Entries Tagged 'Parenting' ↓

I dredged up this oldie but a goodie to inspire some Christmas Spirit around these parts. In December of 2007, my then 18 month old was obsessed with pirates (no surprise, he was born in Tampa). Here he learns what Santa says… or not. Prepare for EXTREME Christmas cuteness.

It’s taken awhile for me to post this. It seems I’ve simply lost my words over the last 11 days. You see, my closest and dearest friend’s brand new baby girl was diagnosed with Trisomy 18. If you want to know all the details, just read them. I’m not going to hash it out here. It’s not my story to tell anyway. But my friend’s child is not expected to be some miraculous survivor.

However. There is beauty in all of this. So I will try to scrape some semblance of written sense together to explain where that beauty is tucked around all the horror, settling all of us down.

I’ve found beauty in this child. I just returned from spending 3 days with her. I cupped her tiny head in my hands, fed her a bottle, and sang to her in the wee hours. Her tiny black eyes met mine, he fingers curled around mine, she rooted and snuggled and wrapped herself around my heart for warmth. I’m in love. Utterly and truly in love.

I’ve found beauty in her parents. They know they were chosen to care for this child, they know they are meant to do this and that they can handle it. They know her time is limited and it is their job to make her existence as comfortable and meaningful as possible. And, with their daughter home surrounded by family and bundled from one set of loving arms to another, it is both of these things

I’ve found beauty in the love that keeps knocking on their door and calling their phones and texting and emailing and Facebooking near and far. Love pours in constantly and at every hour. Selfless, unconditional love. People want to know her daughter. They leave food. They take their girls to the aquarium. They sit on their couch and love the new baby. They love them and love them and love them all. This tiny, sweet girl has created more love in 11 days than I have seen in my 38 years of life.

So, I’m left speechless and without my words. Because I can’t make much more sense of this than that. But maybe you can say something for me. Maybe you can leave words of love and support here for her. Could you do that? Could you tell her how amazing she is? Could you bolster her any way that you can? Could you share a favorite poem she should read to her girl? Anything really. I just ask that it is positive, that you celebrate this child’s life and bring love to her world.

In the meantime, if you want to see how another family found beauty and joy during their time with their child also diagnosed with Trisomy 18, please watch this.

Did you know that the number one killer of children under 5 is Pneumonia? I was thinking about that the other night as I stared at my son in bed in his dark room. He was coughing. A lot. Loud and hard and he could not settle down. He had a fever, too.

Of course, I had flashbacks to 6 months earlier when his lungs sent him to the hospital for 5 days. That wasn’t pneumonia. But it was the flu and it started with just a cough and then a fever, too.

So I stared at him and fed him sips of water and wondered what I should do. Of course, I called the pediatrician 5 minutes before they opened the next morning and kept redialing until someone answered. By lunchtime, we were back from the pediatrician and he had finally settled down with three types of meds (one being antibiotics), a nebulizer and a very effective prescribed combo of lemon, honey and tea. It worked miracles. I knew his respiratory infection could have evolved into something worse, but it hadn’t because we had access to immediate medical care.

We have access.

Yesterday, I sat in on a conference call about World Pneumonia Day. Today is World Pneumonia day, in fact. On the phone were Dr. Richard Besser, ABC News’ senior health and medical editor, as well as Dr. Orin Levine, with the International Vaccine Access Center. A number of bloggers were on the call and, for an hour, we discussed the dangers of pneumonia in our country and worldwide.

Here’s the thing. Whether you live in a small village in India or whether you live in a comfortable home in the Tampa suburbs, pneumonia can happen to your children. In fact, a child dies from pneumonia every 20 seconds. The doctors on the call agreed that many are surprised that it is the number one killer of children under five. It certainly doesn’t get the recognition that other conditions do. But maybe that’s because it isn’t a huge first world health priority. For every child who dies from pneumonia in the industrialized world, 2,000 more die in developing countries. Why? Children there don’t have access to care and antibiotics.

We have access.

One doctor talked about the work children with pneumonia do just to breathe. He recalled a time in Africa when he held a nine month old baby in his arms who struggled and struggled to catch her breathe but could not. She died minutes later. What could have saved her? Knowledge about respiratory distress and simple antibiotics. Both Dr. Besser and Dr. Levine are working to increase access in these countries. Anyone can be trained to recognize the signs of respiratory distress. And antibiotics are extremely inexpensive to distribute. As dangerous as pneumonia is, it is also one of the most solvable deadly conditions we’re faced with.

I walked away from the conversation far more educated about the extent of this disease. I also sat down and appreciated just what my children have. Their risk of dying from pneumonia is far lower thanks to a pediatrician 10 minutes from my home, $5 antibiotics and basic knowledge about respiratory infections. We have that. So many do not.

Follow Prevent Pneumonia on Facebook. Take a moment to watch this quick video about World Pneumonia Day. Consider what you have. Consider what others do not. Learn what you can do here.

This is a time of year when traditions find their way back into our home. But, you know what? Sometimes I have no idea where these traditions have come from. More often, I never expected that they would become traditions in the first place. But they have, just because it is what we “always” do. It is what my children expect that we do. It is what they remember and count on and find comfort in.

I often read my 8yo’s writing (*proud proud proud* of it, too) and am stunned by what he remembers. I can’t believe he has this or that stored away and then accessed over and over as “that time when we went to that place and this happened.” Why was that special? It wasn’t special. Was it?

It is dawning on me that I am responsible for my children’s official childhood memories.

Oh my God.

This seems more mind-blowing than the daily exhaustion of feeding, clothing, schooling, homeworking, driving them. Because so much of the very mundane, very everyday stuff will mostly be forgotten (I think). It is the traditions and the trips. The decorations I pull out and the chocolate chip pancakes on Saturday mornings that WILL be remembered. And I am in charge of all that. So I better make it good.

Fall Festival = Good Memory

I’m trying. I know I can’t over-think it. But I’m trying. So, today, we went to a corn maze — a tradition they have come to count on every October. We had a great time. Phew.

Because here’s the other part. While I am responsible for their memories, I can’t control what their minds snap hold of and never forgets. Will my 5 yo remember how I hollered at him when we got home about video games? I yelled that he needed to get outside, and “I don’t CARE what you’re saying, just stop bothering me already!” …Ugh. Will he remember that today, too? Because I was tired after a morning of driving an hour there, traipsing through a corn maze, rallying them through carnival games and driving them back. Sure, any adult could understand what set me off. But a child very often does not. So, will my 5yo remember “Yeah, we did this fun thing but my mom yelled at me about video games that day and it made me sad.”

Mommy Yelled About Video Games = Bad Memory

I suppose we can’t control what sends them to therapy one day. I suppose every mother does her pound of damage.

So the point is here that I’m aware. I’m aware that my children look to me and wait for me to create their childhood. They wait to be exposed to what is out there and then expect explanations. And if we just happen to do it over and over, it is “what WE do, in THIS family” and that is that.

I hope I can do right by them. I know I won’t. Not entirely. And they will tell me about the times I yelled at them someday. But I have to hold on to hope — and go into that weird place of denial most mothers do so that they don’t go insane with guilt — that these two very significant childhoods will be good enough.

Happy That-Time-of-Year-I-Better-Not-F-Up Holidays!

I spend a lot of time worrying whether or not I’ve become THAT mom.

You know the mom I’m talking about.

The mom who emails her child’s teacher one week into school to reeeally explain the hell out of her son. Just in case his teacher can’t figure it out for herself. That mom would imply her child’s brilliance with about as much subtlety as a jackhammer and would make her email so long and self-indulgent that this very kind teacher (so kind it makes me giddy, I think she’s so so great for him) would admit at Open House that she hadn’t had time to finish said email. Because that mom WOULD email her the night before Open House, expecting her full attention in some immediate gushing response back.

I worry I’m that mom who asks too many questions and clips too many boxtops with some pathetic hope of winning over the school’s approval and sits hopefully at her son’s desk waiting for whatever experience he’s been having everyday to soak into her subconscious via osmosis while her kids keep their distance for fear of being associated with the crazy lady.

I worry about being the mom who isn’t enough of a squeaky wheel. Who figures the teachers know best and the boys will be fine and she doesn’t have time to stress over it and honestly cares more about getting to work on time than setting aside enough of her schedule to advocate for her kid to make sure either is getting what exactly he needs.

I worry about becoming that mom who is over-bearing and far too persistent and all “howwasyourdayhowwasyourdayhowwasyourday” with enough potential to drive her kid into muted retreat, never to tell her a fracking THING about his day at school. Ever. No matter how many times or various ways or what time of day she asks. He will not tell her.

I worry about becoming that mom who yells, “WAY TO GO HONEYBUN!!!” at a baseball game, in front of all his peers, and then glares at the father who turns around with a look back as if to say “….really?” How dare he.

I worry about becoming that mom who isn’t sure if it was a goal or a hit or a run and is more concerned about chatting with the mom next to her or checking in on Foursquare.

I worry I’m that mom who falls to pieces scheduling activities for her first child and then drags her second along and expects him to behave when we don’t have the time/energy/money/insert excuse to do something special for him that takes up just as much time in our week.

I worry I’m a mom who might explain away her child. And hover. And not let him make enough mistakes for himself. And want just so bad it makes my fingers itch to do it ALL for them (dressing them, homework, brushing their teeth, wiping their ass, ImustdoitImustdoitImustdoitbecauseIwilldoitrightAhhhh!!!).

Then again, I worry both are left to fend for themselves, without any volunteering parent to be seen for miles, from 8am – 5pm, everyday. (Who is raising my child right now because I have no idea, not really…)

I worry I’m that mom who will share her parenting ideals with any parent within earshot — as if she has solved it all and really just wants to impart her wisdom to the starving masses. How kind of I.

I worry I’m a mom without. One. F-ing. Clue.

I worry I’m that mom who just simply HAS to blog her child’s EVERY MOVE because isn’t it HYSTERICAL that he put a laundry basket on his head and pretend to be a robot. Oh em GEE, it’s just SO FUNNY so the entire world MUST see it because her child is SO BRILLIANT. And THERE I’ll put it on FACEBOOK too in case anyone missed their hilarity! You’re WELCOME, world.

I worry I’m that mom who cares more about writing about her children than actually sitting there and prying their wrestling bodies apart to resolve whatever “pound my brother to death” issue is at hand.

(Did I post it on Twitter, too? I’ll be right back, kids…)

I’m worried I’m that mom that gets overwhelmed and exhausted from parenting. And I’ve only been home with them for an hour. How dare I.

I’m worried I’m not trying hard enough. Or trying too hard. Or not that cookie-baking, take pictures of every milestone mom. Or not letting them make the cookies and take the pictures themselves.

I worry.

I worry I’m THAT mom.

(Oh and in case you don’t want to be THAT mom with your child’s teacher, read this. I keep reading it, and then adjusting my panic accordingly.

My suddenly so-much-taller eight year old started at a new school this year. For a variety of fairly practical reasons, it just made sense to switch him. So, considering he would be starting at a new school, where he knew no one at all, I assumed that he might need a little back-up. I was wrong.

After dropping his brother at his Kindergarten class (which is a whole other “How is my baby in Kindergarten??” post that I just don’t have the heart or the time for right now), my now third-grader urged both of us towards his building. He was nervous about the tardy bell (his previous school didn’t have one of those) and wanted to get into his class right away.

Finally, we stepped up to his building. He turned to me. And stopped me.

“Don’t come in, Mom.”

“Wha…? But…”

He had told me earlier he was going to go in by himself, but I’m not sure I entirely believed him. I thought he might crack, or get nervous at the last moment. Nope. He stood there. Suddenly more confident and collected than I had ever seen him. But, maybe that was my emotionally-charged parent imagination — because I can’t imagine he was really that cool about it.

I fumbled for my phone.

“Can I take a picture of you in front of the building door, at least?” He obliged. He gave me a great, almost proud smile. And then he turned, navigated himself and his back-pack around an exiting family, and… was gone.

And that’s when I lost it. Watching him walk down the hallway, while I peered through the door’s window… I couldn’t believe it. Just like that, without looking back, he was gone.

I’m so proud, how is this happening, he is doing this, what if he needs me, he doesn’t need me.

And gone.

I was in the grocery store and I heard a baby cry.

No. I didn’t start to lactate. But something did happen. And it’s something I haven’t been able to shake ever since I’ve had children and I hear a child cry. Maybe you will get what I mean, so I’ll explain. But I don’t think you ever have had to lactate to get it either, either.

So, back to this baby. She started to cry. And it was an “I’m so tired, I need a snuggle and a nap and get me out of this grocery cart” kind of cry. I couldn’t help myself, I oh-so-innocently wheelie-wheeled my cart around the corner and into her aisle… just to see how she was doing.

Her mom was harried. She had a sandwich platter in her cart and soda bottles and paper plates and a bunch of other party stuff she clearly had to get that afternoon. But her daughter wasn’t having it. She was so, so tired. Slumped to the side and crying — no, pleading, really — in a way that made any mother want to find a crib and a dark room and no stim and some sweet peace for that child.

There was nothing I could do about it. It came from somewhere deep beyond my control. My gut hurt for her. My arms ached to scoop her up, snuggle and soothe, and seek out a spot to get her cozy and quiet. My heart went out to the mom, too. I KNOW she wanted those same things for her daughter but, with something going on soon, she had to get that shopping done. My guess is that her daughter’s schedule was shot to hell after a day of errands and running here and there. Hardly anything that will hurt that girl, but my ache to comfort her was STRONG, my friends.

Kind of like lactating.

Let me back up and explain the comparison. Don’t freak, non-lactating types. This is just how it is…

You’ve heard of how women will “let down” when they hear a baby cry. And by “let down” I mean the boob flood-gates suddenly open and a teeny hose-like effect occurs in the general chest region. There is nothing you can do about it, really. It’s just this primal thing that happens when a baby cries or you know a baby is hungry. Mother nature just turns on the faucet.

Of course, this doesn’t happen to me any longer. My faucet dried up (OMG, has it been this long) about 4 years ago. But it used to. And it wasn’t pretty when I wasn’t ready for it. And that’s why God made breast pads. But I digress…

So back to the baby in Publix. She was crying and I felt this ache. Deep down. I wanted to help her. I wanted to take care of her and figure out a way to get her what she needs. It’s almost beyond reason or self-control, it’s just there, built-in, instinctual, just the way I am wired now.

This strange, deep down ache and need to help a crying child was not there before I had my own. Before I would have been all: “Aw. She’s crying… poor mom. Oh, I’m totally watching Melrose Place tonight…”

Not now. Now, I feel a physical pull, a painful ache, a lump at the back of my throat and an empathy like none other for the mom trying to cope and care and do it all.

It’s kind of like lactating. And, dried up or not, I suspect it will feel like this for as long as I’m a mother… which is pretty much forever.

My five year old fell today. According to my husband and my excited seven year (who liked to re-enact the entire scene over and over at my feet), he just tripped running out of a room, and fell. No biggee. Except that he really hurt his finger and it started to swell and he refused to curl it into a fist. So, off to the E.R. we went. A few x-rays and one new splint later, my five year old is officially the proud owner of a slightly fractured finger, right near the knuckle (hence the fancy splint).

This hasn’t been his summer. He has only recently been told he won’t have to get a skin graft on his foot after this happened on the 4th of July. And, since he’s healed so well, he may be allowed to swim this weekend for the first time since then.

(The splint can be taken off to swim. I asked.)

The burn wasn’t his only brush with danger either. The other day he came inside to calmly inform me that there was a snake under his swing. And there was. A water moccasin. I don’t know how he saw it, it looked like a tree root to me. But he did, and survived that possibility of a very serious (if not, lalalalala, I don’t like to think about it, lalalala, potentially fatal) snake bite.

It’s been a strange summer for me with him. I have been worried about him a lot. I’m not sure if it’s burn PTSD (see above), or snake fears, or preparing him for Kindergarten, or what, but I’ve had these recurring nightmares involving only him. Night after night, we lose him, or he gets kidnapped, or he is trapped at the top of a high-rise building in childcare with gun-wielding terrorists in the lobby who just cut off the power to the elevators and exploded the staircases (that was only two nights ago).

I’ve been worried about him. Really stressing out.

But, strangely enough, then this happens… and I’m totally fine about it. Completely.

Because as far as I’m concerned, as long as my child can still skip, and laugh, and sing Justin Beiber songs on the papery examining table tonight, and whine, and tell me he is “so sad” when he doesn’t get toys from stores, and hit his brother with his splint when I’m not looking, and make believe on the back porch chatting away with an old R/C car up to his ear like a phone… if he can still do all of those things, he’s fine. He’s fantastic even.

In the grand scheme of it all, THIS is nothing.

Is motherhood something to be laughed at? Because, you know and I know that there are times when mothers completely lose their sense of humor. Poof, gone, lost, for a very long time. At 4am with a screaming — or giggling, wide-awake — baby. At 5pm, the witching hour, when dinner isn’t ready yet and you’re ankle deep in toddler tantrums. At the grocery store when you can’t seem to get down an aisle without screaming at your fighting children. Motherhood can be slow, endless, Chinese water torture, threatening to pull you deep, down into stewing pits of parenting despair. I’ll admit that it’s the hardest thing I have ever done.

And that’s why finding any outlet to laugh at parenting is so damn important.

And that’s where “Motherhood, The Musical” comes in.

I was asked to review this musical, now playing at the Straz Center in downtown Tampa, last week. And, since I am sucker for musicals (don’t even get me STARTED on my obsession with “Wicked”) and since I just really like the folks at the Straz, I was 100% down for some funny mom theater. Plus, I’ve seen lots of Facebook statuses raving about the show: “I laughed! I cried!” So, I was excited to check it out.

I rounded up two very deserving moms from my work to come with me and we set out for the Straz after a particularly crazy week at work.

The show was in the Jaeb Theater which is a smaller, cabaret style theater. We found our seats around a small table, surrounded by (no surprise here) many other mothers gathered for the show. The space was intimate — which meant a comfortable, more connected experience. I was impressed right away as the theater staff began the evening by reaching out to pregnant moms in the audience. They also sold pins with the profits going to autism research. And they even had cute “Motherhood, The Musical” postcards on the table which we could fill out and they would send for us if we dropped it in a mailbox in the lobby. (I sent one to my mother-in-law.) I have to say, the people who work at the Straz are just nice. They smile, they ask you how you are, they take pictures for you, they just make the whole vibe comfortable and welcoming. And, being a theater dork from way back, I think that really helps set the vibe for the show itself – so “cheers” to them…

Now, what did I think of the show itself? It was really great. Truly. But let me start with a couple negatives first.

Admittedly, they touched on a few cliches. You know, “we’re not gonna take cooking and cleaning anymore”  kind of thing. The naive pregnant mom, and the “knowing”, jaded other mothers hell bent on scaring the crap out of her. Mini-vans, grocery shopping, and husbands that have very little to do with parenting at all.

However. They took these typical motherhood cliches (which are only cliches because they are common experiences, by the way) and turned them into gut-busting, musical hilarity. The women who played the four mothers in the show were FANTASTIC. I kind of want to be friends with the divorced mom and the working mom. No, really. I want to have drinks with them because they have to be that awesome in real-life. (Hey ladies, email me! I can try to be awesome too!)

Also, the lyrics and the music in the show are both excellent. The lyrics are very well written, just FUNNY. Cliche or not, the mini-van song was hysterical. They took the sagging and leaking experiences of so many mothers and made anthems out of them. Even the “no more cooking and cleaning” thing was awesome. They rocked out. And I laughed. A lot.

And so did the women around us. Seriously. Women were howling, and stomping the floor, and standing, and cheering. Clearly, this show connected with the majority of the audience.

I also cried a little. No, I did. The song about “Every Other Weekend” in which the divorced mom sang about what it is like to be alone every other weekend. And how the kids come home spoiled by their fathers and she has to be the bad guy, and how she manages… well. I totally boo-hooed and said a little thankful prayer that I don’t have to experience weekends like those.

I don’t think this is a show for the majority of husbands. (Maybe some, but certainly not mine. His eye-rolling would have annoyed the hell out of me.) And, I don’t think this is a show for women who have no interest in parenting yet. I know one woman who saw it, but who isn’t anywhere near ready for children, and she said it “scared the crap out of her”. That said, bring your mother. Bring your mom friends. Bring your pregnant daughter. Bring the moms at work and the moms on your block and the teachers of your children. I suspect they will love it.

Also, if you’re going to get hung up the cliches and parenting generalizations, just check those at the door. Relax. Have fun. Let yourself laugh. Don’t take it too seriously. This isn’t supposed to be heavy stuff or some wildly prophetic social commentary. Its fun, and very funny. And it’s obviously something many, many, MANY mothers just “get”.

Cheers to the Straz and the awesome actors who rock that show out night after night (I kind of want your life). You did a fantastic job. Thanks for reminding me to laugh at this mothering stuff and then leave me ready to get back home and hug my boys super tight. Laughing like I did that night made me take a step back, accept the good and the ugly of this motherhood thing, and simply appreciate it so much more.

Want to go see it now? Get $29 tickets to see “Motherhood, The Musical” at the Straz Center through August 28th. Use promo code TIX29. The offer ends August 12th, though!  Restrictions and charges apply.

After years of grounding our boys’ beds safely on the floor, we’ve done it. We bunked them.

See? Don’t they look happy?

Yep. Well. I thought I might share the news scrawl running through my head ever since we’ve done so.

• Someone is going to flip over the top bunk and crash to the floor and break their arm (just like my friend’s little girl did) earning themselves a compound fracture (just like she did).
• BOTH boys are going to flip over the top bunk and each earn a compound fracture (just like she did).
• Someone will jump from the top, snag their shirt, and choke.
• Someone will jump on the top bunk and crash through to the bottom, smashing very dangerous, puncturing plywood onto the person below.
• Someone will jump on the top bunk, somehow dislodge the wooden dowels keeping each leg secure and unhinge the screwed-in ladder, causing the entire top bed to collapse on the person below. The outcome is not good. (And this is the one I keep coming back to because I like to torture myself like that.)
• The whole damn thing will tip over and crash on top of both of them.
• Someone will push the other off the top bunk and make the falling victim earn that same compound fracture mentioned above and then the “pusher” will live the rest of his days with deep-rooted guilt as the “pushee” suffers from major nerve and bone damage for the rest of his damn life.
• The one sleeping on the top bunk will get too cold from the A/C vent directly above him in the ceiling.

What. What?

All of this could happen. It COULD.

(And if I forgot something, don’t you DARE remind me what it was. I have enough anxiety already invested in this insane mind torture.)

You’re still staring at me like I’m nuts.

Well. I’m betting there’s a fair share of you wondering how I could think up such horrors, exactly. What is WRONG with me? If you’re thinking that, then I might assume that you aren’t a parent. Because this is what happens ALL THE TIME when you are parent (or since I’ve become a parent). I think of the worst possible outcomes all the time for my children. It’s kind of what I just do…

Diving baseball catches become concussions or random stick impalements.

Climbing trees become compound fractures (a favorite, it seems).

Swinging hoses = smashed teeth.

Roller skating = bumped heads and brain bleeds

Summer camp field trips = lost child (yep, I put my cell phone number in their pocket and I thought that was a pretty damn smart idea, so pipe down…)

Pools = stitches from sides of pools, cracked heads on bottoms of pools, and worse.

I could go on and on.

Maybe it’s something moms like me do to protect themselves. We GO THERE so that in case is does, we are mentally and emotionally prepared. Because it DOES GO THERE. More often than you might realise.

Ok, you’re still staring at me like I’m nuts. Well, then you’re a parent like my husband, or just one of those people who just doesn’t get wound around the axle like I do. Life is filled with risks. Shit happens. We can’t protect them from everything. What will be, will be. It’s not worth worrying about. Get over it and relax.

I know.

They LOVE their beds stacked (so F-ing precariously, OMG) like that. They really do. And the room has opened up so there’s more space to play. And they giggle and send stuffed animals up and down to each other and play games. It’s really great. It is.

So I’ll just keep the panicking to myself. (Oh. Oops. I mean OUTLOUD in front of talking people in front of my FACE.)

Because, really, if I think a bunk bed is frightening, how the HELL am I ever going to let EITHER of them drive away in a car? NOT strapped into a well-inspected five point harness, driven by moi? …HOW?

Shuddering sob. Wringing hands. Finding Strength.

Parenting has simply turned me into a crazy lady.

THE END.