I want to provide you all with an update concerning the name of our little one, expected to arrive on July 30th at 7:32am. I went into this pregnancy with the name to end all names ... Aenore, a lovely name meaning "light" and "sweet". I'm just kidding ... that is how I like my coffee. It just means "light" or, in a pinch, "bright light". It is so unused it is the next best thing to a totally made up name. In general, I disagree with totally made up names because, if none of the other three billion parents have thought of it yet, maybe it is just you? I am also against made up spellings. Odd spellings do NOT make a name unusual just as odd pronunciations do NOT make a name unique. My favorite in this latter category is Michelle pronounced "Meechelle". We can all see the i there and we know it says an i sound like it does in "fig". It just compounds the complexity of MY life to have to remember in your one, special case it says e as in me. Yes, this is all coming from a bitter, chubby girl named "Lisa", the most popular girl name of the 70s. Oh wait. With an i pronounced like the e in me. So I'll just move on to other things I think about when naming.
My list of important things in a particular order:
1) pretty sounding
2) familiar enough to be pronounced successfully by reasonably intelligent people
3) not so common there will be three or four of them in every class
4) a name with family significance
5) not trendy sounding
6) something with a nice meaning
Claire Frances adheres to the list except for #4. Avery Belle, I am afraid, falls short of #3, #5 and #6, as it means something strange like "ruler of the elves". Aenore wasn't a bad attempt according to my list but as you can see from John's list below, it falls remarkably short.
John's list of important things:
1) it does not sound foreign (so ironic)
2) it doesn't sound like any other word in the English language (right. so in direct opposition to #1)
3) isn't also the name of his slightly overweight (but so nice) bank teller
4) it sounds like a hedge fund manager's name (stay with me)
5) it sounds "right"
So my list of super super girls names (I have names for an entire flock of girls arising from future marriages) are not so super after all. See if you can identify the John rule broken for each name.
Aenore - didn't make it past #1 but never would have survived the remaining rules
Maisie - stopped dead by #4
Morgan - clearly the name of a future bank teller, so you can just forget about the house of morgan, arguably the most successful banking family in the world EVER
Violet - disqualified by rule #2
Harriet - passes all rules with flying colors and hits #5 squarely!
Penelope - yes and yes
"Consuela" - I am not kidding. This name came about on the same night as Penelope as we watched "Eligy" with Penelope Cruz in which she looked not a bit trampy but 100% beautiful Audrey Hepburn. Her character's name was Consuela. Which, I think, is possibly the most foreign sounding name I've ever heard. And how it sounds like a hedge fund manager, I do not know. I have all kinds of problems with this name so it falls off the end of the list.
So, coupled with Lauran (a family name on my side), Harriett Lauran, to be nicknamed "Hattie" is a possible winner. Yes, that is a stylized "t" on the end, a nod to other great names out there with stray ts (Bridgett, to name one). If you can unread paragraph one, maybe you should do that now. Tee hee I am such a hypocrite hee hee. hee?
So please, comment! So far it has elicited a lot of "huh." responses. Dad, you are a lovely man to say you "love" the name. And I love you!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
The Question
Last night, as we got ready for bed, I asked John "if you could do it all over again ... having the kids ... would you?" He was understandably shocked "Of COURSE! What would I do without the girls?"
I followed him into his closet and qualified my question slightly to reflect my own answer "I mean, if you didn't KNOW anything about them ... if you just knew what it would be like ..." He didn't answer and walked back toward our bed.
I brushed my teeth, climbed into bed and persisted "Well, would you? Hmmmmmmm???" No answer.
I couldn't wait for him to politely reverse the question any longer "well I think I would say 'no thank you' I don't really think I could handle all of that" Silence as my answer sinks into the air of the room. No no! I retreat "no, actually, I think I would say 'no thank you' but then regret it severely later".
Yes, and THAT is my final answer. I like to say that no person in his or her right mind would choose to have children if he or she truly understood what is required. The sneaky thing is, you can't KNOW what is required until AFTER you have the kids. And then it is too late ... you are hooked. It reminds me of a frozen food vendor who shows up at my door once or twice a year peddling $20/pound pork tenderloin. He wants to give me something for free, secure that I will find thawing out his delicious food for dinner irresistible, rendering me stupid. If he was peddling babies, he would be absolutely right. Well, maybe not frozen babies.
The thing is, there is nothing less convenient than having a baby. They show up out of nowhere, all cute and little, needing endless tactical things like food, baths and diapers. You, new parent, stride forward, scoop up the little creature and go about caring for her. She is needy, sure, but you know how to fix things. A new diaper, a cuddle, a drive, food. It is certainly no harder than your last project at your "real job". You are thrilled to discover that she has a personality, that she smiles she laughs she wants no one but YOU. All of those things are like a bonus because, oddly, you would provide diaper changes, drives, etc without her ever responding in any way. And it is right about this time you realize you are hooked, so hooked you can't only NOT go back but you can't even WANT TO go back. And there are no addiction groups urging you to quit, offering their compassionate support to help you get back on your feet. No, the entire world (this bears iteration ... the ENTIRE WORLD) expects you to not only continue, but to get further and further hooked. It is a crazy situation but you don't have time to or want to think about it. You just dive in further.
Odor free newborn diapers turn into dry heaving spells that leave your eyes watering. And yet you smile adoringly at your sweet little girl as you will your stomach to calm. The other day, being pregnant, I barely managed to finish the wiping process before saying reassuringly to Claire "be right back, sweetheart" and charged off to the bathroom. I spent the next five minutes retching. Claire rushed in after me, concerned "Mommy, you sick?" and I managed to open my eyes a bit to see her sweet little face hovering over the bowl with a look of understanding concern. I SMILED, melting at the sight of someone so sweet and caring as to get that close to such an ugly operation. My thoughts were entirely centered on her ... was she disturbed to see me in that state? Would it damage her trust in me? Would I get another diaper on her in time?? I swayed back into the nursery to finish the job and change her sister's disgusting diaper. And I can offer no better illustration of the madness than this.
But another, almost as good ... about a week ago, Claire called me from the living room. I rushed in to be of assistance, getting down to her level (as all the books recommend), peering into her little face, hoping to help. She looked at me with those big brown eyes. And sneezed right in my face. No, that isn't why she had called me over. She wanted to talk about juice boxes. I wiped the spittle from my eyes and mouth and agreed to rush order her a juice box. I have been sick ever since and am coughing now.
To top it off, I am voluntarily having another one. There is no explanation for this kind of behavior. "Thank you sir. May I have another?" Insane. But I am not alone. The world nods its head with me "ha ha, so true so true". But I will say that if John was one day in my role, he would have answered my question without any politically correct rhetoric. No! Is anyone crazy enough to do this KNOWINGLY?
I followed him into his closet and qualified my question slightly to reflect my own answer "I mean, if you didn't KNOW anything about them ... if you just knew what it would be like ..." He didn't answer and walked back toward our bed.
I brushed my teeth, climbed into bed and persisted "Well, would you? Hmmmmmmm???" No answer.
I couldn't wait for him to politely reverse the question any longer "well I think I would say 'no thank you' I don't really think I could handle all of that" Silence as my answer sinks into the air of the room. No no! I retreat "no, actually, I think I would say 'no thank you' but then regret it severely later".
Yes, and THAT is my final answer. I like to say that no person in his or her right mind would choose to have children if he or she truly understood what is required. The sneaky thing is, you can't KNOW what is required until AFTER you have the kids. And then it is too late ... you are hooked. It reminds me of a frozen food vendor who shows up at my door once or twice a year peddling $20/pound pork tenderloin. He wants to give me something for free, secure that I will find thawing out his delicious food for dinner irresistible, rendering me stupid. If he was peddling babies, he would be absolutely right. Well, maybe not frozen babies.
The thing is, there is nothing less convenient than having a baby. They show up out of nowhere, all cute and little, needing endless tactical things like food, baths and diapers. You, new parent, stride forward, scoop up the little creature and go about caring for her. She is needy, sure, but you know how to fix things. A new diaper, a cuddle, a drive, food. It is certainly no harder than your last project at your "real job". You are thrilled to discover that she has a personality, that she smiles she laughs she wants no one but YOU. All of those things are like a bonus because, oddly, you would provide diaper changes, drives, etc without her ever responding in any way. And it is right about this time you realize you are hooked, so hooked you can't only NOT go back but you can't even WANT TO go back. And there are no addiction groups urging you to quit, offering their compassionate support to help you get back on your feet. No, the entire world (this bears iteration ... the ENTIRE WORLD) expects you to not only continue, but to get further and further hooked. It is a crazy situation but you don't have time to or want to think about it. You just dive in further.
Odor free newborn diapers turn into dry heaving spells that leave your eyes watering. And yet you smile adoringly at your sweet little girl as you will your stomach to calm. The other day, being pregnant, I barely managed to finish the wiping process before saying reassuringly to Claire "be right back, sweetheart" and charged off to the bathroom. I spent the next five minutes retching. Claire rushed in after me, concerned "Mommy, you sick?" and I managed to open my eyes a bit to see her sweet little face hovering over the bowl with a look of understanding concern. I SMILED, melting at the sight of someone so sweet and caring as to get that close to such an ugly operation. My thoughts were entirely centered on her ... was she disturbed to see me in that state? Would it damage her trust in me? Would I get another diaper on her in time?? I swayed back into the nursery to finish the job and change her sister's disgusting diaper. And I can offer no better illustration of the madness than this.
But another, almost as good ... about a week ago, Claire called me from the living room. I rushed in to be of assistance, getting down to her level (as all the books recommend), peering into her little face, hoping to help. She looked at me with those big brown eyes. And sneezed right in my face. No, that isn't why she had called me over. She wanted to talk about juice boxes. I wiped the spittle from my eyes and mouth and agreed to rush order her a juice box. I have been sick ever since and am coughing now.
To top it off, I am voluntarily having another one. There is no explanation for this kind of behavior. "Thank you sir. May I have another?" Insane. But I am not alone. The world nods its head with me "ha ha, so true so true". But I will say that if John was one day in my role, he would have answered my question without any politically correct rhetoric. No! Is anyone crazy enough to do this KNOWINGLY?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
John
Yes, this is to be the post about John, Hui John Zhang, the man I married. I am dedicating it to him because he is such an important part of my life. If you read about him only in passing in other posts, you may come away with the wrong impression, that he is less than he is. So here it goes ...I'm not actually sure where to start so let me dig through an old diary to read my description of him soon after we first met ...
Ah yes, so at the risk of making your eyes roll ... yes but wait ... first, some context about the author. I was 33 years old, working 12 hour days at JP Morgan. My colleagues were no longer talking of setting me up, perhaps because they had had time to detect the ways in which I maybe wasn't a perfect catch. And their lists of single friends were dwindling. I had broken up with a very nice guy 1.5 years previous (I decided I could do better) and had totally lost track of time. I hadn't had a date since then and had been too busy to notice. I was a machine, waking up at 4:30am every weekday morning to take the subway to Water Street station. I arrived at the "New York Health and Racquet Club" every morning at 5:30am and stood outside waiting for it to open with a handful of other people with exercise issues. This handful included some odd, some old, none interesting. The stockbrokers I worked out with in the mornings were old and married or players. They approached me occasionally while I worked out to compliment me on various muscle groups. I know! Anyway, it was not a great environment to meet men but I relied heavily on the creepy guy compliments to get me from one workout to the next.
Times were dire. I was working working working and then working out. I lived a secluded life with occasional social interaction with friends from work. So when I met John, my sepia life was instantly full of color. My glowing assessment ...
(dated 6.27.05)
Last year, nearly this same time (July 7th) I met the love of my life, a most wonderful man. A man among men, really and my favorite person.I can't explain how I adore him. John ... isn't that the most amazing name? He is everything I ever hoped to find: strong, sweet, kind, loyal, brilliant, funny, handsome and in charge. He has incredible (underlined) eyes and a dimple on one cheek (smiley face). He has an elegant hold of himself, always looking sophisticated somehow no matter what he is wearing. I think that the word "gentile" does a nice job describing John. He is well spoken and well respected.
It goes on from there, entry after entry about this amazing amazing man. Before those of you who know my incredible husband, begin to dispute areas of my list, let me say that the road from glowing journal entries to sour blog posts is a short one. One's flaws and virtues are only visible under the glaring light of Real Life. My list of his qualities was incomplete, missing some important ones like generosity and perseverance. Time and marriage have revealed him more completely to me. I see that all of those things that attracted me to him in those earliest days are not just on the surface, that they run very very deep and that I can count on him to remain himself no matter the circumstances. He apologizes when he is wrong, he is dedicated to an ideal of fairness like no one else I know. Because of him, we run what I like to call "to the extent possible, a fair household". Most importantly, he loves me!!!
We've done a lot in our few years together ... we moved across the world (twice), I had a stroke, we are new parents, I stopped working, he's been laid off, we bought a house, his dad is dealing with poor health and dimentia, we are starting a business. These things have all shaken our little foundation, but in the end, I know they will only make us stronger. With John, I feel really really strong ... I shout at life "BRING IT!"
If my girls find a man like their daddy, I will rejoice!
Ah yes, so at the risk of making your eyes roll ... yes but wait ... first, some context about the author. I was 33 years old, working 12 hour days at JP Morgan. My colleagues were no longer talking of setting me up, perhaps because they had had time to detect the ways in which I maybe wasn't a perfect catch. And their lists of single friends were dwindling. I had broken up with a very nice guy 1.5 years previous (I decided I could do better) and had totally lost track of time. I hadn't had a date since then and had been too busy to notice. I was a machine, waking up at 4:30am every weekday morning to take the subway to Water Street station. I arrived at the "New York Health and Racquet Club" every morning at 5:30am and stood outside waiting for it to open with a handful of other people with exercise issues. This handful included some odd, some old, none interesting. The stockbrokers I worked out with in the mornings were old and married or players. They approached me occasionally while I worked out to compliment me on various muscle groups. I know! Anyway, it was not a great environment to meet men but I relied heavily on the creepy guy compliments to get me from one workout to the next.
Times were dire. I was working working working and then working out. I lived a secluded life with occasional social interaction with friends from work. So when I met John, my sepia life was instantly full of color. My glowing assessment ...
(dated 6.27.05)
Last year, nearly this same time (July 7th) I met the love of my life, a most wonderful man. A man among men, really and my favorite person.
It goes on from there, entry after entry about this amazing amazing man. Before those of you who know my incredible husband, begin to dispute areas of my list, let me say that the road from glowing journal entries to sour blog posts is a short one. One's flaws and virtues are only visible under the glaring light of Real Life. My list of his qualities was incomplete, missing some important ones like generosity and perseverance. Time and marriage have revealed him more completely to me. I see that all of those things that attracted me to him in those earliest days are not just on the surface, that they run very very deep and that I can count on him to remain himself no matter the circumstances. He apologizes when he is wrong, he is dedicated to an ideal of fairness like no one else I know. Because of him, we run what I like to call "to the extent possible, a fair household". Most importantly, he loves me!!!
We've done a lot in our few years together ... we moved across the world (twice), I had a stroke, we are new parents, I stopped working, he's been laid off, we bought a house, his dad is dealing with poor health and dimentia, we are starting a business. These things have all shaken our little foundation, but in the end, I know they will only make us stronger. With John, I feel really really strong ... I shout at life "BRING IT!"
If my girls find a man like their daddy, I will rejoice!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Good Things
1) Having Nelka around allows me to go out when I want ... to get my nails done, to get coffee, to have lunch ... I try to time it so C&A are napping while I'm out. Yesterday I met up with Uma for lunch. I left at 12:30 with the kids asleep and told Nelka "they should be able to sleep until I get home at 2:30". I got back at 3pm and found Nelka holding a furious Ava. From her tear stained face and puffy little eyes, I could see she'd been crying. Nelka said apologetically "I had to get her up because she was crying so much". Oh, my heart broke! So while I was eating away, chatting with Uma, that little baby was sobbing. And she was really really angry with me! When I came in the door, she wouldn't look at me, she clung to Nelka when I tried to hold her, she was so mad! I decided to give her a bath which always makes her happy but even after she got out, she was still mad. I dried her off with her back turned to me. I leaned in to kiss her cheek and she stepped out of reach. I patted her on the arm and she actually brushed me off with her hand. It took MANY HOURS for her to forgive me. I will need to be more explicit with my instructions to Nelka... get them up when you think it is necessary!
2) Not being hugely pregnant in the dead of winter. Since I don't mind heat and humidity, going through the summer that way isn't any trouble for me. This time around, I narrowly escaped having to buy one of those massive maternity coats. So far, my protective fat layer does the trick!
3) We have the nicest coffee machine. It is technically "automatic" in that it generates a tasty cup of coffee at the press of a button. The drawback is the amazing number of little trays that must be filled (or emptied) between and during the making of each cup so that the timeline looks something like this:
7:25am Lisa hits "on" button
7:27 Error message "fill water tray"
7:28 Lisa replaces refilled water tray, hits "on" button
7:35 Machine completes "descaling"
7:37 Machine completes "heating and self cleaning"
7:38 Error message "empty waste bit"
7:39 Lisa replaces emptied waste bin
7:41 Machine is ready to make first cup of coffee
7:43 Machine grinds beans and makes yummy smelling cup of coffee
7:43 Lisa requests second cup for a friend, Error message "refill coffee bean tray"
7:44 Lisa replaces refilled coffee bean tray, hits "on" button, apologizes to friend
7:45 Friend must leave to drop son off at school
7:46 Machine delivers second cup of coffee, Error message "error#41", Lisa kicks machine, enjoys delicious cup of coffee and forgives
A person could enter and recover from caffeine withdrawal while waiting for this very very fancy machine to produce a single cup of coffee. Lesson; When at my house, LEAP to grab the first cup ... it could be the last one. I won't say how much we spent on our coffee machine as it is a little embarrassing. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And like I said, the coffee it does manage to make is good enough to make my list of good things.
4) I spend what I like without John interfering. This is a wonderful thing! Granted, my weakness at the moment is used books, but I also like to get my nails done once a week. John is a worrier and I could totally picture him reading over my credit card statements sputtering "What?! What did you buy at RB Books for $24??" or "So you're still getting your nails done at that Towne Nails, huh? ..." Instead, that lovely man just pays those statements. Knowing how he worries about money, I count his treatment of my spending as a pure act of love. Ooooohhhh, isn't he GREAT?!
5) Being married to that amazing man I like to call "John". He is incredible ... a partner, a friend ... I beam when I think about him and don't get me started talking about him! Sure, he can be a real piece of work. Just yesterday I was recalling to a friend how, after I'd had Ava and lay helpless and in pain in a hospital bed, he couldn't be bothered to hand me the tv remote or help me track my pain medication. Most of our lovely four days there with our new baby were spent yelling at each other. I'm sure the staff was wondering if they should contact social services to start looking for a foster home for the child. More likely they were thinking ... "these people always think a baby will bring them closer together ..." What I love about being married to John is that, at least so far, we have survived those lows together. I see the times I hate him as marriage strengthening times. For example, I now KNOW we can survive his being a complete jerk after I carried and delivered his child. Isn't that wonderful?! ... if you are wondering, this time around, I have plans to replace John's "function" at the hospital (handing me things) with a well stocked handbag kept near the head of my bed within reach. He will be welcome to hang out there with us or not. There will be no pressure. I will be willing to sleep there alone ... Yet, he was the only one in whom I could confide that I hadn't had a bowel movement yet even when I'd assured the nursing staff that "oh yes!, my bowels have been moving!" He was the only one with a matching look of adoration in his eyes as he gazed at my new baby. He was the only one missing Claire as much as I was. He is really the only one with whom I am mature enough to share my children. I love it when they clamor to get out of my arms to go to him ... I love it when they love him more ... it just seems right.
6) Watching the water outside. Our house was marketed as "lakefront" which is the reason we wanted to see it. I was disappointed to find that the lake was a bit like a puddle, really just a large pond. But that's okay! It is so pretty! Every day it looks different ... I am looking at it now and it is still and dimpled with large expanding circles of water rimming from where it is being disturbed by geese. Sometimes it is frozen sometimes it is marshy sometimes, during certain kinds of summer storms, it is so many different colors. It seems to set my mood ... when it is frozen over, I just want to stay inside all day and eat soup, when it is calm, like today, I want to get out for a walk, when it is being whipped by the wind, I want to go outside and throw up my arms. I can't really do these things, of course, and my day is pretty much dictated by two very influential children. In a paper scissors rock style game but with children and water, I'm not sure who wins. I suppose water covers children? ("with as little as one inch" I've heard but I am sceptical)
7) Other good things exist in my life, I am sure, but I am slipping into a Nyquil coma and must sleep.
8) Oops, must mention my lovely sister Jennie and handsome brother, Geran. They are still talking about the last time they didn't make one of my facebook lists.
2) Not being hugely pregnant in the dead of winter. Since I don't mind heat and humidity, going through the summer that way isn't any trouble for me. This time around, I narrowly escaped having to buy one of those massive maternity coats. So far, my protective fat layer does the trick!
3) We have the nicest coffee machine. It is technically "automatic" in that it generates a tasty cup of coffee at the press of a button. The drawback is the amazing number of little trays that must be filled (or emptied) between and during the making of each cup so that the timeline looks something like this:
7:25am Lisa hits "on" button
7:27 Error message "fill water tray"
7:28 Lisa replaces refilled water tray, hits "on" button
7:35 Machine completes "descaling"
7:37 Machine completes "heating and self cleaning"
7:38 Error message "empty waste bit"
7:39 Lisa replaces emptied waste bin
7:41 Machine is ready to make first cup of coffee
7:43 Machine grinds beans and makes yummy smelling cup of coffee
7:43 Lisa requests second cup for a friend, Error message "refill coffee bean tray"
7:44 Lisa replaces refilled coffee bean tray, hits "on" button, apologizes to friend
7:45 Friend must leave to drop son off at school
7:46 Machine delivers second cup of coffee, Error message "error#41", Lisa kicks machine, enjoys delicious cup of coffee and forgives
A person could enter and recover from caffeine withdrawal while waiting for this very very fancy machine to produce a single cup of coffee. Lesson; When at my house, LEAP to grab the first cup ... it could be the last one. I won't say how much we spent on our coffee machine as it is a little embarrassing. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And like I said, the coffee it does manage to make is good enough to make my list of good things.
4) I spend what I like without John interfering. This is a wonderful thing! Granted, my weakness at the moment is used books, but I also like to get my nails done once a week. John is a worrier and I could totally picture him reading over my credit card statements sputtering "What?! What did you buy at RB Books for $24??" or "So you're still getting your nails done at that Towne Nails, huh? ..." Instead, that lovely man just pays those statements. Knowing how he worries about money, I count his treatment of my spending as a pure act of love. Ooooohhhh, isn't he GREAT?!
5) Being married to that amazing man I like to call "John". He is incredible ... a partner, a friend ... I beam when I think about him and don't get me started talking about him! Sure, he can be a real piece of work. Just yesterday I was recalling to a friend how, after I'd had Ava and lay helpless and in pain in a hospital bed, he couldn't be bothered to hand me the tv remote or help me track my pain medication. Most of our lovely four days there with our new baby were spent yelling at each other. I'm sure the staff was wondering if they should contact social services to start looking for a foster home for the child. More likely they were thinking ... "these people always think a baby will bring them closer together ..." What I love about being married to John is that, at least so far, we have survived those lows together. I see the times I hate him as marriage strengthening times. For example, I now KNOW we can survive his being a complete jerk after I carried and delivered his child. Isn't that wonderful?! ... if you are wondering, this time around, I have plans to replace John's "function" at the hospital (handing me things) with a well stocked handbag kept near the head of my bed within reach. He will be welcome to hang out there with us or not. There will be no pressure. I will be willing to sleep there alone ... Yet, he was the only one in whom I could confide that I hadn't had a bowel movement yet even when I'd assured the nursing staff that "oh yes!, my bowels have been moving!" He was the only one with a matching look of adoration in his eyes as he gazed at my new baby. He was the only one missing Claire as much as I was. He is really the only one with whom I am mature enough to share my children. I love it when they clamor to get out of my arms to go to him ... I love it when they love him more ... it just seems right.
6) Watching the water outside. Our house was marketed as "lakefront" which is the reason we wanted to see it. I was disappointed to find that the lake was a bit like a puddle, really just a large pond. But that's okay! It is so pretty! Every day it looks different ... I am looking at it now and it is still and dimpled with large expanding circles of water rimming from where it is being disturbed by geese. Sometimes it is frozen sometimes it is marshy sometimes, during certain kinds of summer storms, it is so many different colors. It seems to set my mood ... when it is frozen over, I just want to stay inside all day and eat soup, when it is calm, like today, I want to get out for a walk, when it is being whipped by the wind, I want to go outside and throw up my arms. I can't really do these things, of course, and my day is pretty much dictated by two very influential children. In a paper scissors rock style game but with children and water, I'm not sure who wins. I suppose water covers children? ("with as little as one inch" I've heard but I am sceptical)
7) Other good things exist in my life, I am sure, but I am slipping into a Nyquil coma and must sleep.
8) Oops, must mention my lovely sister Jennie and handsome brother, Geran. They are still talking about the last time they didn't make one of my facebook lists.
Breakfast at the Lunchbox
Before I had children, eating in restaurants was at the tip top of my fun things to do list. I can't quite seem to update my list to reflect the reality that now, dining out involves an entire FAMILY. For a change, I am not the one glowering at the parents with the bratty children at the next table. No, now I can glower directly at the children sitting at MY table. And they are not bratty ... they are toddlers, struggling to learn their way in a complicated and boring world. When I was in college, I worked for restaurants and I remember being so angry at people who left with their children to their nice clean home while I tried to repair the damage left under, on and around their table. Now, I am that person, clutching two hollering toddlers, ducking sheepishly out to the car, speeding away from the mess. It is exhilarating and shameful at the same time ... maybe like driving the getaway car for a bank robbery?
But I am actually writing to capture a moment of glowing praise for my two children. As John left us this morning, Saturday, for work, I silently swore at his retreating backside and thought "great. What now?? How am I going to fritter another day away with these two bored children?!" I know the guy is just doing what needs to be done, but if I'm not angry with him, I've got nothing. Out of spite, I decided to carry on with my plans to have a nice Saturday morning breakfast at the Weston Lunchbox without him. I hesitated about whether or not I should drag Nelka away from her day off to help with the girls. I decided against it and moved with purpose, changing diapers, dressing and applying shoes and sweatshirts with speed and agility. I loaded both little girls into their (lethally outdated) car seats and headed off to the Lunchbox. I cheerfully lectured C&A in the car about being good girls for mommy and how funny was it that we could eat breakfast at the LUNCHbox ha ha ha.
Given history, I didn't expect much from them. But they were so good! We found a place directly in front of the entrance and I herded them through the door and our waitress directed us to a table in the back that was covered in a plastic tablecloth (no offense taken!). She had a cup of coffee in my hand in less than a minute and took my order asap. Maybe I should dedicate this post to her! She was brilliant (and hopefully not still scraping up after us). Claire, chose to sit in a restrictive highchair (I let her sit in regular chairs when she prefers). Ava didn't complain about her seat either and they were both reasonably QUIET while eating with FORKS. Claire asked me politely if she could play with a cream pitcher, and nodded understandingly when I said no. Ava obediently said "peese" after demanding things. Half way through our breakfast, Claire exclaimed "Mommy, I such a good girl!" I beamed. Beamed and beamed, hoping other diners noticed the frazzled, pregnant lady in the corner with the two beautifully behaved children. Yes, toward the end, I was cramming last bites into my mouth, taking big gulps of coffee as C&A melted down, but they are toddlers.
We are all going out to dinner tonight with John's cousin, Barkley. I will let you know how it goes ...
But I am actually writing to capture a moment of glowing praise for my two children. As John left us this morning, Saturday, for work, I silently swore at his retreating backside and thought "great. What now?? How am I going to fritter another day away with these two bored children?!" I know the guy is just doing what needs to be done, but if I'm not angry with him, I've got nothing. Out of spite, I decided to carry on with my plans to have a nice Saturday morning breakfast at the Weston Lunchbox without him. I hesitated about whether or not I should drag Nelka away from her day off to help with the girls. I decided against it and moved with purpose, changing diapers, dressing and applying shoes and sweatshirts with speed and agility. I loaded both little girls into their (lethally outdated) car seats and headed off to the Lunchbox. I cheerfully lectured C&A in the car about being good girls for mommy and how funny was it that we could eat breakfast at the LUNCHbox ha ha ha.
Given history, I didn't expect much from them. But they were so good! We found a place directly in front of the entrance and I herded them through the door and our waitress directed us to a table in the back that was covered in a plastic tablecloth (no offense taken!). She had a cup of coffee in my hand in less than a minute and took my order asap. Maybe I should dedicate this post to her! She was brilliant (and hopefully not still scraping up after us). Claire, chose to sit in a restrictive highchair (I let her sit in regular chairs when she prefers). Ava didn't complain about her seat either and they were both reasonably QUIET while eating with FORKS. Claire asked me politely if she could play with a cream pitcher, and nodded understandingly when I said no. Ava obediently said "peese" after demanding things. Half way through our breakfast, Claire exclaimed "Mommy, I such a good girl!" I beamed. Beamed and beamed, hoping other diners noticed the frazzled, pregnant lady in the corner with the two beautifully behaved children. Yes, toward the end, I was cramming last bites into my mouth, taking big gulps of coffee as C&A melted down, but they are toddlers.
We are all going out to dinner tonight with John's cousin, Barkley. I will let you know how it goes ...
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Martyr Mothering: Do They Even Notice
Like most things in my life, I may have acted hastily when I accepted the time honored role of martyr mother. In retrospect, I'm not sure what other route I could have chosen as it seems the two, being a mom and being a martyr do more than go hand in hand ... they are fused together as a sort of conjoined beast. Where one ends and the other begins, I don't know, and in my case, they share vital organs. My problem with the arrangement comes not in the sacrifice ... oh no, sacrifice is the life blood of the martyr and the very gasoline that drives me to accomplish the vast amounts of mothering that must be accomplished every day. My trouble is with the invisibility of it all. To labor without recognition is ... well ... it may be a bit like writing without being read. Not that writing can be compared to martyr mothering ... it doesn't offer the same smug satisfaction.
It all started with the turn in our lives that came when we decided we wanted children. Someone female was required to donate her trim little body to the cause, and that female would have to be me ... unless I gave in to John's constant suggestions that we bring in a second female ... a "little wife" as they are known in old China. Like hell. I'd do it myself, thank you very much. And I did! My body modification actually began the moment I met John, so long before I was actually knocked up. At somewhere in the vicinity of 100 pounds, he thought I looked pinched and "fierce". I preferred to describe it as "fit" or "athletic" but in any case, I eagerly abandoned Gym, the only man in my life at the time John and I met, to pursue a brave new world of Philly Cheese steak sandwiches and horrible monster sized breakfasts at Jackson Hole Diner. I gained ten pounds ... a start. Try as I may, I was unable to exceed 112 pounds on my new diet and exercise (none) regimen. John was forever pinching my cheeks saying there was no meat there. I felt like a porpoise. When I got pregnant with Claire, I was suddenly a porpoise with purpose! I have a photo of myself proudly posing in a maternity outfit, nine weeks pregnant. My stomach is flatter than it has ever been since and my little arms hang thinly from my sleeveless top. I was TRYING to be fat and failing.
Things changed quickly then. By the end of my pregnancy, I was 125 pounds ... scoffable now, yes, but an important first step toward obesity. I gained (and kept) another 15 pounds to generate Ava and now stand somewhere up the weight hill from there, too afraid to look down. I soldier on bravely.
The other starter sacrifice was to give up my career to raise my babies by hand, as Dickens would say. I wasn't about to let any other woman or daycare provider experience the intense satisfaction and joy that comes with all of those glorious firsts ... first spit up, first poo in a crazy color, first smile, first laugh, first this, first that. Oh ho no! I would be there mySELF, thank you very much. I maybe didn't realize at the time that there would be a three month span between first spit up and first poo in a crazy color. Did I need to be there, sacrificing my career every moment in between? Yes and I gladly left it all behind; coffee and muffin mornings, lunches out with girlfriends, normal bank-centered conversation, marching around a city large enough to house a store, looking important and cute in a size two suit. Other small things abandoned ... admiration from my colleagues regarding my blossoming expertise in Float dynamics (a finance thing) and financial independence. Gone, all gone.
Instead, I sacrifice. And I would be more than fine with that if the sacrifice came with recognition from my husband and an occasional expression of gratitude from my children. My latest sacrifice has been "holding down the fort" while John launches our business. Holding down the fort includes but is not limited to: not expecting John home for dinner any day of the week, not pressuring him to spend some time with us, not calling him while he is at work to seek adult companionship or to commiserate or consult with him regarding his faulty offspring, not minding when he works on holidays and weekends, entertaining his family at our house with enough witty conversation to prevent their noticing John is not here, and the one I canNOT handle ... not complaining. I canNOT not complain! I am operating a boarding house for his Chinese cousins who require a base situated between BOS and NYC on weekends (granted, this was only necessary last weekend and this approaching weekend), I am raising two children, I am pregnant and overflowing with exciting emotions like sadness, anger, excitement and apprehension. All alone!
For the first almost three months of this, I stoically looked to the future for my reward ... John is going to realize one day how selflessly I gave of myself during this time and he is going to apologize for not recognizing the epicness of my struggle and will buy me a whopping gift. But I am such a lousy martyr that I couldn't even hold my martyr enterprise together through the first quarter and broke down last night in an explosion of bad feelings toward John. Which would have been in keeping with martyrdom except it was a verbal explosion without any of that subtle art known as passive aggression. What tipped me over the edge, specifically, is I have a cold. There is no freakin (sorry, Dad) way I can do all of the above with a cold and without medication. I have been sneak dosing Nyquil ... I keep a bottle under my sink in the bathroom ... not recommended for pregnancy but WHAT EVER.
But yes, I am ok. Don't worry about me. I will be fine laboring on as I am, pregnant, tired, and effectively single, knowing my reward waits for me in heaven.
your correspondent
It all started with the turn in our lives that came when we decided we wanted children. Someone female was required to donate her trim little body to the cause, and that female would have to be me ... unless I gave in to John's constant suggestions that we bring in a second female ... a "little wife" as they are known in old China. Like hell. I'd do it myself, thank you very much. And I did! My body modification actually began the moment I met John, so long before I was actually knocked up. At somewhere in the vicinity of 100 pounds, he thought I looked pinched and "fierce". I preferred to describe it as "fit" or "athletic" but in any case, I eagerly abandoned Gym, the only man in my life at the time John and I met, to pursue a brave new world of Philly Cheese steak sandwiches and horrible monster sized breakfasts at Jackson Hole Diner. I gained ten pounds ... a start. Try as I may, I was unable to exceed 112 pounds on my new diet and exercise (none) regimen. John was forever pinching my cheeks saying there was no meat there. I felt like a porpoise. When I got pregnant with Claire, I was suddenly a porpoise with purpose! I have a photo of myself proudly posing in a maternity outfit, nine weeks pregnant. My stomach is flatter than it has ever been since and my little arms hang thinly from my sleeveless top. I was TRYING to be fat and failing.
Things changed quickly then. By the end of my pregnancy, I was 125 pounds ... scoffable now, yes, but an important first step toward obesity. I gained (and kept) another 15 pounds to generate Ava and now stand somewhere up the weight hill from there, too afraid to look down. I soldier on bravely.
The other starter sacrifice was to give up my career to raise my babies by hand, as Dickens would say. I wasn't about to let any other woman or daycare provider experience the intense satisfaction and joy that comes with all of those glorious firsts ... first spit up, first poo in a crazy color, first smile, first laugh, first this, first that. Oh ho no! I would be there mySELF, thank you very much. I maybe didn't realize at the time that there would be a three month span between first spit up and first poo in a crazy color. Did I need to be there, sacrificing my career every moment in between? Yes and I gladly left it all behind; coffee and muffin mornings, lunches out with girlfriends, normal bank-centered conversation, marching around a city large enough to house a store, looking important and cute in a size two suit. Other small things abandoned ... admiration from my colleagues regarding my blossoming expertise in Float dynamics (a finance thing) and financial independence. Gone, all gone.
Instead, I sacrifice. And I would be more than fine with that if the sacrifice came with recognition from my husband and an occasional expression of gratitude from my children. My latest sacrifice has been "holding down the fort" while John launches our business. Holding down the fort includes but is not limited to: not expecting John home for dinner any day of the week, not pressuring him to spend some time with us, not calling him while he is at work to seek adult companionship or to commiserate or consult with him regarding his faulty offspring, not minding when he works on holidays and weekends, entertaining his family at our house with enough witty conversation to prevent their noticing John is not here, and the one I canNOT handle ... not complaining. I canNOT not complain! I am operating a boarding house for his Chinese cousins who require a base situated between BOS and NYC on weekends (granted, this was only necessary last weekend and this approaching weekend), I am raising two children, I am pregnant and overflowing with exciting emotions like sadness, anger, excitement and apprehension. All alone!
For the first almost three months of this, I stoically looked to the future for my reward ... John is going to realize one day how selflessly I gave of myself during this time and he is going to apologize for not recognizing the epicness of my struggle and will buy me a whopping gift. But I am such a lousy martyr that I couldn't even hold my martyr enterprise together through the first quarter and broke down last night in an explosion of bad feelings toward John. Which would have been in keeping with martyrdom except it was a verbal explosion without any of that subtle art known as passive aggression. What tipped me over the edge, specifically, is I have a cold. There is no freakin (sorry, Dad) way I can do all of the above with a cold and without medication. I have been sneak dosing Nyquil ... I keep a bottle under my sink in the bathroom ... not recommended for pregnancy but WHAT EVER.
But yes, I am ok. Don't worry about me. I will be fine laboring on as I am, pregnant, tired, and effectively single, knowing my reward waits for me in heaven.
your correspondent
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Hours in the Day
I often hear people (with older children, or without children) say that there are not enough hours in the day. Their missing hours have been added to my life. As mentioned in my "fun with fish" post, for some of us, time is like an enemy. My days are completely structured around activities designed to WASTE TIME. For example, today is a Wednesday which is a glorious day because it is playgroup day. It is the day we magically leap from breakfast to afternoon rest time without awkward fillers. On this day, I meet up with my time wasting mom friends and sip coffee and chat while we provide collective and shoddy childcare to the masses swarming at our feet.
Playgroup and other cherished outofhouse activities like grocery shopping (with additional adult) provide milestones in my week that bring fleeting awareness that time is indeed moving and that we are inching forward with it, toward some ultimate relief. Yes, you are all thinking "that's death, stupid". Well, yes, I suppose that is the ultimate end, but I have a vague, wavering sense that between now and death lives an elusive period of time during which I will greet my remaining mornings with joy. Surely my children cannot linger in their current state forever. And yet, in the seeming 25 years I have set aside all else to care for her, Claire has progressed from laying helplessly on her back hoping I will notice her diaper needs changing to yelling "MOMMY .... I POOOOOING (in my diaper)" in restaurants. If that bit of progress took 25 parenting years, I will be crying at her wedding in 2609. She is 75 in Parenting Years and I am something like 379 years by that measure. Yet still, I think rather miraculously, I am able to behave like I am 14 (John's favorite accusation; "what?! Are you 14 years old??"). Yes, 14 going on 380.
Back to cherished activities ... the foundation of my day is nap time. My babies spend alarming amounts of time sleeping and yelling at each other in the nursery while penned in cribs (see Nap post). I wonder if I am stunting their intellectual growth by allowing them so much time away from me. No, probably not. When they are not napping, during the cold months, you are likely to find us either a) eating or b) "room hopping". We live in house with all kinds of rooms (see some earlier post, not sure which) and I've learned that changing scenery is as good as a new toy. The entertainment value of the nursery is so threadbare that I count five minutes spent in there playing as a wildly successful five minutes gone.
Then, unfortunately, it's often on to my bedroom where we alternately take baths and fondle and drop electronic items like cameras, remote controls and various charging devices found by "daddy's side of the bed". The TV in this particular room, has magnetic allure because it is sitting on the floor as it waits in a decades long line to find its place on a wall (paintings, framed photos, other misc. all share this fate while John works on his anxiety re "putting holes in the walls"). It is possible to get so close to this special television that one can actually place one's greasy little paws right on the screen until directed to stop.
After that, we head downstairs to the living room where I fear I am losing my battle to keep toys OUT. See previous post re my great pride in ability to limit toys to certain designated areas. Or don't. The living room is now home to a kiddy kitchen, a toy that shoots balls into the air while making vacuum cleaner sounds, and a toy barn. My plans to thin out that crowd are giving way to complacency. The living room also is home to coasters which are hit toys. Who knew?! Yes, stone coasters ... great toys. Also, after one brief training session, my girls both know to use a coaster before setting sippy cups down. Even Ava, at one and a half, knows just what to do with a coaster (other than making stone coaster towers).
The living room is often followed by the "Great Room" where I vainly try to get those two hooked on TV watching. When they were younger, I'd get up on the couch and watch consecutive episodes of "What Not to Wear" while they crawled around on the floor. These days, the three of us cozy up on a couch and watch two minutes of Baby Einstein before leaving for the kitchen. Why is it that MY children are not the ones getting fat from sitting in front of the TV all day long?
Desperately long days call for visits to places like the game cupboard (this is always a mistake ... when playing Clue at my house, you can either kill someone with a candlestick or the game board itself as other dangerous objects have disappeared). Another choice time wasting locale for desperate days is C&A's bedroom which is full of older kid toys with little parts. If you are craving a marble or a jack, go there! Our little theater will hold endless opportunities for wasting away time and minds in another 150 years. So far, they have only shown interest in the rope lights on the floor.
Reporting from my planet,
lisa
Playgroup and other cherished outofhouse activities like grocery shopping (with additional adult) provide milestones in my week that bring fleeting awareness that time is indeed moving and that we are inching forward with it, toward some ultimate relief. Yes, you are all thinking "that's death, stupid". Well, yes, I suppose that is the ultimate end, but I have a vague, wavering sense that between now and death lives an elusive period of time during which I will greet my remaining mornings with joy. Surely my children cannot linger in their current state forever. And yet, in the seeming 25 years I have set aside all else to care for her, Claire has progressed from laying helplessly on her back hoping I will notice her diaper needs changing to yelling "MOMMY .... I POOOOOING (in my diaper)" in restaurants. If that bit of progress took 25 parenting years, I will be crying at her wedding in 2609. She is 75 in Parenting Years and I am something like 379 years by that measure. Yet still, I think rather miraculously, I am able to behave like I am 14 (John's favorite accusation; "what?! Are you 14 years old??"). Yes, 14 going on 380.
Back to cherished activities ... the foundation of my day is nap time. My babies spend alarming amounts of time sleeping and yelling at each other in the nursery while penned in cribs (see Nap post). I wonder if I am stunting their intellectual growth by allowing them so much time away from me. No, probably not. When they are not napping, during the cold months, you are likely to find us either a) eating or b) "room hopping". We live in house with all kinds of rooms (see some earlier post, not sure which) and I've learned that changing scenery is as good as a new toy. The entertainment value of the nursery is so threadbare that I count five minutes spent in there playing as a wildly successful five minutes gone.
Then, unfortunately, it's often on to my bedroom where we alternately take baths and fondle and drop electronic items like cameras, remote controls and various charging devices found by "daddy's side of the bed". The TV in this particular room, has magnetic allure because it is sitting on the floor as it waits in a decades long line to find its place on a wall (paintings, framed photos, other misc. all share this fate while John works on his anxiety re "putting holes in the walls"). It is possible to get so close to this special television that one can actually place one's greasy little paws right on the screen until directed to stop.
After that, we head downstairs to the living room where I fear I am losing my battle to keep toys OUT. See previous post re my great pride in ability to limit toys to certain designated areas. Or don't. The living room is now home to a kiddy kitchen, a toy that shoots balls into the air while making vacuum cleaner sounds, and a toy barn. My plans to thin out that crowd are giving way to complacency. The living room also is home to coasters which are hit toys. Who knew?! Yes, stone coasters ... great toys. Also, after one brief training session, my girls both know to use a coaster before setting sippy cups down. Even Ava, at one and a half, knows just what to do with a coaster (other than making stone coaster towers).
The living room is often followed by the "Great Room" where I vainly try to get those two hooked on TV watching. When they were younger, I'd get up on the couch and watch consecutive episodes of "What Not to Wear" while they crawled around on the floor. These days, the three of us cozy up on a couch and watch two minutes of Baby Einstein before leaving for the kitchen. Why is it that MY children are not the ones getting fat from sitting in front of the TV all day long?
Desperately long days call for visits to places like the game cupboard (this is always a mistake ... when playing Clue at my house, you can either kill someone with a candlestick or the game board itself as other dangerous objects have disappeared). Another choice time wasting locale for desperate days is C&A's bedroom which is full of older kid toys with little parts. If you are craving a marble or a jack, go there! Our little theater will hold endless opportunities for wasting away time and minds in another 150 years. So far, they have only shown interest in the rope lights on the floor.
Reporting from my planet,
lisa
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Fun with Fish
John has been working every day, starting up his hedge fund, Frontera. This means that my long weeks at home with the girls are not delineated by weekends ... I try to make a weekend for us, to make it seem like I'm not a single parent every single day. For the last two weekends, I took the girls to my sister's house near Boston. The drive takes up three hours of time I'd otherwise have no idea how to spend and, my parental duties are shared by my sister and brother-in-law. The cousins play with each other, and it's also just nice to have a change of scenery ... and new toys!
Last weekend, I decided to give my sister a break ... and decided to spend as much of Saturday as possible at the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium. I talked about Fish all day Friday to get us in the mood for our Saturday excursion. We were all very excited. I thought of taking Nelka but Saturday and Sunday are her days off so, rather than bother her, I braved it alone. Everything went very smoothly until we got to the parking lot of the aquarium. The parking garage is across the street and a block down from the entrance ... Claire is a wonderful and independent walker but without constant verbal cues from me ("Claire, stay close to Mommy", "this way, Claire", "Claire! Stop!!!"), she tends to head the wrong direction or in front of a car. Ava, our giant infant, is a horrible walker. She falls a lot, even with when I have an iron grip on her chubby little hand. And she is starting to assert herself by pulling in unwanted directions and making me drag her after me while she squirms and cries. She is also short so I have to bend over in order to keep a hold of her without dislocating her baby arm. So, I carry her. She may be short but she is solid at 30 pounds. It is funny that Claire, a little small for her age, is within a pound of the same weight. All of this to say that by the time I got them to the garage elevator, across the street and down the block to the aquarium entrance, I was ready to go home.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have. We got into line to buy entrance tickets and my children scattered ... one charging down the hallway to the first exhibit, the other making a break for the door. I hustled behind the one going to the street, clutching at my big pregnant belly "STOPPPPP!" A marvelous aquarium employee stepped from out of nowhere to block Ava's freedom charge. "Thank you!" I breathed heavily. He gave me the look (Lady, are these really your children because you look like you don't know how to take care of them. And just look at yourself, pregnant again?!). I may have been reading a little too much into our brief eye contact. Maybe what he was thinking was "my hat off to you, little lady!" Eventually, I was able to purchase our tickets and dash down the hall with kicking Ava under my arm like a football to catch up to Claire.
The wonder of sea life was most profound when the girls caught a glimpse of a giant, stuffed animal squid (or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike) suspended from the ceiling before the first exhibit. "Look Ava!!" said Claire breathlessly looking up in fascination. I jumped on the opportunity to make good use of our pricey tickets "yes! wow, girls!! That is a GIANT stuffed (animal) squid! Or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike." Eventually, it was necessary to drag them on to the real fish, but I think if we'd turned around and gone home right then, they would have been satisfied with their trip to the museum. Like when they are so enthralled with the wrapping paper, bow and box you catch yourself thinking "I'll just return the gift!"
Our first stop was a tank full of little turtles. "Oh BOY!" I exclaimed ... "little turtles!!" The girls were fully absorbed in pushing each other off of the narrow step stool platform and staring at those incredible little turtles. Like a moron, I soon hustled them off to other exhibits that were not nearly so interesting as the little turtles or the giant stuffed animal cuttlefish suspended from the ceiling. One truly giant turtle was minimally interesting. A tank full of hungry looking sharks was dismissed with disdain. I spoke enthusiastically about jellyfish, seahorses, weird little fish that lived in holes they dug into aquarium rocks. None of these sparked much interest. It wasn't until we got to the open tank of STINGRAYS that my two came alive. Claire hopped up on the step stool thing in order to reach in, but Ava was still too short. I propped her up with my knee. An aquarium employee came over and asked if I had any questions. I asked the one I thought that she'd expect from any loving mother who's babies were dipping their grimy little paws into a tank full of STINGrays "do they sting?" I intoned with the correct amount of concern. "Oh no" she said "we clip off the stingers". I knew I was supposed to gasp in horror and exclaim "but doesn't that HURT them??" but I didn't really care. I turned back to Claire and Ava to discover their sleeves wet up to their elbows. Aaahh! I wrung them out the best I could and rolled them up, aware that the couple standing next to us was observing our activities with unveiled interest. The woman began to ask the usual questions about their ages and ethnicities. I don't mind these kinds of questions at all ... I think it is kind of people to show interest in my wacky life. I answered cheerfully, even adding I was expecting again ("I must be really crazy ha ha"). I turned back around but no Claire! I tucked kicking Ava under my arm and prepared to charge around like a crazy mom yelling "Claire? CLAAAIIIIRRRREEE!!!" but had to first go back for Ava's dropped shoe. Finally, clutching my bag, stray shoe and screeching stingray obsessed child, I began my running around calling routine. Claire soon came out from behind a display and all was well.
I looked at the handful of papers I'd been handed along with tickets and noted that a seal feeding was scheduled in 20 minutes. Fortuitous! I pulled Claire toward the seal enclosure away from the stingray tank (which acted like a really strong magnet ... only when I managed to get them far enough away, could they turn their attention to other things) and to the seal place where Ava wanted to get in with the seals. I wasn't so opposed to that except she first had to make it down three or four very steep and dirty steps. I was so tired by then I was afraid I'd topple down if I tried to carry her. So I set her down at the top and grabbed her hand, thinking she could walk down the steps while I prevented her from falling. But she had something else in her mind ... specifically that I would carry her down BY her arm. Which, in the end, I did. Exhausted at the bottom, I sat on a step and pointed weakly to the torpedo shaped mammals whizzing around in the water filled tank now six inches from our faces. Ava wasn't impressed. She turned and began crawling up those filthy steps. "Oh heaven help me!" I thought, got to my feet and, in the end, carried her UP the steps suspended by her chubby baby arm. Meanwhile, Claire was falling in love with seals and their funny sealness. I called for her but she remained glued to the glass (at the bottom of the steps). With a resigned sigh, I carried Ava back down the stairs by her arm, got Claire's attention and then we somehow made it to the top, all three of us.
Now you can imagine I was hoping against hope that the seal feeding was just moments away. But, after digging my phone out of my bag while chasing the girls between boat displays, I saw that time had stood still and only three measly minutes had passed since I initially noted the only twenty remaining until seal feeding time. I, helpless optimist, had been rounding DOWN to get to twenty minutes in the beginning ... it had actually been twenty TWO minutes until seal feeding time, making it nineteen long minutes still to wait. The random suspension of time is one of the most profound effects of having young children.
I looked hopefully around the boat display room and saw one of those photograph platforms with holes cut out in a board so your child can stand behind and poke her head through while you take pictures from the other side. I've never been a fan of these things but the girls discovered that this one had a raised and carpeted platform in the back which was great fun for standing. I sat heavily on the edge of it while the girls tirelessly climbing up and down from the platform (Ava) and by poked heads through the cutout thingies (Claire). This passed five relatively peaceful minutes. But then, "real parents" (with cameras and strollers and reasonably spaced children) started coming by and sending their children behind the board (where they encountered a strange woman with two feral looking toddlers) so they could take pictures.
Feeling a bit like a predator camped out back there, I got up and pulled the girls off to a bench to sit between two women who looked surprised that a stranger wouldn't mind parking herself between them. I didn't mind at all. Most of the time, Claire is a compliant and sweet little thing who will actually stay close when I ask her to. Ava no. I held her squirmy little self half way on my lap while she cried and tried to wiggle down and simultaneously issued orders to Claire every five seconds to not wander away. This lasted a brief time before Claire gave me a naughty look and ran around a corner. "Claire!" I yelled. One of my benchmates asked if she should hold Ava so I could go get Claire. Can you believe how NICE (and foolish) people can be?? I knew that wouldn't work with Ava in her current mood so I hoisted her under my arm along with my bag and went after Claire.
I caught up with her back by the boats. With just twelve more minutes to go (remember that Johnny Cash song about the poor guy waiting to be hanged?) and I felt I'd waited too long to forgo valuable entertainment like sealfeeding. This is what I call "throwing good minutes after bad". I spent the remaining minutes just chasing behind them as they raced around the boats squealing. Two minutes before feeding time, I reholstered Ava and forcibly pulled Claire away from the boats and back to the seal area. I managed to overcome their reluctance with lots and lots of enthusiastic talk about seals and feeding seals ("wow girls, we're going to get to see the seals have their lunch!!!") We sat among the crowd on one of the higher steps where Ava discovered she could, from her seat on my lap, kick the people in front of us. I apologized but not profusely (I had little energy available for non vital activities like apologizing) and reigned in those meaty little legs. Ava protested and tried to get down, Claire stayed to the farthest reaches of my vision and I checked my phone for the time. Two minutes late and no sign of any feeding. I was tired. I'd had it. I was angry! "What the F^$%!" I exclaimed in the angry frustration that, from my experience, only pms or pregnancy plus small children can generate. I ignored the looks, stood up abruptly with Ava implanted under my aching arm, grabbed Claire and MARCHED out of there.
Oh failure. Fail.Ure. The worst part of it, I could see right away, was my deplorable language in a room full of adults and children all enjoying a Saturday outing to the aquarium. I hobbled back to the entrance head down in defeat to strike off to the car which was once more a block and a street crossing away. I snapped mercilessly at Claire to keep her on the sidewalk ten feet or fewer in front of me. I looked into the eager happy faces of the normal people entering the aquarium and felt shame, envy, and some urge to warn them. Of course, they didn't need to be warned ... they clearly had everything under control. And now that the weird swearing lady with the entire preschool class was gone, nothing stood between them and a lovely time looking at fish and water dwelling mammals.
God knows when we are at the point of despair and he mercifully acts on our behalf. Halfway up the block, there was a bench. And on the bench was one of those obnoxious girls asking every passing family if they'd like to get their children into modeling. She proffered lollipops as she asked me the modeling question. I said "no" but could we possibly have lollipops anyway. She kindly gave us two and I sat on the bench, not caring about anyone ruining their lunch or getting sticky, just breathing in the fresh air and feeling grateful for that bench and silence inducing lollipops. I quietly rooted for our salesgirl friend as she accosted each passing family until Claire began to wander again. Feeling just refreshed enough to make it down the rest of the block, across the street, to the parking booth (to pay), down the elevator and to the car, I did.
We then drove to John's office to see how he was doing. He asked about the aquarium. Was it fun? I told him "yes, but I won't be doing that again any time soon". How could I explain what I'd just been through? Our visit to the aquarium is not unlike many of my days. I just can't quite remember all of the craziness to be able to relate it back to anyone. Not that John has the patience to listen anyway. He's got a million other things going on in his mind. So I am very glad I took the time to relate all of this to you. I really needed to share!
Last weekend, I decided to give my sister a break ... and decided to spend as much of Saturday as possible at the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium. I talked about Fish all day Friday to get us in the mood for our Saturday excursion. We were all very excited. I thought of taking Nelka but Saturday and Sunday are her days off so, rather than bother her, I braved it alone. Everything went very smoothly until we got to the parking lot of the aquarium. The parking garage is across the street and a block down from the entrance ... Claire is a wonderful and independent walker but without constant verbal cues from me ("Claire, stay close to Mommy", "this way, Claire", "Claire! Stop!!!"), she tends to head the wrong direction or in front of a car. Ava, our giant infant, is a horrible walker. She falls a lot, even with when I have an iron grip on her chubby little hand. And she is starting to assert herself by pulling in unwanted directions and making me drag her after me while she squirms and cries. She is also short so I have to bend over in order to keep a hold of her without dislocating her baby arm. So, I carry her. She may be short but she is solid at 30 pounds. It is funny that Claire, a little small for her age, is within a pound of the same weight. All of this to say that by the time I got them to the garage elevator, across the street and down the block to the aquarium entrance, I was ready to go home.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have. We got into line to buy entrance tickets and my children scattered ... one charging down the hallway to the first exhibit, the other making a break for the door. I hustled behind the one going to the street, clutching at my big pregnant belly "STOPPPPP!" A marvelous aquarium employee stepped from out of nowhere to block Ava's freedom charge. "Thank you!" I breathed heavily. He gave me the look (Lady, are these really your children because you look like you don't know how to take care of them. And just look at yourself, pregnant again?!). I may have been reading a little too much into our brief eye contact. Maybe what he was thinking was "my hat off to you, little lady!" Eventually, I was able to purchase our tickets and dash down the hall with kicking Ava under my arm like a football to catch up to Claire.
The wonder of sea life was most profound when the girls caught a glimpse of a giant, stuffed animal squid (or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike) suspended from the ceiling before the first exhibit. "Look Ava!!" said Claire breathlessly looking up in fascination. I jumped on the opportunity to make good use of our pricey tickets "yes! wow, girls!! That is a GIANT stuffed (animal) squid! Or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike." Eventually, it was necessary to drag them on to the real fish, but I think if we'd turned around and gone home right then, they would have been satisfied with their trip to the museum. Like when they are so enthralled with the wrapping paper, bow and box you catch yourself thinking "I'll just return the gift!"
Our first stop was a tank full of little turtles. "Oh BOY!" I exclaimed ... "little turtles!!" The girls were fully absorbed in pushing each other off of the narrow step stool platform and staring at those incredible little turtles. Like a moron, I soon hustled them off to other exhibits that were not nearly so interesting as the little turtles or the giant stuffed animal cuttlefish suspended from the ceiling. One truly giant turtle was minimally interesting. A tank full of hungry looking sharks was dismissed with disdain. I spoke enthusiastically about jellyfish, seahorses, weird little fish that lived in holes they dug into aquarium rocks. None of these sparked much interest. It wasn't until we got to the open tank of STINGRAYS that my two came alive. Claire hopped up on the step stool thing in order to reach in, but Ava was still too short. I propped her up with my knee. An aquarium employee came over and asked if I had any questions. I asked the one I thought that she'd expect from any loving mother who's babies were dipping their grimy little paws into a tank full of STINGrays "do they sting?" I intoned with the correct amount of concern. "Oh no" she said "we clip off the stingers". I knew I was supposed to gasp in horror and exclaim "but doesn't that HURT them??" but I didn't really care. I turned back to Claire and Ava to discover their sleeves wet up to their elbows. Aaahh! I wrung them out the best I could and rolled them up, aware that the couple standing next to us was observing our activities with unveiled interest. The woman began to ask the usual questions about their ages and ethnicities. I don't mind these kinds of questions at all ... I think it is kind of people to show interest in my wacky life. I answered cheerfully, even adding I was expecting again ("I must be really crazy ha ha"). I turned back around but no Claire! I tucked kicking Ava under my arm and prepared to charge around like a crazy mom yelling "Claire? CLAAAIIIIRRRREEE!!!" but had to first go back for Ava's dropped shoe. Finally, clutching my bag, stray shoe and screeching stingray obsessed child, I began my running around calling routine. Claire soon came out from behind a display and all was well.
I looked at the handful of papers I'd been handed along with tickets and noted that a seal feeding was scheduled in 20 minutes. Fortuitous! I pulled Claire toward the seal enclosure away from the stingray tank (which acted like a really strong magnet ... only when I managed to get them far enough away, could they turn their attention to other things) and to the seal place where Ava wanted to get in with the seals. I wasn't so opposed to that except she first had to make it down three or four very steep and dirty steps. I was so tired by then I was afraid I'd topple down if I tried to carry her. So I set her down at the top and grabbed her hand, thinking she could walk down the steps while I prevented her from falling. But she had something else in her mind ... specifically that I would carry her down BY her arm. Which, in the end, I did. Exhausted at the bottom, I sat on a step and pointed weakly to the torpedo shaped mammals whizzing around in the water filled tank now six inches from our faces. Ava wasn't impressed. She turned and began crawling up those filthy steps. "Oh heaven help me!" I thought, got to my feet and, in the end, carried her UP the steps suspended by her chubby baby arm. Meanwhile, Claire was falling in love with seals and their funny sealness. I called for her but she remained glued to the glass (at the bottom of the steps). With a resigned sigh, I carried Ava back down the stairs by her arm, got Claire's attention and then we somehow made it to the top, all three of us.
Now you can imagine I was hoping against hope that the seal feeding was just moments away. But, after digging my phone out of my bag while chasing the girls between boat displays, I saw that time had stood still and only three measly minutes had passed since I initially noted the only twenty remaining until seal feeding time. I, helpless optimist, had been rounding DOWN to get to twenty minutes in the beginning ... it had actually been twenty TWO minutes until seal feeding time, making it nineteen long minutes still to wait. The random suspension of time is one of the most profound effects of having young children.
I looked hopefully around the boat display room and saw one of those photograph platforms with holes cut out in a board so your child can stand behind and poke her head through while you take pictures from the other side. I've never been a fan of these things but the girls discovered that this one had a raised and carpeted platform in the back which was great fun for standing. I sat heavily on the edge of it while the girls tirelessly climbing up and down from the platform (Ava) and by poked heads through the cutout thingies (Claire). This passed five relatively peaceful minutes. But then, "real parents" (with cameras and strollers and reasonably spaced children) started coming by and sending their children behind the board (where they encountered a strange woman with two feral looking toddlers) so they could take pictures.
Feeling a bit like a predator camped out back there, I got up and pulled the girls off to a bench to sit between two women who looked surprised that a stranger wouldn't mind parking herself between them. I didn't mind at all. Most of the time, Claire is a compliant and sweet little thing who will actually stay close when I ask her to. Ava no. I held her squirmy little self half way on my lap while she cried and tried to wiggle down and simultaneously issued orders to Claire every five seconds to not wander away. This lasted a brief time before Claire gave me a naughty look and ran around a corner. "Claire!" I yelled. One of my benchmates asked if she should hold Ava so I could go get Claire. Can you believe how NICE (and foolish) people can be?? I knew that wouldn't work with Ava in her current mood so I hoisted her under my arm along with my bag and went after Claire.
I caught up with her back by the boats. With just twelve more minutes to go (remember that Johnny Cash song about the poor guy waiting to be hanged?) and I felt I'd waited too long to forgo valuable entertainment like sealfeeding. This is what I call "throwing good minutes after bad". I spent the remaining minutes just chasing behind them as they raced around the boats squealing. Two minutes before feeding time, I reholstered Ava and forcibly pulled Claire away from the boats and back to the seal area. I managed to overcome their reluctance with lots and lots of enthusiastic talk about seals and feeding seals ("wow girls, we're going to get to see the seals have their lunch!!!") We sat among the crowd on one of the higher steps where Ava discovered she could, from her seat on my lap, kick the people in front of us. I apologized but not profusely (I had little energy available for non vital activities like apologizing) and reigned in those meaty little legs. Ava protested and tried to get down, Claire stayed to the farthest reaches of my vision and I checked my phone for the time. Two minutes late and no sign of any feeding. I was tired. I'd had it. I was angry! "What the F^$%!" I exclaimed in the angry frustration that, from my experience, only pms or pregnancy plus small children can generate. I ignored the looks, stood up abruptly with Ava implanted under my aching arm, grabbed Claire and MARCHED out of there.
Oh failure. Fail.Ure. The worst part of it, I could see right away, was my deplorable language in a room full of adults and children all enjoying a Saturday outing to the aquarium. I hobbled back to the entrance head down in defeat to strike off to the car which was once more a block and a street crossing away. I snapped mercilessly at Claire to keep her on the sidewalk ten feet or fewer in front of me. I looked into the eager happy faces of the normal people entering the aquarium and felt shame, envy, and some urge to warn them. Of course, they didn't need to be warned ... they clearly had everything under control. And now that the weird swearing lady with the entire preschool class was gone, nothing stood between them and a lovely time looking at fish and water dwelling mammals.
God knows when we are at the point of despair and he mercifully acts on our behalf. Halfway up the block, there was a bench. And on the bench was one of those obnoxious girls asking every passing family if they'd like to get their children into modeling. She proffered lollipops as she asked me the modeling question. I said "no" but could we possibly have lollipops anyway. She kindly gave us two and I sat on the bench, not caring about anyone ruining their lunch or getting sticky, just breathing in the fresh air and feeling grateful for that bench and silence inducing lollipops. I quietly rooted for our salesgirl friend as she accosted each passing family until Claire began to wander again. Feeling just refreshed enough to make it down the rest of the block, across the street, to the parking booth (to pay), down the elevator and to the car, I did.
We then drove to John's office to see how he was doing. He asked about the aquarium. Was it fun? I told him "yes, but I won't be doing that again any time soon". How could I explain what I'd just been through? Our visit to the aquarium is not unlike many of my days. I just can't quite remember all of the craziness to be able to relate it back to anyone. Not that John has the patience to listen anyway. He's got a million other things going on in his mind. So I am very glad I took the time to relate all of this to you. I really needed to share!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Baby SPA!
My relationship with John's parents started out really well. At one point, I even stayed with them for a few weeks. I'd just given up my apartment in NYC in order to pursue their son to Singapore in (one of) my grandest acts of desperation. At the time, being close to them was the closest I could be to him. This was before my mind became too cluttered to misthink so profoundly. They treated me like a daughter and I soaked up the attention like Citta getting a back scratch.
After I moved away, I continued to talk to them by phone from Singapore, pleased to have such utterly wonderful future inlaws. John and I got married and John's mom cried (at the time, I assumed it was from joy ...). It was just a very positive start all around. And then Claire was born.
I hadn't anticipated the sheer coddling capability of those two. They coveted Claire, wisking her out of my arms and off to far reaches of my house. I'd go searching all over to find the three of them huddled in the corner of an upstairs bedroom. I felt like an intruder. "Ah hem" I'd say "do you mind if I take Claire downstairs to feed her? They'd carry her downstairs for me and reluctantly turn her over, hovering, pouncing to get her back at the first opportunity. Literally, if I turned my back or went off to refill a bottle, she was gone. Poof! The disappearing baby. If you know how immature I can be now, you can correctly imagine how immature I was as a new mother, trying to find my footing. It began to be an incredible sore spot for me. There was one, especially memorable time in a restaurant when my MIL (Mother in law) was holding Claire ... I gestured that I wanted to hold her and was refused. I reached out to TAKE HER and was resisted. It was awkward, tousling like that over a baby with an elderly woman in the middle of a busy restaurant and I quickly gave up and went back to my meal. Fuming. John later, and very diplomatically, spoke to his parents to say I was struggling with my new role and needed help but also some space. They are well meaning people and backed off as much as they were able.
Ava quickly followed Claire and I had an inquisitive, active toddler and a newborn. Claire is one of the most capable people I know and I encouraged her to do what she could for herself ... feeding herself, walking, exploring her surroundings ... But John's parents could not let the process of growing independence proceed. Deeply engrained in them was a belief that Claire, their precious first grandchild, could not and SHOULD not be allowed to do anything on her own. That, if she were allowed to walk, she'd fall and hurt herself, that if she weilded her own spoon, she'd spoon her big brown baby eyes out. It became an ongoing struggle during their visits while I tried to allow Claire to test her spoon skills (yes, it was messy but now she feeds herself brilliantly without ever needing a bib). Because Ava had to be carried everywhere, being a newborn and all, I really, truly NEEDED Claire to be able to manuever herself as much as possible. My insistence in the area of my childrens' independence caused a lot of friction between my in laws and I who couldn't understand my perspective. If they happened to be at the house on a day John was working, the tension was much much worse and his dad began to yell at me to vent his anger. I told John that they were welcome to visit us, but only when John was home. That improved things somewhat. But I brissled as they toted my blossoming Claire around like an infant. During their visits, I began to retreat to my bedroom to avoid getting upset. I'd stay there for most of a day, sneaking around the house for snacks hoping to not be detected. It was awful.
In the end, we came up with the happy happy solution of moving Baby Spa (a perfect place where no one is allowed to feed oneself, move around on one's own or cry) to John's parents' house. I found that, given a day off to do nothing child related, I really truly didn't CARE what went on there. As long as they were well cared for and brought home at night, I was fine with Claire being carried and spoon fed candy all day long. And that is the story of baby spa.
My relationship with my in laws is still damaged from those early days. I take responsibility for being so short tempered with two really very nice older people who only want the best for me and my family. John takes the girls there once a week or so and I can't say how much I need those days of freedom, how they give me the only true rest I get.
Things will change when LW is born. My in laws are more motivated to spend time with their grandchildren than anyone else I know, including their grandchildrens' parents. However, it will not be physically possible for them to take on all three at once. My intent is to send two, pick any two! to Baby Spa to give me quality one on one time with whoever is leftover. In the beginning, I'll probably keep LF at home for bonding purposes but then might switch occasionally to my neglected middle child, Ava. It will be fun to see how things work out!
After I moved away, I continued to talk to them by phone from Singapore, pleased to have such utterly wonderful future inlaws. John and I got married and John's mom cried (at the time, I assumed it was from joy ...). It was just a very positive start all around. And then Claire was born.
I hadn't anticipated the sheer coddling capability of those two. They coveted Claire, wisking her out of my arms and off to far reaches of my house. I'd go searching all over to find the three of them huddled in the corner of an upstairs bedroom. I felt like an intruder. "Ah hem" I'd say "do you mind if I take Claire downstairs to feed her? They'd carry her downstairs for me and reluctantly turn her over, hovering, pouncing to get her back at the first opportunity. Literally, if I turned my back or went off to refill a bottle, she was gone. Poof! The disappearing baby. If you know how immature I can be now, you can correctly imagine how immature I was as a new mother, trying to find my footing. It began to be an incredible sore spot for me. There was one, especially memorable time in a restaurant when my MIL (Mother in law) was holding Claire ... I gestured that I wanted to hold her and was refused. I reached out to TAKE HER and was resisted. It was awkward, tousling like that over a baby with an elderly woman in the middle of a busy restaurant and I quickly gave up and went back to my meal. Fuming. John later, and very diplomatically, spoke to his parents to say I was struggling with my new role and needed help but also some space. They are well meaning people and backed off as much as they were able.
Ava quickly followed Claire and I had an inquisitive, active toddler and a newborn. Claire is one of the most capable people I know and I encouraged her to do what she could for herself ... feeding herself, walking, exploring her surroundings ... But John's parents could not let the process of growing independence proceed. Deeply engrained in them was a belief that Claire, their precious first grandchild, could not and SHOULD not be allowed to do anything on her own. That, if she were allowed to walk, she'd fall and hurt herself, that if she weilded her own spoon, she'd spoon her big brown baby eyes out. It became an ongoing struggle during their visits while I tried to allow Claire to test her spoon skills (yes, it was messy but now she feeds herself brilliantly without ever needing a bib). Because Ava had to be carried everywhere, being a newborn and all, I really, truly NEEDED Claire to be able to manuever herself as much as possible. My insistence in the area of my childrens' independence caused a lot of friction between my in laws and I who couldn't understand my perspective. If they happened to be at the house on a day John was working, the tension was much much worse and his dad began to yell at me to vent his anger. I told John that they were welcome to visit us, but only when John was home. That improved things somewhat. But I brissled as they toted my blossoming Claire around like an infant. During their visits, I began to retreat to my bedroom to avoid getting upset. I'd stay there for most of a day, sneaking around the house for snacks hoping to not be detected. It was awful.
In the end, we came up with the happy happy solution of moving Baby Spa (a perfect place where no one is allowed to feed oneself, move around on one's own or cry) to John's parents' house. I found that, given a day off to do nothing child related, I really truly didn't CARE what went on there. As long as they were well cared for and brought home at night, I was fine with Claire being carried and spoon fed candy all day long. And that is the story of baby spa.
My relationship with my in laws is still damaged from those early days. I take responsibility for being so short tempered with two really very nice older people who only want the best for me and my family. John takes the girls there once a week or so and I can't say how much I need those days of freedom, how they give me the only true rest I get.
Things will change when LW is born. My in laws are more motivated to spend time with their grandchildren than anyone else I know, including their grandchildrens' parents. However, it will not be physically possible for them to take on all three at once. My intent is to send two, pick any two! to Baby Spa to give me quality one on one time with whoever is leftover. In the beginning, I'll probably keep LF at home for bonding purposes but then might switch occasionally to my neglected middle child, Ava. It will be fun to see how things work out!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Toy Management (the totalitarian way)
I mentioned before that my home, at certain times on certain days, looks as though children do not live there. Now you are either rolling your eyes in disgust (ugh, who does this woman think she is, erasing signs of existance of her own children) or you are interested (hmmm, I LIKE it!). For those of you with open minds and narrow hearts, here is a list of the general principles that keep the toys under control at my house:
- I am anti Dora, Disney, Elmo, other stupid kid characters. I am anti character (while still managing to keep plenty for myself) because I think it provides questionable roll models and encourages children to beg (for additional toys). I mean really. Do I want my two year old daughter to relate with any of the Disney princesses? No, I don't want her hoping for and dreaming/wondering about prince charming, or worrying about being the most beautiful. How could I be so anti princess? I don't know, but I wouldn't be sorry if they were all swept away in an avalanche. This will never happen because of that blasted vault where they are all kept locked away for twenty years at a time to be digitalized and sold to mobs for limited times only. What dross. Dora is just addictive ... which of us hasn't heard a small child exclaim with misplaced joy "DORRRRAAAAA!!!!" I don't like the looks of that girl. My poor sister lives with a super scary dora doll that has hair that "grows" if you pull on it really hard. It's those big huge eyes that I find most disturbing. I prefer crafty little eyes like my own. Then there is Dora's entire entourage ... Diego, the odd animals, that sneaky fox like thing. Elmo is just annoying. I don't like the color of his fur (I doubt it is his REAL fur color anyway) and the way his eyeballs are planted on top of his head is yucky. So ... I systematically Weed Out (Take Out, Take Care Of, Remove) most character toys that wander our way. I have made exceptions, however ... we have a Disney Princess keyboard and a My Little Pony pony. And honestly, are Melissa & Doug any better? I mean, who are those people? No matter how much I refuse to give in to the temptation of character toys, my daughters still know all of their names and Claire likes to talk about Barney and sing his clean up clean up song. One learns to bend a bit on these things.
- Every toy lives in a specific place in our house. Toys that appeal to very small people, such as blocks, live in the nursery. I run a super tight ship in there ... certain toys belong on the shelves, others in the toy box, others in the closet on the higher shelves ... I am inflexible on where each toy should spend most of its day. I renest the stacking blocks, separate the farm animal set from the wooden toys, and comb through everything on occassion to toss out broken toys and to goodwill unused toys. The truth is I do all of this out of pure obsession. As toys are being played with, they are also being tidied and put away. Sometimes Claire says "Mommy, NO! I PLAYING with this" and I find it necessary to back off for a moment. My excuse for my behavior is that Claire and Ava and their unfortunate siblings will have it in their heads that everything has a place and that orderliness should prevail. Bath toys go in the bathroom in a "toy bowl" which is an adapted cereal bowl. Toys for the preschool set stay in the girls' bedroom upstairs. Certain, extra blessed toys have been granted leasehold rights on the living floor. Could all of this be the secret to raising children who crave clean bedrooms? We will see.
- To make up for the character thing, I allow Claire to collect and keep rocks. She has three at the moment ... a pink one I bought for her, an ugly one from a walk we took last summer in our neighborhood (possibly a chunk of asphalt), and one I brought back from Arizona. I didn't buy her a toy or a souvenir ... I brought her a rock. And she was thrilled! Sometimes she says with palpable concern, "Mom! Where is my Awelona rock?!"
- If something seems like it could possibly be harmful, like a toy with a long string, I just get rid of it. You could argue that rocks are not particularly safe, but boy are they inexpensive! Regarding other toys, I find my children don't miss anything that disappears (Disappears).
- Our most beloved toys are, for the most part, gifts ... Sleep Sheep comes to mind. My brother sent Sleep Sheep for Ava two Christmases ago and it is CHERISHED. We all love sleep sheep, even John and I. We have a set of cardboard stacking blocks that a neighbor gave us when Claire was a baby ... we play with those nearly every day. Our toys are used again and again, I think mostly because they are usually put away which adds to their allure. What is more fun than dumping a word whammer and 26 letters out of a box onto the floor?! Also, we try to think of interesting alternate uses for toys. A shapesorter makes a great place to sit, Claire has discovered. I realized that, if you lay nesting boxes on their sides and whack them with something stick like, they form a sort of piano, with each size box making its own sound. Sometimes a toy will go unused for many weeks and then be rediscovered by excited toddlers. Look! A wind up TV that plays two songs!
- Toys (and little girls), don't belong on tables, but we do have a counter that serves as an observation deck for toys waiting for diners to finish their meals. Ava even allows Sleep Sheep to sit there without a struggle.
I continue to hone my methods as time marches on. I am getting mentally prepared to unearth those awful newborn toys that do nothing but rattle, clink or crinkle except take up tons of room ... exersaucers, baby gyms, the swing ...
- I am anti Dora, Disney, Elmo, other stupid kid characters. I am anti character (while still managing to keep plenty for myself) because I think it provides questionable roll models and encourages children to beg (for additional toys). I mean really. Do I want my two year old daughter to relate with any of the Disney princesses? No, I don't want her hoping for and dreaming/wondering about prince charming, or worrying about being the most beautiful. How could I be so anti princess? I don't know, but I wouldn't be sorry if they were all swept away in an avalanche. This will never happen because of that blasted vault where they are all kept locked away for twenty years at a time to be digitalized and sold to mobs for limited times only. What dross. Dora is just addictive ... which of us hasn't heard a small child exclaim with misplaced joy "DORRRRAAAAA!!!!" I don't like the looks of that girl. My poor sister lives with a super scary dora doll that has hair that "grows" if you pull on it really hard. It's those big huge eyes that I find most disturbing. I prefer crafty little eyes like my own. Then there is Dora's entire entourage ... Diego, the odd animals, that sneaky fox like thing. Elmo is just annoying. I don't like the color of his fur (I doubt it is his REAL fur color anyway) and the way his eyeballs are planted on top of his head is yucky. So ... I systematically Weed Out (Take Out, Take Care Of, Remove) most character toys that wander our way. I have made exceptions, however ... we have a Disney Princess keyboard and a My Little Pony pony. And honestly, are Melissa & Doug any better? I mean, who are those people? No matter how much I refuse to give in to the temptation of character toys, my daughters still know all of their names and Claire likes to talk about Barney and sing his clean up clean up song. One learns to bend a bit on these things.
- Every toy lives in a specific place in our house. Toys that appeal to very small people, such as blocks, live in the nursery. I run a super tight ship in there ... certain toys belong on the shelves, others in the toy box, others in the closet on the higher shelves ... I am inflexible on where each toy should spend most of its day. I renest the stacking blocks, separate the farm animal set from the wooden toys, and comb through everything on occassion to toss out broken toys and to goodwill unused toys. The truth is I do all of this out of pure obsession. As toys are being played with, they are also being tidied and put away. Sometimes Claire says "Mommy, NO! I PLAYING with this" and I find it necessary to back off for a moment. My excuse for my behavior is that Claire and Ava and their unfortunate siblings will have it in their heads that everything has a place and that orderliness should prevail. Bath toys go in the bathroom in a "toy bowl" which is an adapted cereal bowl. Toys for the preschool set stay in the girls' bedroom upstairs. Certain, extra blessed toys have been granted leasehold rights on the living floor. Could all of this be the secret to raising children who crave clean bedrooms? We will see.
- To make up for the character thing, I allow Claire to collect and keep rocks. She has three at the moment ... a pink one I bought for her, an ugly one from a walk we took last summer in our neighborhood (possibly a chunk of asphalt), and one I brought back from Arizona. I didn't buy her a toy or a souvenir ... I brought her a rock. And she was thrilled! Sometimes she says with palpable concern, "Mom! Where is my Awelona rock?!"
- If something seems like it could possibly be harmful, like a toy with a long string, I just get rid of it. You could argue that rocks are not particularly safe, but boy are they inexpensive! Regarding other toys, I find my children don't miss anything that disappears (Disappears).
- Our most beloved toys are, for the most part, gifts ... Sleep Sheep comes to mind. My brother sent Sleep Sheep for Ava two Christmases ago and it is CHERISHED. We all love sleep sheep, even John and I. We have a set of cardboard stacking blocks that a neighbor gave us when Claire was a baby ... we play with those nearly every day. Our toys are used again and again, I think mostly because they are usually put away which adds to their allure. What is more fun than dumping a word whammer and 26 letters out of a box onto the floor?! Also, we try to think of interesting alternate uses for toys. A shapesorter makes a great place to sit, Claire has discovered. I realized that, if you lay nesting boxes on their sides and whack them with something stick like, they form a sort of piano, with each size box making its own sound. Sometimes a toy will go unused for many weeks and then be rediscovered by excited toddlers. Look! A wind up TV that plays two songs!
- Toys (and little girls), don't belong on tables, but we do have a counter that serves as an observation deck for toys waiting for diners to finish their meals. Ava even allows Sleep Sheep to sit there without a struggle.
I continue to hone my methods as time marches on. I am getting mentally prepared to unearth those awful newborn toys that do nothing but rattle, clink or crinkle except take up tons of room ... exersaucers, baby gyms, the swing ...
Up then down then UP then DOWN
I am emotionally exhausted. I have been doped up on a dangerous cocktail of hormones for months and need a few minutes free of anything intense. But instead, I sought out videos of ... of ALL THINGS, LISA!!!!! ... Vietnam orphanages on Youtube. I know ... so incredibly stupid. When Pink lyrics (it breaks my heart what that motorcross dude did to her and isn't it great in a sad way that she's ready to get sober?) and AT&T commercials (it is really sad that the business man is so far away from his little daughter) can bring on tears, the safest thing to do is curl up in a ball and not move very much. And not go poking around youtube for super sad things to watch.
I could also use a muzzle ... I have never felt so mean and nasty! I want the people in my life, who insist on underachieving my goals for them, to suffer. Some kind of mute button, or even just a pause button, would be nice. Or what if I was kept on a conveyor belt that would wisk me away from annoyances? Or two big guys to say "okay, honey, time to move on, let's go" and shepherd me away? Of course, the real answer is heavy medication.
But every down comes with a nauseatingly high up. When I think about little whoever, I cry, when I think about Claire and Ava and they aren't right in front of me driving me crazy, I cry. I cry when I bite into a really good piece of toast with butter and jam, when I sing hymns at church. I am beginning to think it is all less about the moment and more about crying.
After three insanely emotional pregnancies, John is finally, the big ape, starting to say things like "calm down ... it's just your hormones". Which is a dangerous thing to say at any point in the reproductive cycle. Maybe by the fourth pregnancy he will improve to "come here and let me hug you, there there" which is maybe not much safer since it requires me to be so close.
In case you are having an overly joyous day and feel you need a little grounding, a down to balance your up, go to Youtube and search for "Vietnam Orphanage".
I could also use a muzzle ... I have never felt so mean and nasty! I want the people in my life, who insist on underachieving my goals for them, to suffer. Some kind of mute button, or even just a pause button, would be nice. Or what if I was kept on a conveyor belt that would wisk me away from annoyances? Or two big guys to say "okay, honey, time to move on, let's go" and shepherd me away? Of course, the real answer is heavy medication.
But every down comes with a nauseatingly high up. When I think about little whoever, I cry, when I think about Claire and Ava and they aren't right in front of me driving me crazy, I cry. I cry when I bite into a really good piece of toast with butter and jam, when I sing hymns at church. I am beginning to think it is all less about the moment and more about crying.
After three insanely emotional pregnancies, John is finally, the big ape, starting to say things like "calm down ... it's just your hormones". Which is a dangerous thing to say at any point in the reproductive cycle. Maybe by the fourth pregnancy he will improve to "come here and let me hug you, there there" which is maybe not much safer since it requires me to be so close.
In case you are having an overly joyous day and feel you need a little grounding, a down to balance your up, go to Youtube and search for "Vietnam Orphanage".
Monday, March 9, 2009
Sleeping Arrangements
When we moved into our five bedroom house, we tripled our living space. In fact, most of my single-days apartments would fit into my now bedroom. In the beginning, the new house seemed so cavernous, 6500 square feet. I had a room for this and a room for that. Luxury! When we moved in, it was John, Claire and I. We put together a nursery for Claire on the same floor as our bedroom. In risky pink, which, so far, has been a good bet. That left us with a guest room on our floor and two guest rooms on the top floor. After Ava was born, I converted one of those guest rooms into a future bedroom for the girls when they are old enough to be a floor away from us at night. Technically, I suppose we have six bedrooms because we added a "maid's room" on our "lower level" (read basement) where trusty Nelka resides. In Singapore, every apartment/condo has a maid's room. Our condo there had a very cozy outdoor bomb shelter/maid room. It was 6x6, windowless and like a tomb. We used ours for storage, but some of our neighbors actually kept maids in theirs!
Ava and Claire both coslept with us in their earlier days ... our habit is to just put the fuzzy headed new ones in bed between us ... that way no one falls out and we can "take turns" feeding at night (John, me me me me me me me me me me me, John, me me ......). Also, because John works long hours, it gives him time to spend with new ones even if they are both asleep. So far, we have not killed anyone this way, although once, I woken up by vigorous kicking and yelping. It was Ava! I'd apparently tried to roll all the way to John through her territory and over her. When I woke up, her left side was still steamrollered under me and she was in an infant panic, fighting for survival. Poor baby. Shortly after that she decided she'd like to try sleeping on her own in a crib. She was seven months old which was, interestingly, was the exact same age Claire was when she made her move to the crib. Maybe it is genetic. Or maybe at that age, baby ears are developed enough to appreciate the full volume of John's snoring which, I admit, sometimes makes a cold dark night alone sound nice.
We plan on employing the same initial sleeping arrangements with little Aenore, Jessica, Scanton, Violet (isn't THAT a cute name?? More later on why it is not in my next naming update) ... little whoever. I'm hoping she decides to move on at six or seven months like her sisters did. I know I don't want to get stuck with a five year old in my bed. I hear it happens! I sense we are playing with danger ... like keeping a wild animal as a pet or taking catnaps while driving ... it may work out some of the time, but eventually you get caught!
My big life dilemma at this moment is what to do with the two existing residents of the nursery when little whoever is ready to sleep on her own. If this happens when little whoever (LW) is seven months, Claire will be 3 and change and Ava 2 and change. Possible options:
- Buy another toddler bed for the nursery. So Ava and Claire would be in toddler beds with LW in the crib. It might be crowded.
- Buy another $1400 crib (to match the one we have) for LW and cram it into nursery with existing furniture. I just think that at some point, it will start to look like the sleeping quarters of an orphanage. Also, you're only young and crazy enough to drop $1400 on a crib once.
- Move Claire and Ava upstairs to their bedroom. The issue with this is that Ava fully rejects aging of any kind. We call her the "giant infant" ... she still talks with cooing noises, still drools ... I can't imagine her sleeping on any kind of a bed, even in a year and a half from now. But maybe she is a "sleeper" and will surprise us all with her sudden maturity
- Move just poor little Claire upstairs. This is what she gets for showing off all the time and being so darn mature. We may just rent her an apartment somewhere since she's so darn smart
- Give up one of my precious guest rooms. Sigh. I just hate to do it. It is a security thing, knowing I have two guest rooms. Sure, we seldom use them both at the same time but ...!
I am not expecting a lot of pity, but our house is beginning to feel not very big. What started as luxury ... a kitchen table AND a dining room table ... a livingroom AND a great room ... an office AND a library ... seems like utter necessity now. Food, shelter, clothing, theater ... Water, air, plant life, wine cellar. It vaguely reminds me of one of Claire's favorite ditties:
Alligator pie, Alligator pie
Take away the grass
Take away the sky
But PLEASE DON'T TAKE AWAY MY ALLIGATOR PIE!!!
Ava and Claire both coslept with us in their earlier days ... our habit is to just put the fuzzy headed new ones in bed between us ... that way no one falls out and we can "take turns" feeding at night (John, me me me me me me me me me me me, John, me me ......). Also, because John works long hours, it gives him time to spend with new ones even if they are both asleep. So far, we have not killed anyone this way, although once, I woken up by vigorous kicking and yelping. It was Ava! I'd apparently tried to roll all the way to John through her territory and over her. When I woke up, her left side was still steamrollered under me and she was in an infant panic, fighting for survival. Poor baby. Shortly after that she decided she'd like to try sleeping on her own in a crib. She was seven months old which was, interestingly, was the exact same age Claire was when she made her move to the crib. Maybe it is genetic. Or maybe at that age, baby ears are developed enough to appreciate the full volume of John's snoring which, I admit, sometimes makes a cold dark night alone sound nice.
We plan on employing the same initial sleeping arrangements with little Aenore, Jessica, Scanton, Violet (isn't THAT a cute name?? More later on why it is not in my next naming update) ... little whoever. I'm hoping she decides to move on at six or seven months like her sisters did. I know I don't want to get stuck with a five year old in my bed. I hear it happens! I sense we are playing with danger ... like keeping a wild animal as a pet or taking catnaps while driving ... it may work out some of the time, but eventually you get caught!
My big life dilemma at this moment is what to do with the two existing residents of the nursery when little whoever is ready to sleep on her own. If this happens when little whoever (LW) is seven months, Claire will be 3 and change and Ava 2 and change. Possible options:
- Buy another toddler bed for the nursery. So Ava and Claire would be in toddler beds with LW in the crib. It might be crowded.
- Buy another $1400 crib (to match the one we have) for LW and cram it into nursery with existing furniture. I just think that at some point, it will start to look like the sleeping quarters of an orphanage. Also, you're only young and crazy enough to drop $1400 on a crib once.
- Move Claire and Ava upstairs to their bedroom. The issue with this is that Ava fully rejects aging of any kind. We call her the "giant infant" ... she still talks with cooing noises, still drools ... I can't imagine her sleeping on any kind of a bed, even in a year and a half from now. But maybe she is a "sleeper" and will surprise us all with her sudden maturity
- Move just poor little Claire upstairs. This is what she gets for showing off all the time and being so darn mature. We may just rent her an apartment somewhere since she's so darn smart
- Give up one of my precious guest rooms. Sigh. I just hate to do it. It is a security thing, knowing I have two guest rooms. Sure, we seldom use them both at the same time but ...!
I am not expecting a lot of pity, but our house is beginning to feel not very big. What started as luxury ... a kitchen table AND a dining room table ... a livingroom AND a great room ... an office AND a library ... seems like utter necessity now. Food, shelter, clothing, theater ... Water, air, plant life, wine cellar. It vaguely reminds me of one of Claire's favorite ditties:
Alligator pie, Alligator pie
Take away the grass
Take away the sky
But PLEASE DON'T TAKE AWAY MY ALLIGATOR PIE!!!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Fun with Fish
John has been working every day, starting up his hedge fund, Frontera. This means that my long weeks at home with the girls are not delineated by weekends ... I try to make a weekend for us, to make it seem like I'm not a single parent every single day. For the last two weekends, I took the girls to my sister's house near Boston. The drive takes up three hours of time I'd otherwise have no idea how to spend and, my parental duties are shared by my sister and brother-in-law. The cousins play with each other, and it's also just nice to have a change of scenery ... and new toys!
Last weekend, I decided to give my sister a break ... and decided to spend as much of Saturday as possible at the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium. I talked about Fish all day Friday to get us in the mood for our Saturday excursion. We were all very excited. I thought of taking Nelka but Saturday and Sunday are her days off so, rather than bother her, I braved it alone. Everything went very smoothly until we got to the parking lot of the aquarium. The parking garage is across the street and a block down from the entrance ... Claire is a wonderful and independent walker but without constant verbal cues from me ("Claire, stay close to Mommy", "this way, Claire", "Claire! Stop!!!"), she tends to head the wrong direction or in front of a car. Ava, our giant infant, is a horrible walker. She falls a lot, even with when I have an iron grip on her chubby little hand. And she is starting to assert herself by pulling in unwanted directions and making me drag her after me while she squirms and cries. She is also short so I have to bend over in order to keep a hold of her without dislocating her baby arm. So, I carry her. She may be short but she is solid at 30 pounds. It is funny that Claire, a little small for her age, is within a pound of the same weight. All of this to say that by the time I got them to the garage elevator, across the street and down the block to the aquarium entrance, I was ready to go home.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have. We got into line to buy entrance tickets and my children scattered ... one charging down the hallway to the first exhibit, the other making a break for the door. I hustled behind the one going to the street, clutching at my big pregnant belly "STOPPPPP!" A marvelous aquarium employee stepped from out of nowhere to block Ava's freedom charge. "Thank you!" I breathed heavily. He gave me the look (Lady, are these really your children because you look like you don't know how to take care of them. And just look at yourself, pregnant again?!). I may have been reading a little too much into our brief eye contact. Maybe what he was thinking was "my hat off to you, little lady!" Eventually, I was able to purchase our tickets and dash down the hall with kicking Ava under my arm like a football to catch up to Claire.
The wonder of sea life was most profound when the girls caught a glimpse of a giant, stuffed animal squid (or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike) suspended from the ceiling before the first exhibit. "Look Ava!!" said Claire breathlessly looking up in fascination. I jumped on the opportunity to make good use of our pricey tickets "yes! wow, girls!! That is a GIANT stuffed (animal) squid! Or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike." Eventually, it was necessary to drag them on to the real fish, but I think if we'd turned around and gone home right then, they would have been satisfied with their trip to the museum. Like when they are so enthralled with the wrapping paper, bow and box you catch yourself thinking "I'll just return the gift!"
Our first stop was a tank full of little turtles. "Oh BOY!" I exclaimed ... "little turtles!!" The girls were fully absorbed in pushing each other off of the narrow step stool platform and staring at those incredible little turtles. Like a moron, I soon hustled them off to other exhibits that were not nearly so interesting as the little turtles or the giant stuffed animal cuttlefish suspended from the ceiling. One truly giant turtle was minimally interesting. A tank full of hungry looking sharks was dismissed with disdain. I spoke enthusiastically about jellyfish, seahorses, weird little fish that lived in holes they dug into aquarium rocks. None of these sparked much interest. It wasn't until we got to the open tank of STINGRAYS that my two came alive. Claire hopped up on the step stool thing in order to reach in, but Ava was still too short. I propped her up with my knee. An aquarium employee came over and asked if I had any questions. I asked the one I thought that she'd expect from any loving mother who's babies were dipping their grimy little paws into a tank full of STINGrays "do they sting?" I intoned with the correct amount of concern. "Oh no" she said "we clip off the stingers". I knew I was supposed to gasp in horror and exclaim "but doesn't that HURT them??" but I didn't really care. I turned back to Claire and Ava to discover their sleeves wet up to their elbows. Aaahh! I wrung them out the best I could and rolled them up, aware that the couple standing next to us was observing our activities with unveiled interest. The woman began to ask the usual questions about their ages and ethnicities. I don't mind these kinds of questions at all ... I think it is kind of people to show interest in my wacky life. I answered cheerfully, even adding I was expecting again ("I must be really crazy ha ha"). I turned back around but no Claire! I tucked kicking Ava under my arm and prepared to charge around like a crazy mom yelling "Claire? CLAAAIIIIRRRREEE!!!" but had to first go back for Ava's dropped shoe. Finally, clutching my bag, stray shoe and screeching stingray obsessed child, I began my running around calling routine. Claire soon came out from behind a display and all was well.
I looked at the handful of papers I'd been handed along with tickets and noted that a seal feeding was scheduled in 20 minutes. Fortuitous! I pulled Claire toward the seal enclosure (which acted like a really strong magnet ... only when I managed to get them far enough away, could they turn their attention to other things) and to the seal place where Ava wanted to get in with the seals. I wasn't so opposed to that except she first had to make it down three or four very steep and dirty steps. I was so tired by then I was afraid I'd topple down if I tried to carry her. So I set her down at the top and grabbed her hand, thinking she could walk down the steps while I prevented her from falling. But she had something else in her mind ... specifically that I would carry her down BY her arm. Which, in the end, I did. Exhausted at the bottom, I sat on a step and pointed weakly to the torpedo shaped mammals whizzing around in the water filled tank now six inches from our faces. Ava wasn't impressed. She turned and began crawling up those filthy steps. "Oh heaven help me!" I thought, got to my feet and, in the end, carried her UP the steps suspended by her chubby baby arm. Meanwhile, Claire was falling in love with seals and their funny sealness. I called for her but she remained glued to the glass (at the bottom of the steps). With a resigned sigh, I carried Ava back down the stairs by her arm, got Claire's attention and then we somehow made it to the top, all three of us.
Now you can imagine I was hoping against hope that the seal feeding was just moments away. But, after digging my phone out of my bag while chasing the girls between boat displays, I saw that time had stood still and only three measly minutes had passed since I initially noted the only twenty remaining until seal feeding time. I, helpless optimist, had been rounding DOWN to get to twenty minutes in the beginning ... it had actually been twenty TWO minutes until seal feeding time, making it nineteen long minutes still to wait. The random suspension of time is one of the most profound effects of having young children.
I looked hopefully around the boat display room and saw one of those photograph platforms with holes cut out in a board so your child can stand behind and poke her head through while you take pictures from the other side. I've never been a fan of these things but the girls discovered that this one had a raised and carpeted platform in the back which was great fun for standing. I sat heavily on the edge of it while the girls tirelessly climbing up and down from the platform (Ava) and by poked heads through the cutout thingies (Claire). This passed five relatively peaceful minutes. But then, "real parents" (with cameras and strollers and reasonably spaced children) started coming by and sending their children behind the board (where they encountered a strange woman with two feral looking toddlers) so they could take pictures.
Feeling a bit like a predator camped out back there, I got up and pulled the girls off to a bench to sit between two women who looked surprised that a stranger wouldn't mind parking herself between them. I didn't mind at all. Most of the time, Claire is a compliant and sweet little thing who will actually stay close when I ask her to. Ava no. I held her squirmy little self half way on my lap while she cried and tried to wiggle down and simultaneously issued orders to Claire every five seconds to not wander away. This lasted a brief time before Claire gave me a naughty look and ran around a corner. "Claire!" I yelled. One of my benchmates asked if she should hold Ava so I could go get Claire. Can you believe how NICE (and foolish) people can be?? I knew that wouldn't work with Ava in her current mood so I hoisted her under my arm along with my bag and went after Claire.
I caught up with her back by the boats. With just twelve more minutes to go (remember that Johnny Cash song about the poor guy waiting to be hanged?) and I felt I'd waited too long to forgo valuable entertainment like sealfeeding. This is what I call "throwing good minutes after bad". I spent the remaining minutes just chasing behind them as they raced around the boats squealing. Two minutes before feeding time, I reholstered Ava and forcibly pulled Claire away from the boats and back to the seal area. I managed to overcome their reluctance with lots and lots of enthusiastic talk about seals and feeding seals ("wow girls, we're going to get to see the seals have their lunch!!!") We sat among the crowd on one of the higher steps where Ava discovered she could, from her seat on my lap, kick the people in front of us. I apologized but not profusely (I had little energy available for non vital activities like apologizing) and reigned in those meaty little legs. Ava protested and tried to get down, Claire stayed to the farthest reaches of my vision and I checked my phone for the time. Two minutes late and no sign of any feeding. I was tired. I'd had it. I was angry! "What the F^$%!" I exclaimed in the angry frustration that, from my experience, only pms or pregnancy plus small children can generate. I ignored the looks, stood up abruptly with Ava implanted under my aching arm, grabbed Claire and MARCHED out of there.
Oh failure. Fail.Ure. The worst part of it, I could see right away, was my deplorable language in a room full of adults and children all enjoying a Saturday outing to the aquarium. I hobbled back to the entrance head down in defeat to strike off to the car which was once more a block and a street crossing away. I snapped mercilessly at Claire to keep her on the sidewalk ten feet or fewer in front of me. I looked into the eager happy faces of the normal people entering the aquarium and felt shame, envy, and some urge to warn them. Of course, they didn't need to be warned ... they clearly had everything under control. And now that the weird swearing lady with the entire preschool class was gone, nothing stood between them and a lovely time looking at fish and water dwelling mammals.
God knows when we are at the point of despair and he mercifully acts on our behalf. Halfway up the block, there was a bench. And on the bench was one of those obnoxious girls asking every passing family if they'd like to get their children into modeling. She proffered lollipops as she asked me the modeling question. I said "no" but could we possibly have lollipops anyway. She kindly gave us two and I sat on the bench, not caring about anyone ruining their lunch or getting sticky, just breathing in the fresh air and feeling grateful for that bench and silence inducing lollipops. I quietly rooted for our salesgirl friend as she accosted each passing family until Claire began to wander again. Feeling just refreshed enough to make it down the rest of the block, across the street, to the parking booth (to pay), down the elevator and to the car, I did.
We then drove to John's office to see how he was doing. He asked about the aquarium. Was it fun? I told him "yes, but I won't be doing that again any time soon". How could I explain what I'd just been through? Our visit to the aquarium is not unlike many of my days. I just can't quite remember all of the craziness to be able to relate it back to anyone. Not that John has the patience to listen anyway. He's got a million other things going on in his mind. So I am very glad I took the time to relate all of this to you. I really needed to share!
Last weekend, I decided to give my sister a break ... and decided to spend as much of Saturday as possible at the Norwalk Maritime Aquarium. I talked about Fish all day Friday to get us in the mood for our Saturday excursion. We were all very excited. I thought of taking Nelka but Saturday and Sunday are her days off so, rather than bother her, I braved it alone. Everything went very smoothly until we got to the parking lot of the aquarium. The parking garage is across the street and a block down from the entrance ... Claire is a wonderful and independent walker but without constant verbal cues from me ("Claire, stay close to Mommy", "this way, Claire", "Claire! Stop!!!"), she tends to head the wrong direction or in front of a car. Ava, our giant infant, is a horrible walker. She falls a lot, even with when I have an iron grip on her chubby little hand. And she is starting to assert herself by pulling in unwanted directions and making me drag her after me while she squirms and cries. She is also short so I have to bend over in order to keep a hold of her without dislocating her baby arm. So, I carry her. She may be short but she is solid at 30 pounds. It is funny that Claire, a little small for her age, is within a pound of the same weight. All of this to say that by the time I got them to the garage elevator, across the street and down the block to the aquarium entrance, I was ready to go home.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have. We got into line to buy entrance tickets and my children scattered ... one charging down the hallway to the first exhibit, the other making a break for the door. I hustled behind the one going to the street, clutching at my big pregnant belly "STOPPPPP!" A marvelous aquarium employee stepped from out of nowhere to block Ava's freedom charge. "Thank you!" I breathed heavily. He gave me the look (Lady, are these really your children because you look like you don't know how to take care of them. And just look at yourself, pregnant again?!). I may have been reading a little too much into our brief eye contact. Maybe what he was thinking was "my hat off to you, little lady!" Eventually, I was able to purchase our tickets and dash down the hall with kicking Ava under my arm like a football to catch up to Claire.
The wonder of sea life was most profound when the girls caught a glimpse of a giant, stuffed animal squid (or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike) suspended from the ceiling before the first exhibit. "Look Ava!!" said Claire breathlessly looking up in fascination. I jumped on the opportunity to make good use of our pricey tickets "yes! wow, girls!! That is a GIANT stuffed (animal) squid! Or cuttlefish ... they look so much alike." Eventually, it was necessary to drag them on to the real fish, but I think if we'd turned around and gone home right then, they would have been satisfied with their trip to the museum. Like when they are so enthralled with the wrapping paper, bow and box you catch yourself thinking "I'll just return the gift!"
Our first stop was a tank full of little turtles. "Oh BOY!" I exclaimed ... "little turtles!!" The girls were fully absorbed in pushing each other off of the narrow step stool platform and staring at those incredible little turtles. Like a moron, I soon hustled them off to other exhibits that were not nearly so interesting as the little turtles or the giant stuffed animal cuttlefish suspended from the ceiling. One truly giant turtle was minimally interesting. A tank full of hungry looking sharks was dismissed with disdain. I spoke enthusiastically about jellyfish, seahorses, weird little fish that lived in holes they dug into aquarium rocks. None of these sparked much interest. It wasn't until we got to the open tank of STINGRAYS that my two came alive. Claire hopped up on the step stool thing in order to reach in, but Ava was still too short. I propped her up with my knee. An aquarium employee came over and asked if I had any questions. I asked the one I thought that she'd expect from any loving mother who's babies were dipping their grimy little paws into a tank full of STINGrays "do they sting?" I intoned with the correct amount of concern. "Oh no" she said "we clip off the stingers". I knew I was supposed to gasp in horror and exclaim "but doesn't that HURT them??" but I didn't really care. I turned back to Claire and Ava to discover their sleeves wet up to their elbows. Aaahh! I wrung them out the best I could and rolled them up, aware that the couple standing next to us was observing our activities with unveiled interest. The woman began to ask the usual questions about their ages and ethnicities. I don't mind these kinds of questions at all ... I think it is kind of people to show interest in my wacky life. I answered cheerfully, even adding I was expecting again ("I must be really crazy ha ha"). I turned back around but no Claire! I tucked kicking Ava under my arm and prepared to charge around like a crazy mom yelling "Claire? CLAAAIIIIRRRREEE!!!" but had to first go back for Ava's dropped shoe. Finally, clutching my bag, stray shoe and screeching stingray obsessed child, I began my running around calling routine. Claire soon came out from behind a display and all was well.
I looked at the handful of papers I'd been handed along with tickets and noted that a seal feeding was scheduled in 20 minutes. Fortuitous! I pulled Claire toward the seal enclosure (which acted like a really strong magnet ... only when I managed to get them far enough away, could they turn their attention to other things) and to the seal place where Ava wanted to get in with the seals. I wasn't so opposed to that except she first had to make it down three or four very steep and dirty steps. I was so tired by then I was afraid I'd topple down if I tried to carry her. So I set her down at the top and grabbed her hand, thinking she could walk down the steps while I prevented her from falling. But she had something else in her mind ... specifically that I would carry her down BY her arm. Which, in the end, I did. Exhausted at the bottom, I sat on a step and pointed weakly to the torpedo shaped mammals whizzing around in the water filled tank now six inches from our faces. Ava wasn't impressed. She turned and began crawling up those filthy steps. "Oh heaven help me!" I thought, got to my feet and, in the end, carried her UP the steps suspended by her chubby baby arm. Meanwhile, Claire was falling in love with seals and their funny sealness. I called for her but she remained glued to the glass (at the bottom of the steps). With a resigned sigh, I carried Ava back down the stairs by her arm, got Claire's attention and then we somehow made it to the top, all three of us.
Now you can imagine I was hoping against hope that the seal feeding was just moments away. But, after digging my phone out of my bag while chasing the girls between boat displays, I saw that time had stood still and only three measly minutes had passed since I initially noted the only twenty remaining until seal feeding time. I, helpless optimist, had been rounding DOWN to get to twenty minutes in the beginning ... it had actually been twenty TWO minutes until seal feeding time, making it nineteen long minutes still to wait. The random suspension of time is one of the most profound effects of having young children.
I looked hopefully around the boat display room and saw one of those photograph platforms with holes cut out in a board so your child can stand behind and poke her head through while you take pictures from the other side. I've never been a fan of these things but the girls discovered that this one had a raised and carpeted platform in the back which was great fun for standing. I sat heavily on the edge of it while the girls tirelessly climbing up and down from the platform (Ava) and by poked heads through the cutout thingies (Claire). This passed five relatively peaceful minutes. But then, "real parents" (with cameras and strollers and reasonably spaced children) started coming by and sending their children behind the board (where they encountered a strange woman with two feral looking toddlers) so they could take pictures.
Feeling a bit like a predator camped out back there, I got up and pulled the girls off to a bench to sit between two women who looked surprised that a stranger wouldn't mind parking herself between them. I didn't mind at all. Most of the time, Claire is a compliant and sweet little thing who will actually stay close when I ask her to. Ava no. I held her squirmy little self half way on my lap while she cried and tried to wiggle down and simultaneously issued orders to Claire every five seconds to not wander away. This lasted a brief time before Claire gave me a naughty look and ran around a corner. "Claire!" I yelled. One of my benchmates asked if she should hold Ava so I could go get Claire. Can you believe how NICE (and foolish) people can be?? I knew that wouldn't work with Ava in her current mood so I hoisted her under my arm along with my bag and went after Claire.
I caught up with her back by the boats. With just twelve more minutes to go (remember that Johnny Cash song about the poor guy waiting to be hanged?) and I felt I'd waited too long to forgo valuable entertainment like sealfeeding. This is what I call "throwing good minutes after bad". I spent the remaining minutes just chasing behind them as they raced around the boats squealing. Two minutes before feeding time, I reholstered Ava and forcibly pulled Claire away from the boats and back to the seal area. I managed to overcome their reluctance with lots and lots of enthusiastic talk about seals and feeding seals ("wow girls, we're going to get to see the seals have their lunch!!!") We sat among the crowd on one of the higher steps where Ava discovered she could, from her seat on my lap, kick the people in front of us. I apologized but not profusely (I had little energy available for non vital activities like apologizing) and reigned in those meaty little legs. Ava protested and tried to get down, Claire stayed to the farthest reaches of my vision and I checked my phone for the time. Two minutes late and no sign of any feeding. I was tired. I'd had it. I was angry! "What the F^$%!" I exclaimed in the angry frustration that, from my experience, only pms or pregnancy plus small children can generate. I ignored the looks, stood up abruptly with Ava implanted under my aching arm, grabbed Claire and MARCHED out of there.
Oh failure. Fail.Ure. The worst part of it, I could see right away, was my deplorable language in a room full of adults and children all enjoying a Saturday outing to the aquarium. I hobbled back to the entrance head down in defeat to strike off to the car which was once more a block and a street crossing away. I snapped mercilessly at Claire to keep her on the sidewalk ten feet or fewer in front of me. I looked into the eager happy faces of the normal people entering the aquarium and felt shame, envy, and some urge to warn them. Of course, they didn't need to be warned ... they clearly had everything under control. And now that the weird swearing lady with the entire preschool class was gone, nothing stood between them and a lovely time looking at fish and water dwelling mammals.
God knows when we are at the point of despair and he mercifully acts on our behalf. Halfway up the block, there was a bench. And on the bench was one of those obnoxious girls asking every passing family if they'd like to get their children into modeling. She proffered lollipops as she asked me the modeling question. I said "no" but could we possibly have lollipops anyway. She kindly gave us two and I sat on the bench, not caring about anyone ruining their lunch or getting sticky, just breathing in the fresh air and feeling grateful for that bench and silence inducing lollipops. I quietly rooted for our salesgirl friend as she accosted each passing family until Claire began to wander again. Feeling just refreshed enough to make it down the rest of the block, across the street, to the parking booth (to pay), down the elevator and to the car, I did.
We then drove to John's office to see how he was doing. He asked about the aquarium. Was it fun? I told him "yes, but I won't be doing that again any time soon". How could I explain what I'd just been through? Our visit to the aquarium is not unlike many of my days. I just can't quite remember all of the craziness to be able to relate it back to anyone. Not that John has the patience to listen anyway. He's got a million other things going on in his mind. So I am very glad I took the time to relate all of this to you. I really needed to share!
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Good times
So I woke up this morning, thinking of the books I will take to the hospital for my four day vacation post baby arrival. After Ava was born, I found myself hoping my doctors were unhappy enough with my progress to refuse to release me. I think I could spend two or three weeks in the hospital without wishing for a moment to be home where the level of care is decidedly worse. I have vague memories of John complaining I wasn't doing a scrap of housework and refusing to allow me to live in the first floor great room. He was so bad!!! For those of you who haven't had a cesarean, it hurts. It is the medical version of being sawed in half and it takes weeks to heal. The newest thing is to require newly sawed in half women to get out of bed and walk around on the FIRST DAY. I gave it a try but stopped when I passed out. The next day, the hospital found two of its biggest, oldest, meanest nurses who marched into my room (in intimidating side by side formation) and said something like "okay honey, enough lounging around in bed". The fear outweighed the pain and they had me hobbling to and from the nursery in no time. On my first outing, I ventured to see how little Avery was faring in the newborn nursery. It took a good long time to get there and I was aware of fearful staring by not yet, but nearly new mothers (holy heavens, is THAT what giving birth does to a person??). They would have felt better if they'd known I didn't get around much better before.
I shuffled up to the nursery window and observed a pack of nurses gathered around my shrieking baby while jabbing her repeatedly in the foot with needles. It was an awful scene and I mustered my courage and knocked timidly at the window. While a nurse walked over to see what I wanted and I tried to think of polite ways to ask if she was killing my baby. I am too nice to be so direct so I asked sweetly "what are you doing to my baby?" Well, it turns out, pretty much nothing. They'd pricked her foot (once) for a blood sample and were having a heck of a time trying to collect it from my spirited child. They were actually finished and I got to rescue her with lots of soothing mother talk "oooh little BAYbe ... were those big mean nurses scaring you?" I shared with her later that they had been scaring me, too...
On another visit to the nursery, I found out John and I couldn't identify our child. He'd decided an African American baby was ours until I pointed to the blue (equals boy) tag on the side of the bassinet that said "Jamal". Oops. What happened to parental instincts? The biological bond between baby and mother? I didn't know, but I left with a fresh appreciation of how alike they all look and how ours, while not the cutest, was not the worst off, either. Time eventually ironed her out, or brought acceptance, so that now she is the cutest.
On our scheduled day to leave, John prepared to carry Ava out to the car while I waited to be wheeled out like a queen. Nope. Norwalk Hospital requires its newly sawed in half women to walk out under their own power. Ava, on the other hand, had to be strapped into her infant seat inside the hospital before they'd let us leave with her. I found it a little annoying ... I mean, are they available to follow us all the way home to make sure we are doing things properly there? Whatever. We obediently strapped her in, carried her out, unstrapped her and tossed her in the trunk with our other children and drove straight to the store to return the car seat.
I could reserve an entire post to discuss car seats, but let's just get it out here. There are a number of interesting things about car seats to which I will draw your attention. First, as a start, my own mother kept me alive by holding me on her lap in the car, probably sometimes while also driving the car. I'm just guessing that there were times she was alone with me and needed to leave the house. But the world has changed. Car seats, in my state, are mandatory for children weighing less than 80 pounds. Astounding. Also, the newest, safest car seat of yesterday is a mortal hazard to today's children so that it is recommended that you NOT reuse them. Lastly, car seats take up entire rows of automobile seats.
When I was pregnant with Claire, John and I thought we'd plan ahead and buy an SUV for our growing family. Ha! The second car seat/child decimated our backseat entirely, leaving us with the equivalent of a two seat sports car without being at all sporty. It was possible to squeeze one of John's skinny parents between the two car seats, but it was a tight squeeze. And that grandparent was in such close proximity to both darlings that it was aparently impossible for that grandparent to keep hands OFF long enough for either baby to sleep. Those were trying times. Enter one year used, monster GL450 with THREE rows of seats. It was big enough to prompt the ecologically minded to throw cups of fake blood at us as we drove by. Things were better for a while. The car seats went to the farthest back row, leaving the middle row for two regular or three skinny people. Aah, no more caravanning with two cars to take the in laws to dinner. But now, enter "new baby". The infant car seat will go in the middle row, leaving us again with one "guest seat". In the end, our car situation may determine our family size.
I shuffled up to the nursery window and observed a pack of nurses gathered around my shrieking baby while jabbing her repeatedly in the foot with needles. It was an awful scene and I mustered my courage and knocked timidly at the window. While a nurse walked over to see what I wanted and I tried to think of polite ways to ask if she was killing my baby. I am too nice to be so direct so I asked sweetly "what are you doing to my baby?" Well, it turns out, pretty much nothing. They'd pricked her foot (once) for a blood sample and were having a heck of a time trying to collect it from my spirited child. They were actually finished and I got to rescue her with lots of soothing mother talk "oooh little BAYbe ... were those big mean nurses scaring you?" I shared with her later that they had been scaring me, too...
On another visit to the nursery, I found out John and I couldn't identify our child. He'd decided an African American baby was ours until I pointed to the blue (equals boy) tag on the side of the bassinet that said "Jamal". Oops. What happened to parental instincts? The biological bond between baby and mother? I didn't know, but I left with a fresh appreciation of how alike they all look and how ours, while not the cutest, was not the worst off, either. Time eventually ironed her out, or brought acceptance, so that now she is the cutest.
On our scheduled day to leave, John prepared to carry Ava out to the car while I waited to be wheeled out like a queen. Nope. Norwalk Hospital requires its newly sawed in half women to walk out under their own power. Ava, on the other hand, had to be strapped into her infant seat inside the hospital before they'd let us leave with her. I found it a little annoying ... I mean, are they available to follow us all the way home to make sure we are doing things properly there? Whatever. We obediently strapped her in, carried her out, unstrapped her and tossed her in the trunk with our other children and drove straight to the store to return the car seat.
I could reserve an entire post to discuss car seats, but let's just get it out here. There are a number of interesting things about car seats to which I will draw your attention. First, as a start, my own mother kept me alive by holding me on her lap in the car, probably sometimes while also driving the car. I'm just guessing that there were times she was alone with me and needed to leave the house. But the world has changed. Car seats, in my state, are mandatory for children weighing less than 80 pounds. Astounding. Also, the newest, safest car seat of yesterday is a mortal hazard to today's children so that it is recommended that you NOT reuse them. Lastly, car seats take up entire rows of automobile seats.
When I was pregnant with Claire, John and I thought we'd plan ahead and buy an SUV for our growing family. Ha! The second car seat/child decimated our backseat entirely, leaving us with the equivalent of a two seat sports car without being at all sporty. It was possible to squeeze one of John's skinny parents between the two car seats, but it was a tight squeeze. And that grandparent was in such close proximity to both darlings that it was aparently impossible for that grandparent to keep hands OFF long enough for either baby to sleep. Those were trying times. Enter one year used, monster GL450 with THREE rows of seats. It was big enough to prompt the ecologically minded to throw cups of fake blood at us as we drove by. Things were better for a while. The car seats went to the farthest back row, leaving the middle row for two regular or three skinny people. Aah, no more caravanning with two cars to take the in laws to dinner. But now, enter "new baby". The infant car seat will go in the middle row, leaving us again with one "guest seat". In the end, our car situation may determine our family size.
Friday, March 6, 2009
What is in a name?
So, as you may know, I am pregnant with our third daughter. If nature had its way, it would be reasonable to expect her arrival on or around August 4th. Nature, in my case, was thoroughly resisted for the deliveries of Claire and Ava, and will likely be thwarted again come July. I had "the works" with Claire ... pitocin, water break assistance (SO unpleasant), epidural, and finally the dreaded C. She came out literally in an instant, understandably upset, but not enough to be placed in a mudroom to sort things out alone. She was laid on my chest where she oggled me with those newborn baby eyes, just like my library of baby books said she'd do. It was great.
Ava was a planned C, which took all of the nasty not knowing when out of the equation. I also skipped the pitocin and water break to go straight to the epidural and C. She was furious! Knowing her like I do now, I am not surprised that she put every bit of her seven pounds 12 ounces to work, fighting off rude doctors. Sadly, she was not handed to me for any oggling. I barely caught a glimpse of her little face, beat red with anger, before they wisked her off to make her a lot angrier in the nursery. It is a good thing for the medical staff she didn't come equipped with a stinger. My poor baby! I was left on the table with a piece of paper smudged with two mad little foot prints. John asked if he could follow the baby to see how she did and I said "no way. You sit down buster while these jokers sew me up!" Only I said it in a much nicer, medicated way that probably came out as "erp!"
So now we've got this third little girl on her way and I am so excited! During my first visit to the doctor to discuss my condition, my OB launched into a long winded, sort of desperate sounding explanation as to why we couldn't possibly consider anything but a third C. I cut her off "you're preaching to the choir, sister. I have no NO intention of doing anything nature's way after what I've been through". I immediately wished I hadn't called her "sister" because my OB happens to be black. Maybe sister seemed too chummy. But no worries! She simply continued her train of thought regarding ruptured uteruses like I hadn't just told her "look lady, I'll perform the C myself if you won't". Ha! Anyhow, I think it's a lot of crap that my uterus would explode, were it subjected to normal every day labor. But I digress. In a very serious way and with questionable language as I really intend to talk about names, more specifically, BABY NAMES.
The day I found out God was smiling down on me by sending me a little girl baby for my first baby, I suddenly, out of nowhere, thought of that beautiful, and not beaten to death name, Claire. Oh I liked it! On my way back to my JPMorgan cubicle, I called all of my family members to air the name. It was IT! Just like that (snap your fingers, please), it came to me. I allowed John the satisfaction of approving the name and even let him "help" by finding the perfect middle name. Surprisingly, he had a long list of ... names ... I WON'T say "awful names" as I was thinking in my mind, as one of you may have a beloved mabel or edith in your life. So his list, I suspected, was a list of ex girlfriend names. No, not really. But they were a little suspicious ... for example, he loves the name "Noelle" second only to me and now (possibly) his two children. I couldn't figure it out. Noelle? The guy's family is budhist, at least nominally, and Noelle means without a doubt, CHRISTMAS. So maybe the joke is on him? His second name choice, one he found equally as exciting, was Frances. FRANCES??! I think I laughed out loud when he told me. WHERE, no HOW on EARTH did he come up with THAT??? (remember, all caps = yelling, at least internal yelling). He lobbied hard for Frances Claire. I put my foot down in a way that made it not seem like I was by artfully suggesting Claire Frances. I thought it was rather big of me to allow my perfect little Claire to also bear the name Frances. He relented and, at this very moment, I have a Claire Frances hollering from her crib in the nursery "Auntie Leeeeeeessssssaaaaa! Where ARE YOU?" She must have noticed how I leap to attention to help my nieces.
So now, onto Ava. Ava's name is actually Avery Belle. Avery was the name of a very helpful sales woman who sold us some furniture at Lillian August. We left the showroom and John and I said in unison to eachother "Do you like the name AVERY?" Yes! We both did! Done and done!! In my magnanamous way, I again allowed him the middle name and he immediately came up with Avery Noelle, which I thought was very pretty. And also disposed of another of his (horrible) names.
Now a few weeks after this, we were shopping for curtain rods at Restoration Hardware (we were feeling filthy rich that day) and I ran into a couple with a baby Claire's age. They commented on the fact I was pregnant and wanted to know about possible names. I told them "Avery" and they looked at one another. "We love that name!", they said together. "We have since we bought furniture from a woman named Avery at Lillian August last year." So this poor furniture saleswoman was spawning little Averies all over our state in oblivion. I knew then that maybe MY Avery would not be the ONLY Avery but at least it would be less common a name than "Ava" which I loved but wouldn't deign to name my child as it has been in the top ten every year since "Lisa" fell out of favor. It was Claire that chose that name in the hospital. We told her, Claire, this is your little sister, Avery. She said in her most charming baby voice "AVA!" rhymes with lava and we've been calling her that ever since. Ava's middle name was changed a week before she was born when my grandmother, Belle Winifred, passed away. I thought it would be meaningful to name her Avery Belle rather than Avery middle name with dubious origins. John agreed and now I have a little Avery Belle who I often call Ava Belle which fits her to a T!
A few days after Ava was born, we got one of those little card things (what are they called?), commemmorating my grandmother. Her name was BellA Winifred as was her mother's name. Apparently, she didn't like the name Bella so had unofficially renamed herself Belle, which I think IS prettier. Although, both names mean pretty.
I think I want to name this baby "Aenore" which, while rhyming with snore and bore and other even less nice words, is the origin of the name "Eleanore". "Alia Aenore" ("other aenore" in greek) was the name of a very famous french duchess in about 1050 AD who later married King Henry the II of England and was the mother of King Richard the lion hearted. Her mother was named Aenore. Alia Aenore became Eleanore for convenience, I suppose. Aenore means "light" as does Eleanore. Eleanore was the name that survived the test of time, and Aenore became somewhat, or maybe even totally, extinct. But I think it is so pretty and extinct means she will likely never ever be called "Aenore Z". So what do you think??
Ava was a planned C, which took all of the nasty not knowing when out of the equation. I also skipped the pitocin and water break to go straight to the epidural and C. She was furious! Knowing her like I do now, I am not surprised that she put every bit of her seven pounds 12 ounces to work, fighting off rude doctors. Sadly, she was not handed to me for any oggling. I barely caught a glimpse of her little face, beat red with anger, before they wisked her off to make her a lot angrier in the nursery. It is a good thing for the medical staff she didn't come equipped with a stinger. My poor baby! I was left on the table with a piece of paper smudged with two mad little foot prints. John asked if he could follow the baby to see how she did and I said "no way. You sit down buster while these jokers sew me up!" Only I said it in a much nicer, medicated way that probably came out as "erp!"
So now we've got this third little girl on her way and I am so excited! During my first visit to the doctor to discuss my condition, my OB launched into a long winded, sort of desperate sounding explanation as to why we couldn't possibly consider anything but a third C. I cut her off "you're preaching to the choir, sister. I have no NO intention of doing anything nature's way after what I've been through". I immediately wished I hadn't called her "sister" because my OB happens to be black. Maybe sister seemed too chummy. But no worries! She simply continued her train of thought regarding ruptured uteruses like I hadn't just told her "look lady, I'll perform the C myself if you won't". Ha! Anyhow, I think it's a lot of crap that my uterus would explode, were it subjected to normal every day labor. But I digress. In a very serious way and with questionable language as I really intend to talk about names, more specifically, BABY NAMES.
The day I found out God was smiling down on me by sending me a little girl baby for my first baby, I suddenly, out of nowhere, thought of that beautiful, and not beaten to death name, Claire. Oh I liked it! On my way back to my JPMorgan cubicle, I called all of my family members to air the name. It was IT! Just like that (snap your fingers, please), it came to me. I allowed John the satisfaction of approving the name and even let him "help" by finding the perfect middle name. Surprisingly, he had a long list of ... names ... I WON'T say "awful names" as I was thinking in my mind, as one of you may have a beloved mabel or edith in your life. So his list, I suspected, was a list of ex girlfriend names. No, not really. But they were a little suspicious ... for example, he loves the name "Noelle" second only to me and now (possibly) his two children. I couldn't figure it out. Noelle? The guy's family is budhist, at least nominally, and Noelle means without a doubt, CHRISTMAS. So maybe the joke is on him? His second name choice, one he found equally as exciting, was Frances. FRANCES??! I think I laughed out loud when he told me. WHERE, no HOW on EARTH did he come up with THAT??? (remember, all caps = yelling, at least internal yelling). He lobbied hard for Frances Claire. I put my foot down in a way that made it not seem like I was by artfully suggesting Claire Frances. I thought it was rather big of me to allow my perfect little Claire to also bear the name Frances. He relented and, at this very moment, I have a Claire Frances hollering from her crib in the nursery "Auntie Leeeeeeessssssaaaaa! Where ARE YOU?" She must have noticed how I leap to attention to help my nieces.
So now, onto Ava. Ava's name is actually Avery Belle. Avery was the name of a very helpful sales woman who sold us some furniture at Lillian August. We left the showroom and John and I said in unison to eachother "Do you like the name AVERY?" Yes! We both did! Done and done!! In my magnanamous way, I again allowed him the middle name and he immediately came up with Avery Noelle, which I thought was very pretty. And also disposed of another of his (horrible) names.
Now a few weeks after this, we were shopping for curtain rods at Restoration Hardware (we were feeling filthy rich that day) and I ran into a couple with a baby Claire's age. They commented on the fact I was pregnant and wanted to know about possible names. I told them "Avery" and they looked at one another. "We love that name!", they said together. "We have since we bought furniture from a woman named Avery at Lillian August last year." So this poor furniture saleswoman was spawning little Averies all over our state in oblivion. I knew then that maybe MY Avery would not be the ONLY Avery but at least it would be less common a name than "Ava" which I loved but wouldn't deign to name my child as it has been in the top ten every year since "Lisa" fell out of favor. It was Claire that chose that name in the hospital. We told her, Claire, this is your little sister, Avery. She said in her most charming baby voice "AVA!" rhymes with lava and we've been calling her that ever since. Ava's middle name was changed a week before she was born when my grandmother, Belle Winifred, passed away. I thought it would be meaningful to name her Avery Belle rather than Avery middle name with dubious origins. John agreed and now I have a little Avery Belle who I often call Ava Belle which fits her to a T!
A few days after Ava was born, we got one of those little card things (what are they called?), commemmorating my grandmother. Her name was BellA Winifred as was her mother's name. Apparently, she didn't like the name Bella so had unofficially renamed herself Belle, which I think IS prettier. Although, both names mean pretty.
I think I want to name this baby "Aenore" which, while rhyming with snore and bore and other even less nice words, is the origin of the name "Eleanore". "Alia Aenore" ("other aenore" in greek) was the name of a very famous french duchess in about 1050 AD who later married King Henry the II of England and was the mother of King Richard the lion hearted. Her mother was named Aenore. Alia Aenore became Eleanore for convenience, I suppose. Aenore means "light" as does Eleanore. Eleanore was the name that survived the test of time, and Aenore became somewhat, or maybe even totally, extinct. But I think it is so pretty and extinct means she will likely never ever be called "Aenore Z". So what do you think??
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Philosophies behind the madness
Here is a list of parenting philosophies which, I believe, result in the fun, relaxing, somewhat orderly home I am enjoying today. In no particular order:
- My relationship with John comes first. When my children ask me "who do you love the most?" (and someday they will), I will say "Daddy". It does no one any good to reorder the world when the first baby is born. It was John and I (go team!) before babies were born and it will be John and I (go team!) after they grow up and go away. The best thing you can do for your children is love your spouse the bestest. John once stated it this way ... children are production, wife is capital. Well said, dear!
- The tip top priorities of our household are all of the usuals ... love, respect, fun, etc. That being said, our house functions around the needs of grown ups. Who then, voluntarily, lovingly and selflessly, meet the needs of other household members. This works well for us. Bedtime is enforced primarily for parental sanity. The side benefits of healthy, happy children are important, but secondary. We listen to grown up music when in the car together. We watch grown up tv when watching together. I am not criticizing the millions of parents who rely on children music/tv for survival. We don't, that's all. At least not normally. At least not yet.
- There is nothing wrong with crying, it doesn't hurt anyone (unless you count ears). As my child, you are welcome to vent your frustration with my stalin style parenting so long as the decibels are within reason. If they stray above, you will be warned. If you choose to scream yourself silly, you may be ushered into the mudroom (where my outdoor plants are weathering winter) and the french door (so we can still appreciate the visual theatrics) will be closed.
- It is good to examine one's self and be honest about parenting failures. My biggie is that both of my children still take a bottle to bed. With milk. AFTER teeth are brushed. Don't all of those little teeth fall out anyway? If the answer is yes, then I admit to not always remembering tooth brushing before everyone is sleeping soundly. On nights when I am on top of my game, they "brush teeth" unassisted and without toothpaste. One more thing, can't imagine this matters (much), I have delivered flouride drops to their cute little mouths twice. Well to Claire's cute little mouth twice. To Ava's mouth possibly not ever. I was pleased to learn from a friend that there is quite a raging debate concerning flouride. I stand firmly behind the side that claims it is poison! In summary, there is always room for parental improvement.
- I am in charge. When John is home, I graciously allow him to be in charge (as honorary, absent parent). Occasionally, I designate Claire to be in charge of things like passing out french fries in the back seat. Beyond this, I make the decisions at our house. I decide what we eat for lunch, for breakfast, if a snack is necessary, what that snack will be. I even decide what we will all wear for the day. Don't envy me ... this is not the glamorous job Claire and Ava think it is. If they ever do overthrow me, they are in for bitter disappointment.
- No one in our house is malnurished or is likely to ever be. Children now and again (or even always, I've heard) refuse food. I am down with this. I like to say "we eat when we're hungry, we don't when we're not!" and I have two sharklike dogs roaming around as an alternative to eating food yourself. If you leave the table to skip around and play, your dinner may be reallocated to a lesser species. We don't apologize for this. To be fair to the two year old mind, verbal warnings are normally given. In general, a little competition makes everyone a lot hungrier.
- My home houses girls but is not a "home for girls". I am a stickler for toys being limited to bedrooms (and not my bedroom). This is admittedly hard to enforce with young children, but in general, my goal is that visitors, upon entering our front door, suspect but are not entirely certain that children live here. On our "living floor", I have conceded one cabinet for toys in the livingroom and a highchair of natural wood construction in the kitchen. A free range push car and tricycle also live permanently on this floor. That's it. except for a kiddie kitchen that lurks in a corner of the livingroom. It is on its way upstairs as soon as I can lure a man here to help me move it (dad, that's you!). It was a Christmas present and I issued it a temporary pass.
To be fair, I should mention that part of the reason I am enjoying a fun, relaxing and orderly home today is that I am the ONLY one home today. Yes, today is my day off, what I call a "baby spa" day, a day when children are magically transported (by car) to "baby spa" (aka in-laws'). Watch for posts regarding this glorious and special day which occurs roughly once a week.
- My relationship with John comes first. When my children ask me "who do you love the most?" (and someday they will), I will say "Daddy". It does no one any good to reorder the world when the first baby is born. It was John and I (go team!) before babies were born and it will be John and I (go team!) after they grow up and go away. The best thing you can do for your children is love your spouse the bestest. John once stated it this way ... children are production, wife is capital. Well said, dear!
- The tip top priorities of our household are all of the usuals ... love, respect, fun, etc. That being said, our house functions around the needs of grown ups. Who then, voluntarily, lovingly and selflessly, meet the needs of other household members. This works well for us. Bedtime is enforced primarily for parental sanity. The side benefits of healthy, happy children are important, but secondary. We listen to grown up music when in the car together. We watch grown up tv when watching together. I am not criticizing the millions of parents who rely on children music/tv for survival. We don't, that's all. At least not normally. At least not yet.
- There is nothing wrong with crying, it doesn't hurt anyone (unless you count ears). As my child, you are welcome to vent your frustration with my stalin style parenting so long as the decibels are within reason. If they stray above, you will be warned. If you choose to scream yourself silly, you may be ushered into the mudroom (where my outdoor plants are weathering winter) and the french door (so we can still appreciate the visual theatrics) will be closed.
- It is good to examine one's self and be honest about parenting failures. My biggie is that both of my children still take a bottle to bed. With milk. AFTER teeth are brushed. Don't all of those little teeth fall out anyway? If the answer is yes, then I admit to not always remembering tooth brushing before everyone is sleeping soundly. On nights when I am on top of my game, they "brush teeth" unassisted and without toothpaste. One more thing, can't imagine this matters (much), I have delivered flouride drops to their cute little mouths twice. Well to Claire's cute little mouth twice. To Ava's mouth possibly not ever. I was pleased to learn from a friend that there is quite a raging debate concerning flouride. I stand firmly behind the side that claims it is poison! In summary, there is always room for parental improvement.
- I am in charge. When John is home, I graciously allow him to be in charge (as honorary, absent parent). Occasionally, I designate Claire to be in charge of things like passing out french fries in the back seat. Beyond this, I make the decisions at our house. I decide what we eat for lunch, for breakfast, if a snack is necessary, what that snack will be. I even decide what we will all wear for the day. Don't envy me ... this is not the glamorous job Claire and Ava think it is. If they ever do overthrow me, they are in for bitter disappointment.
- No one in our house is malnurished or is likely to ever be. Children now and again (or even always, I've heard) refuse food. I am down with this. I like to say "we eat when we're hungry, we don't when we're not!" and I have two sharklike dogs roaming around as an alternative to eating food yourself. If you leave the table to skip around and play, your dinner may be reallocated to a lesser species. We don't apologize for this. To be fair to the two year old mind, verbal warnings are normally given. In general, a little competition makes everyone a lot hungrier.
- My home houses girls but is not a "home for girls". I am a stickler for toys being limited to bedrooms (and not my bedroom). This is admittedly hard to enforce with young children, but in general, my goal is that visitors, upon entering our front door, suspect but are not entirely certain that children live here. On our "living floor", I have conceded one cabinet for toys in the livingroom and a highchair of natural wood construction in the kitchen. A free range push car and tricycle also live permanently on this floor. That's it. except for a kiddie kitchen that lurks in a corner of the livingroom. It is on its way upstairs as soon as I can lure a man here to help me move it (dad, that's you!). It was a Christmas present and I issued it a temporary pass.
To be fair, I should mention that part of the reason I am enjoying a fun, relaxing and orderly home today is that I am the ONLY one home today. Yes, today is my day off, what I call a "baby spa" day, a day when children are magically transported (by car) to "baby spa" (aka in-laws'). Watch for posts regarding this glorious and special day which occurs roughly once a week.
Naps: How it is done (every day, twice a day)
One of my goals in keeping this blog is to be of assistance to other new moms, whether they have lots of little ones or just one. Something that makes my days bearable are naps. Now I've heard tales of little rascals beginning to refuse naps between one and two years of age. To this I say "No!" And, at least so far, we follow a strict nap schedule around here.
Ava is fat and a little slow. Capturing her for naps and getting her to actually sleep is easy. Claire is fast and nimble. If she had a more patient, not pregnant mother, she probably would have stopped taking a morning nap a year ago. But as I said, I say "No!" My trick for Claire is to turn nap time into "quiet rest time" which is so much nicer sounding. I supply her with toys and books, sometimes a snack, music and then close the door. My two share a nursery and I keep them on the same nap schedule. While Ava sleeps (peacefully? I don't know ...), I can hear Claire screaming at her "AAAAAVVVVVAAAAAA NO!" There are days when no one sleeps during naptime, not even me. Not even I. On those days, lots of interesting conversation ensues between cribbed Claire and Pack N Played Ava (I have avoided two unwieldly cribs by employing a full time pack n play). From the audio vantage point of my bedroom downhall, it sounds like peekaboo is a favorite accompanied by joyous squealing. A runner up seems to be "forcing words out of Ava" which is interesting if not a little sad to hear:
Claire: Ava. Say yes.
Ava: No
Claire: (authoritatively) AVA. Say yes.
Ava: No
Claire: (now yelling) AVA! SAY YES!
Ava: (tone and volume never altered) No.
Claire: (frantic with rage) AVA SAY YES!!!!!
Ava: (God bless her) No
Now I am always rooting for the chubby underdog, Ava. Depending on the language demand, sometimes I will step in and rescue her from the rabid big sister. I've heard Claire demand nonsense words and then some three or four word sentences I know my poor little baby probably can't repeat, even if she wanted to. Not that she ever does. She is a tough little biscuit!
In my foolish, younger days, I used to nap Ava in the crib, which is hers at night (Claire has a toddler bed for nighttime sleeping) and Claire in the Pack N Play. That was fine until Claire learned that it is possible to use one's 30 pounds to "walk" the pack n play all over the nursery, allowing the driver the added advantage of being a foot taller when destination is reached. It happened more than once that the changing table toppings were all opened and flung to far reaches. One day, I found she'd hopped the pack n play into the closet, somehow over the edge of the rug. On another occasion (I am a slow learner), I caught her delivering contraban to Ava in the crib, hopping to and from the bookshelf. That was the day I vowed to switch things around to better suit my phobias re diaper creme, small part toys, and tearable books. That is how Ava was tossed out of the crib and into the pack n play for naps. Slow sleepy Ava hasn't yet figured out about throwing her weight around, at least not in relation to pack n plays during naptime.
In summary, I intend to keep up my nap cherade with my two whippets until they can vote with their feet. Then I have plans for that time ... (rubbing hands together gleefully) I will have manditory quiet time. NO NOISE. Every single day from 1pm to 4pm. Reading, clay modeling and needlepoint will be highly encouraged. I am also eager to install cocktail hour to our evening schedule once I can afford to be tipsy on the job. Okay, totally wasted. I'll serve the little buggers roy rogers and ... what's that other consolation drink I used to love ... shirley temples! until the happy day we can all get wasted together as a family. You are all invited : )
Ava is fat and a little slow. Capturing her for naps and getting her to actually sleep is easy. Claire is fast and nimble. If she had a more patient, not pregnant mother, she probably would have stopped taking a morning nap a year ago. But as I said, I say "No!" My trick for Claire is to turn nap time into "quiet rest time" which is so much nicer sounding. I supply her with toys and books, sometimes a snack, music and then close the door. My two share a nursery and I keep them on the same nap schedule. While Ava sleeps (peacefully? I don't know ...), I can hear Claire screaming at her "AAAAAVVVVVAAAAAA NO!" There are days when no one sleeps during naptime, not even me. Not even I. On those days, lots of interesting conversation ensues between cribbed Claire and Pack N Played Ava (I have avoided two unwieldly cribs by employing a full time pack n play). From the audio vantage point of my bedroom downhall, it sounds like peekaboo is a favorite accompanied by joyous squealing. A runner up seems to be "forcing words out of Ava" which is interesting if not a little sad to hear:
Claire: Ava. Say yes.
Ava: No
Claire: (authoritatively) AVA. Say yes.
Ava: No
Claire: (now yelling) AVA! SAY YES!
Ava: (tone and volume never altered) No.
Claire: (frantic with rage) AVA SAY YES!!!!!
Ava: (God bless her) No
Now I am always rooting for the chubby underdog, Ava. Depending on the language demand, sometimes I will step in and rescue her from the rabid big sister. I've heard Claire demand nonsense words and then some three or four word sentences I know my poor little baby probably can't repeat, even if she wanted to. Not that she ever does. She is a tough little biscuit!
In my foolish, younger days, I used to nap Ava in the crib, which is hers at night (Claire has a toddler bed for nighttime sleeping) and Claire in the Pack N Play. That was fine until Claire learned that it is possible to use one's 30 pounds to "walk" the pack n play all over the nursery, allowing the driver the added advantage of being a foot taller when destination is reached. It happened more than once that the changing table toppings were all opened and flung to far reaches. One day, I found she'd hopped the pack n play into the closet, somehow over the edge of the rug. On another occasion (I am a slow learner), I caught her delivering contraban to Ava in the crib, hopping to and from the bookshelf. That was the day I vowed to switch things around to better suit my phobias re diaper creme, small part toys, and tearable books. That is how Ava was tossed out of the crib and into the pack n play for naps. Slow sleepy Ava hasn't yet figured out about throwing her weight around, at least not in relation to pack n plays during naptime.
In summary, I intend to keep up my nap cherade with my two whippets until they can vote with their feet. Then I have plans for that time ... (rubbing hands together gleefully) I will have manditory quiet time. NO NOISE. Every single day from 1pm to 4pm. Reading, clay modeling and needlepoint will be highly encouraged. I am also eager to install cocktail hour to our evening schedule once I can afford to be tipsy on the job. Okay, totally wasted. I'll serve the little buggers roy rogers and ... what's that other consolation drink I used to love ... shirley temples! until the happy day we can all get wasted together as a family. You are all invited : )
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