is ready too. She digs the birth videos and talks all the time about him nursing and being born. It think it’s just papa that could use a little more time. He thinks I’ll go a week late. I hope not!

Making Room

We jetted my belly across the equator and back in October, washed & sorted Stella’s 0-6 month clothes, and installed a new hot tub. Work ends in a week. I’ve given my well wishes to patients who will deliver while I am on leave. I have not forgotten that it took three months to learn how to get out of the house before noon with a newborn, yet I have the idea that I will be able to sew and write when Stella is in day care and I am home with our son. Thus we are cleaning out a closet. A closet that shouldn’t be a closet. It has a window, heating vent, phone jack and overhead light. We cleaned out this same closet before Stella’s birth and rapidly stuffed it with more junk. So we begin again. Mostly it involves me nagging my dear husband to recycle his 2002 Wired collection and 1991 box of Hustlers (after we take an amused look). I don’t remember 1991 being so 1980’s- but it WAS! What a horrific realization. At least it is my own and not my kids pointing it out in 15 years. Anyway, I have big plans for this closet/ reclaimed room. It will be my craft nook. No, My Craft Nook. It will have a small table under that sunny window upon which I will leave quarter-made quilts, pieces of collage, and tangled balls of yarn. And when I have 8 minutes to myself I can go in there and pick up a project (or a Hustler!).

I think it all means we’re ready. I think Stella is a ready as possible. She knows where her brother is for now (and will one day wish he had stayed there, I’m sure). She diapers and feeds and swaddles her dolls several times a day. We used her language to teach her about birth: I delivered her stuffed hippo from under my shirt/ between my legs and made a lot of pooping noises. Of course it has become a favorite activity- with or without the hippo. We want her there when the little one is born. For the labor- probably not. She is a worrier- and a toddler- so one of our generous friends will entertain her and bring her home for the final moments.

Now we dive into holiday entertaining and being entertained. And we wait.

Winter Hide-Inside

I’m writing so erratically! I think I’m a Winter writer. Spring and Summer are for gardening, lazing. Winter is for hunkering down, thinking, and putting pen to paper with a mug of something hot. Most people I know mourn the shortening of the days. I welcome the shift in light. When it starts getting dark earlier, I haul my butt home to get on with the evening. This response is perfect for nesting. I was just getting started on the Winter hide-inside when Stella came. This time I might have until mid January to hunker down and write, clean deep into closets, sort the kitchen junk drawer, rip pages from old Vegetarian Times and Sunset. A Winter baby makes perfect timing for quintessential nesting behavior. I feel so Crafty. So Mrs. Good Housekeeping. If I weren’t so excited about it I’d be embarrassed. This drive is a far cry from ripping up the Berkeley chaparral on a mountain bike or belaying at the gym. But that life is on hold for now, and I AM excited… knitting, singing Wheels on the Bus, making soup, repairing dog-eared maps- these things wake me up. I am a driven pregnant woman, making spells to bring on the Winter.

Finally

Finally! I feel connected to this pregnancy. I don’t know if I was holding out to pass that magic date when we lost the first or just being a normal mom of a toddler, but I am relieved to have finally arrived. I have been feeling flutters for a week now- much earlier than before. I also look farther along than my almost 15 weeks. I have made it to this place twice before; I guess my body knows where to go.

Now I have to reconcile having a boy. It looked likely on the ultrasound, and my intuition said BOY within a week of knowing I was pregnant. I love the idea of a 20 year old son. But a little boy? I’m so used to having a girl. I guess that’s the reason we decided to find out this time. To prepare. The wonder of Stella’s gender was great throughout the pregnancy (although I knew she was a girl all along). Now we get to try another way for this fluttering boy.

I have more joy and energy now that I’m out of the first trimester. I have more patience with Stella and find her charming again. She says “baby” when she plays with my doppler, tries to hear her own belly.

Relief

I’m beyond Hello but not into the reality of pregnancy yet. Stella consumes me now. She hangs onto one of my legs like a skilled climber and says my name in so many variations I can’t pretend I don’t understand her. We went to visit my family for two weeks. I had visions of reading books, paying bills, sending letters. I actually brought all those things in my luggage- only to lug them home again untouched. Stella would not just play with Grandmom while I put my feet up. Oh, no. She needed me MORE in Baltimore than Oakland. So much for a vacation and time to connect with the baby within…

The best day so far this week was Monday. I worked 10 hours and although tired on the way home, I was actually smiling. I felt good. Then I realized I haven’t felt good in a few weeks, and 10 hours away from Stella cured me of my furrowed brow and bitchy outlook. I love my toddler so very much, but I get used up- especially with the pregnancy hormones. I’m not making excuses- I know I am perfectly normal. But I still felt guilty for my post-work-happiness, and sad for the smile-free days.

G4P1

How different this is than the first pregnancy. Well, third, really. The first I aborted when I admitted I couldn’t be a student and single mother to a child borne out of love to man who left for his own adventure with prostitutes in Ecuador 24 hours after the positive result. I mourned that one for years. The second died of accidental causes 14 weeks and 4 days into a terribly desired pregnancy. The third was dear Stella. We held our hearts secreted away until we passed into the 16^th week, the realm longer than I had held any child. We burst into the 5^th month buying baby things practical and frivolous, no longer tense around a stockinette cap or three-snap onsie.

And now number four. I have called my parents and told some friends, but I have not jumped for joy or shed a lump-throated tear. It’s not because I’m holding my breath. We now have proof that it all works. I’m not thinking about the challenges of two. I am certain they will come. The bulk of my pregnancy with Stella, I couldn’t will time to move fast enough to meet her. Now I pray these next 8 months will be slow and gentle. And we want this baby for our family. We had regular sex despite exhaustion just to get right here.

On the cross trainer this week I read a 2005 Utne Reader essay about a father’s experience of his wife’s pregnancy and birth. In full view of the other exercisers, I sobbed on the machine and then remembered that in the coming Winter I will bear a child again. I realized I hadn’t even greeted it yet. So I balanced on the machine, placed my hands on my shiny capoeira pants and said “Hello.”

Clean Kitchen

From the 6:08am call, “Mamae?” to my current half-eye-desk-slump (the hiss of the monitor at my back), it has been a jam-packed day. Clean kitchen, design cabinets, learn about new spirituality, take brisk walk near lake, clean kitchen, finish odd, but satisfying book, lend car to friend’s father, clean kitchen… Mostly I shuffled Stella from diversion to diversion while trying to hold down intelligent conversations with a carpenter, a poet, and a blogging neighbor. She does not like being ignored or sitting second in line for my attention. She has mastered a wrinkle-nosed purse-lipped “naooo” tied in with a Chinese finger grip thing that really sends a hint as to how she feels about it all. One other thing on my Packed Day List: see two pink lines on the pregnancy test and place them in front of my waking husband. I think that will add a few more “naooo’s” to Stella’s world- and a few more wipes of the kitchen in mine. We’re due in January 07. It’s just not real yet.

Word Salad

I know it is completely unethical to share any details from patient appointments, but I just have to. It took me a few minutes of careful redirection when determining the reason for CL’s visit today (not her real initials). A few mind-warping minutes of wondering if it was too late for my coffee or if I needed to practice focusing a bit more. I couldn't understand her (English) description of her chief complaint. She said her vagina was "sweck" and "swappy." She rolled those terms out like everyone knows them. She is not a teen. It is not some new generation thing (please correct me if I am wrong). I have been privileged to learn “dukie” (noun, shit) and “nut” (past tense of the verb to ejaculate), and a rash of other terms previously unheard by me but understood in context because I am somewhat smart (and it is my job to understand my patients).

Anyway, it took me those few minutes to realize my patient was completely nuts (not to be confused with nut). She went on to describe “you know, when you do [some reference for a drug] and get that white flowing feeling when it overflows over your underwear, when your skin is following one direction and the rest of you has gone to [a place or mental state].” Have you had this problem before? “ Well, I’ve been taking in a lot diamonds and properties and that usually makes it sweck. I shouldn’t be telling you, but I’m pulling it all together now- you know when all the parts just get in line?’ Are you sexually active? “Oh yeah, but my husband is so gorgeous and famous, he has sex for cigarettes or necessities sometimes. Women can’t resist him.”

CL had a simple yeast infection. I had a fabulous time talking with her in her unmediated state. I used to work with mentally ill adults, but never doing GYN care. It’s a whole new menu of word salad. And I love word salad. That’s where we are with Stella now. “Mama can take Baba for nana, Sweetie.” “Did you make coco? I think your diaper has uh-oh in it.” “Put down the watering can, Stella.” “Agua!”

On My Own

Shopping On My Own

I select 16 oz of garbanzos,
42 small diapers,
four boxes of our favorite
cereal.

I can’t stop staring
at one pale tomatillo-
its papery skin removed.

All 12 pounds of my little daughter
are at home.

Was Stella really already 3 months old when I wrote this poem? I didn't get out before then!? January 7 was the first draft. That's when the in-laws were here. It must be so. The emptiness of that first hour away from her was a hard surprize. I remember it well.

Today I left home at noon and my only contact with Stella before 7 am tomorrow will be in a few moments -when I sneak to her side and check the blanket on my way to bed. And it is easy. Every Monday is like this; I see patients until after 9pm.

My own time. Now it is sweet and rich with gratitude.

Weeping

No one talks about weaning. It's not surprising since breastfeeding isn't in the top 10 dinner conversations, but even among breastfeeding moms the getting off the breast passes without much comment. Like initiating this basic act, the ending of it can come with suffering. Feeding Stella was excruciating and humiliating for the first ten weeks. It felt like she was cutting off my nipple with an expertly sharpened pair of scissors. At week eight, it dulled to something akin to a firm slap on new sunburn. I avoided nursing in public. I cried a lot, especially at the 2 and 4 am feedings when I was too tired to get her into the right position and too tired to have any emotional strength in the face of this awful failure. And it did feel like a failure.

Now we skip ahead past 15 months of good eatin'. Breastfeeding carves out quiet time on busy days, makes a perfect soother, and nourishes my daughter and my ego (yes, it finally worked!). And after every cracked nipple, every pulled up shirt, we are weaning. I started 3 or 4 months ago by removing the mid-day and late afternoon snacks. She gets cow or goat milk or yogurt at these times. In March I removed the naptime nurse. That one has been really difficult. Stella screamed and clawed at my chest the first few days. I held her until she cried herself drowsy and then put her in the crib. Twice a week the nanny puts her down for her nap without a boob, another day she falls asleep in the car on the way home from grocery shopping or the park- so it's only 4 days max I need to do it. And it is working- she will ask to nurse by signing, but will accept a bottle of milk or just some rocking and then ask for the crib.

The surprise is my own sadness. The first day she realized I wasn't going to nurse her for the nap- and more or less accepted it, I wept when I left her room. After a horrific beginning, I thought I would praise the day my breasts became my own again. There is a freedom I am regaining now, and for that wonder, I am grateful. But seeing a window into the near future- when she won't need me in that core way- carves a strange wound in my heart. Is this how I will feel when she makes all her big steps toward independence? Proud, but weeping?

We Made the Decision!

We have made the big preschool decision! She’s not going to preschool this year. I visited a few and found one I really like. Stella played happily with the other children- except one kid who wanted to do everything she was doing. I appreciated the well-kept wooden toys, healthy snacks, big outdoor play area, and gradual progression from play-based to slightly more structured as the kids get older. We’ll probably send her there next year when she’s 3. For now we’ll be switching her to an in-home Brazilian day care ½ mile from our house when our nanny returns to Brazil. There are eight kids max with 2 or 3 adults speaking Portuguese to each other and the children. It will cost less because I don’t really need three full days per week, but must pay for them with the preschool. I don’t know if I’m even ready for three days anyway. The idea of an extra day just for me to get things done and/or make some art, play in the garden, etc. is wonderful in so many ways, but I love being with her and am into a comfortable routine. The day care hourly rate is higher, but it will be much more affordable over all if I go on maternity leave for a second baby next year. Most importantly, Stella will learn more Portuguese. With her Papai having such a long commute, she gets her Portuguese on the weekends and with the nanny. Another year of the language will really help in the long run.

It’s truly hard to trust my decisions regarding Stella’s care. They are more critical than most decisions in my pre-motherhood life. A mess up with a care provider choice could have devastating affects. A smart choice can make our lives easier. I feel like I’ve met my own little developmental milestone.

Without the Shock?!

Our office/ playroom furniture finally arrived in a functional state and eight weeks later the old desk and mess are hidden away. We have a new play table for Stella and a hand-me-down slide for the yard. In the past nine days I have planned and executed these last two items with passionate vigor. I have also had two successful ebay shoe bids. Now I am without direction when I sit at my computer. If I let myself go where I really want, I will be trapped in a web of medical jargon and sad stories until well past my bedtime.

What I really want to do is Google peanut allergies. That’s because last week Stella could have died. She had two cubic centimeters of my Clif Nectar bar (dates and cashews made in a plant that processes peanuts). I handed them back to her while we were driving home from the gym. When we pulled into the garage she was clawing at her ears and neck and was covered with red splotches over her lower face. I ripped her out of her car seat, raced her upstairs, and trashed the medicine cabinets searching for liquid Benadryl. The reaction seemed to be thwarted after a little vomit, a nap and the antihistamine, but she woke two hours later the color of ripe raspberries from the top of her head to the edges of the soles of her feet. When her lips, hands, and feet turned blue, we went to the emergency room. Not directly, however. I pulled into the red zone, knowing I had not a dollar in my wallet to pay the parking fee- which surely I would need once triage laughed and sent us on our way home. I stared at her, convinced myself that her lips were a normal shade, that the swelling wasn’t progressing. She was breathing fine. Then the pediatrician called my cell and asked if we had made it ok. I confessed my ambivalence and she firmly convinced me to go in.

We were triaged in front of a packed waiting room of whining children and immediately greeted with undivided attention and steroids via IV. Her swelling worsened over the next hour, despite the medications, and she barfed all over me- all over every item of my clothing. The attending physician called it “anaphylaxis without the shock.” We left with an Epi-pen and the burden of knowing that until we can sort out her allergies- and then after- every label, every joyful toddler’s outstretched handful of potentially fatal cereal will be scrutinized.

Shopping for furniture and discount shoes is so much easier.

Lost Ant

One lost ant scaling the shower tiles survived this morning. Five years ago this act of non-violence wouldn’t have deserved mention. I let bugs live for most of my years. I escorted all terrified spiders and even disgusting earwigs to the door. Then we moved on top of the largest anthill in the city of Oakland. I have massacred hundreds of ants forming a highway from the kitchen door to the cat food. I have squished them one by one on my desk, my daughter’s overalls. But not today. When I saw that black speck running away from the spray, I didn’t even move my hand in her direction. We’ve been fighting heavy eyelids and packed schedules- and actually having regular sex- all to have a second child. When I saw that tiny ant, I imagined tiny possibilities deep in my uterus and just watched her make it to higher ground.

Put to Death

Finally someone has a fresh perspective on the death penalty. Joan Ryan wrote her column just for me today. When I heard that the anesthesiologists refused to participate in the most recently planned San Quentin execution, I thought if we just went back to hanging, this wouldn’t be an issue. I oppose the death penalty, but I find interest in the nuances of the argument. We have reduced legalized murder to a sterile spectator sport. If more people could witness the raw death of a hanging or beheading perhaps they would rethink that vote. Photos of meat processing farms made me give up meat. 19 years later those images of sad cow eyes are still effective.

This man will be put to death. (Does that come from “put to sleep,” what we tell children when the dog is euthanized? Are we children who need some buffer from the truth?) Like Ryan, I don’t care too much about his pain. I think there was some merit in eye-for-an-eye punishments, I just don’t think we should go so far as murder-for-murder. But what about the family of Terri Winchell, mourning her for 25 years? And the murderer’s family, what of them? The survivors know raw pain and can’t hide their realities behind sterile sheets, simple phrases, or legal arguments. Ever since I could find the outline of Stella's foot inside my womb, I have had her brutal murder, her tragic accident, her kidnapping- in multiple forms -play out in my untamed imagination. These waking nighmares stike at any time, raise my heart rate, embarrass me. If they were real, I would want someone other than me or her to suffer.

Shoe Shopping

When something is on sale and appears to be of good quality and style, I consider buying it. I almost never pay full price and often shop second hand. I rarely buy shoes. My husband is the shoe man. Not me. I can’t understand spending $60, $80, or $120 on shoes. I bought Stella’s “first shoes” today. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. I went to use a gift certificate we received when she was born. It is from a store filled with imported gossamer dresses and suede jackets. It also has a large shoe selection. The owner is the shoe fitter. She had me hold the excited post-Gymboree Stella over the metal foot measurer. 4.5 narrow or medium. I eagerly displayed the mauve mary janes at a gift certificate worthy $56. “Not for her first shoes. A mary jane is never a first shoe.” I tried the sporty, blue and red Italian model for $78. “She needs something with a lower profile, a softer sole.” She already has Robeez- the shoe with a strip of leather for the bottom, but they don’t work in the rain.

She brought out two dark, featureless pairs that didn’t bowl me over with their style, but I would pay $80 for each! There were four other mom-kid shopper dyads in the shoe section. One girl was a day younger than Stella. Her mom was buying her “second” shoes. Cute ones with a funky sole and strappy Velcro top. I found out that she had been walking the same amount of time as Stella. So I asked the owner/shoe expert why my daughter had to wear some ugly shoes. “These are her first shoes.” Well she’s been in other shoes. “But they’re the first to me. I go by the book.” I know I should have stomped right out the door in my poorly fitted bargain sale shoes, but guilt held me like a sink weight. The expert went on about posture and gait and some kids need wedges and lifts and it’s my job to keep the development in the right direction. So we ended up what is probably the latest version of my “first shoe.” A $40 pair of plain white lace-up Stride Rites- and the compliant knowledge that we’ll be buying new shoes every three months until she’s four. The good news is that in three months we can spend more money and get something cute.

It's the Fingers' Fault

It wasn’t an overindulgence of blueberries. She had a stomach bug, and it went around. Over the next week, every 48 hours, it got me then our nanny-share family. It was only 24-hours for each of us, but I nearly cried to go to the Emergency in the three sweaty, chilly, moaning hours before I finally careened over the proverbial porcelain. I did feel much better afterwards- just like everyone always says. Birth excepted, last week’s puke fest was my third in over 15 years. I suppose it is a glimpse of the good bugs to come from having a child who sticks her fingers in other children’s drooly mouths and snooty noses, and various undersides of benches, corners of dirty floors, whatever! as often as she can.

Today she was digging in the pebbles near the bird sanctuary at the lake when she was approached by a goose. Being the good mother I am, I immediately started taking pictures without ever giving thought to shoo the creature away. It was probably almost her weight and looking for a handout. Stella turned with a pebble and the goose thought it was morsel of something good. Nipped her little fingers. Naturally being the good mother I am, I started to laugh. The goose went in for more and got her other hand. Now I know in some corner of my intellect that they can be nasty creatures, but I also spent half my childhood luring squirrels to the sliding glass door with my outstretched hand. So I can forget sometimes that wild animals and babies might not be the best mix. With the left hand nibbled and her mother laughing harder, she cried. My sensible mama friend told that goose where to go, and I got Stella and kissed away the double insults.

Pukephobic

I hate vomit. Mostly, I hate the smell. My daughter threw up for the first time last night. It was her first night sleeping 11 hours without calling for me. When she woke up at a fantastic 7 am, I went to her in the morning darkness. As I leaned over her crib… “What is that smell?!” Intuition made me turn on the light.

Puke. Everywhere. A cold and half-dried pool on the sheet. Stiff in her hair. Crusted on her cheek. Plastered to her bunny. Speckling the bumpers. She looked at it and at the look on my face and started to cry. I scooped her as quickly and lovingly as I could (without holding her too close) and made for our room.

Fortunately my husband isn’t pukephobic like I am. (Not planned, but an excellent parenting match). He ripped off the bedding and started the laundry while I took her in the shower. Even though I washed her hair twice, she still smelled faintly of barf today. Tonight’s bath got rid of the rest, thank goodness. It is a terrible thing to have one’s formerly vanilla-butter scented child have vomit-stink seeping from her skin. The smell is horrible, but the spoil of the “great smelling baby” is a real heartbreak.

Stella loved Brazil!

I Read the Research

Today's Chronicle reports a UC Santa Barbara study that shows the benefits of preschool disappear by 3rd grade. This means kids who attended and didn't attend preschool perform the same in math and language by the time they're 8. These data come on the heels of a Stanford/ UC study that showed cognitive gains from preschool contrast with significant slowing of social- behavioral development. The behavioral factors, which were measured in kindergarten, included aggression, acting up, sharing, and showing the motivation to engage in classroom tasks.

So now what? I'm not overtly thinking of putting Stella in preschool for the cognitive benefits, but for the socialization. She loves playing with other kids. She gets bored with me at home. She could go into a smaller family daycare, but preschool gives me the idea that she'll learn a thing or two (as a bonus). I also have the idea that she should go to preschool. Like it's a requirement akin to brushing her teeth. So like any normal person, I read the research and stay mired in my old ideas.

Primary Education

I have good organizational skills. I can make a matrix on any subject and creatively file so that most people can find what they're looking for. I am well-educated and laid back enough to comfortably wait in a very long line at the post office. I live in a neighborhood jammed with strollers. I have internet access, a cell phone, a home phone, a car, and (currently) 7 days a week to make calls and go places. Why can't I find a preschool? Why can’t I even decide which preschools to consider? I'm not looking for the standard 2 year, 9 month start gen-U-ine School, but some place to deliver Stella three full days per week when she's 2. Our nanny is moving at the end of the year.

People warned me that preschool entry is competitive. Competitive?! Despite this warning, I am in shock. Obviously, there are two possibilities:

1. Parents are freaks to think that the “right” preschool assures the little one a slot at Harvard/ Sarah Lawrence/ Whatever.
2. I am a neglectful mother whose child will never make it through primary education.

I have heard of people who have been on waiting lists since before conception. Thankfully, I don't know any of them because I don't know what I would say or do to them if I did. I also just found out that people camp out for preschool admission!

I went to a preschool fair on the weekend. I saw the tables with photo displays of multihued smiling faces and small stacks of shiny pamphlets. Were they handed out more eagerly to some parents than others? My mama friends and I are generally a balanced bunch. But school is making some of us a bit nutty. I ran into a dad at the fair. He looked scrubbed and planned out. The baby was in a matching outfit. Dad admitted the family had "dressed up” just in case they might talk with an administrator of a potential school. They are kind, normal people. She’s an artist. I think he’s a tech guy. They had a reggae singer at their son’s first birthday. I don’t think he was kidding about their admission anxiety.

Stella will be too young this winter to enter most of the schools- which is good since we will have fewer to choose from. Good because I am wholly unprepared for the insanity of 20 plus potential schools. I have prioritized the selection criteria: Close to home or work. Minimum hours 8am to 6pm. Multicultural and affordable. Filled with happy parents and friendly teachers. That’s it.

When I left the fair I had a little lump in my throat thinking about sending my baby to school. I imagined packing her lunch, watching her wave bye and patter away. I called my mother as another lump rose in my throat. I asked how she chose my preschool. She said there was one across from the campus where she was in college. And when I couldn’t go there because I had a runny nose or it was closed, she brought me to class. I remember sitting in the back drawing.

If it could be so simple.

Off Work/ With Nanny

I am at the end of my third day off work/ with nanny. My third day in the entire 15 months, 7 days since my daughter's birth. Not that I'm trying to impress anyone with the hours and hours of time I have juggled her in one arm and a skillet/telephone/bowl of cat food in the other. I'm not looking for any sympathy or praise for cleaning all the beans off the floor AND doing a dark AND light load AND taking out the recycling all in one day. I'm merely mentioning the year and 3.25 months because it's kind of a long time to go without a full day to oneself. I didn't even realize it until the first day. The To Do list was hopeful.

1/11/06
clean garage
sell speakers
prune trees
mend dress
iron
clean porch
fix fence
find job
make holiday letter
optometrist
birthday card for mom

On 1 /11/06 I ironed one shirt, took a nap, had a pedicure, and ate lunch with a friend. But the other days I have plowed through tasks. Cleaned tiny corner of garage. Sold stereo, automatic litter box, and double stroller. Gave away stack of old curtains on freecycle. Pruned all the trees. Started making recycled wool hats and one of a kind recycled baby clothing. Napped a few times. Installed mailbox that was purchased before Stella's birth.

Today I had a two-hour interview (aka- they love me!) for a decent job at a community clinic in the location of my old job. So not only will I like the work and staff, but I can see my favorite parking lot attendant and coffee guy just like old times. The only problem is that I'll lose this ability to get things done- this living fantasy world that almost feels like routine.

The Best Thing

The best thing just happened. I was hungry and tired and unable to decide what to eat as I pawed through the wrapped sandwiches at the Starbuck's next to work. There were many possibilities promising a full belly and an increased level of hip-ness. "upscale Mediterranean tuna salad." What?! Still, nothing blew my skirt up. I nearly walked away from the counter, defeated, belly rumbling, when a scruffy man with brilliant eyes said, "My favorite is the egg one. They put peaches in it or something. I don't know, but it's really good and is a generous portion." I couldn't open my mouth, couldn't find a single word to say to him. My hand reached for the salad on "scrumptious multigrain" and grabbed it without effort. When I emerged from the refrigerator case, the man was gone. The girl at the counter asked if I wanted anything to drink, and I chose a pear Izze in less than a second. The block was gone. I was released from the vortex of starving indecision. That one simple comment from the brilliant-eyed man connected me back to the world and to my own power. He reached into my sleep-deprived mama soul and straightened my collar, dusted off my sleeve. He gave me a little mothering and vanished.

The sandwich was good. No peaches, but sweet.

Who's a liar?

Before I continue, I have a confession. I've been fabricating the publication dates on this armoire tale. There, I've said it. I am a terrible liar. I've been wanting to write about the desk drama, but haven't found the time. I've been using my energy to fight this all-talk company, decide about quitting my job, and manage the rest of my life. Excuses that could have been left unsaid if I had kept my mouth shut just now. The dates have been chosen to represent the approximate times of the events.

So Bob and his Daddy made these promises- promises they couldn't keep. Bob received the furniture, put it together at the store, and holy moly! there was a 5/16 of an inch difference between the upper dowels and the lower holes. Bob went to plan D and offered us the floor model at a 30% discount. I think we should go for it even though we have no idea how they got that one together. I just want the stacks put away and don't care about a few scratches or rigging. My man feels differently. For 70% off he'll take the display. No less. He can wait months more for the imaginary furniture and endure my nagging and bitching about this company who bills itself at Not-IKEA. Hah! Let me share the differences:
1. EQ3 labels the parts for assembly;
2. IKEA doesn't run to its Swedish Daddy when there is a problem;
3. We have the joy of paying 3 times more at EQ3.

We leave for Brazil in a few days. Perhaps we'll have some insight there which will bring a close to the drama.

Promises, Promises

Bob was so eager to please. He called Canada and promised he would get us a matched armoire. Canada promised that they had never seen this problem before. Canada said they would ship a new top. It came, Bob brought it over in the back of his van. He assembled the piece itself. Surprize, it didn't fit. Then Canada, parental Canada, asked for photo of the mismatch and accurate diagrams. We insisted on a new top and bottom.

Bob has promised that Canada has promised to assemble, disassemble, and ship the beautiful, 1K solution to our marital woes.