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.