Poor Benny spent Christmas morning in the emergency room.
He'd been running a fever since Thursday morning and was restless that night. I called the nurse, who said it was probably a virus and call them at the end of Christmas day if he was still feverish. He'd never had an ear infection, just one cold so far.
Well, he was was up crying ALL NIGHT on Christmas Eve. Ron and I got zero sleep, and neither did my mother, who was lying in the living room.
At 6 a.m. Christmas morning, we talked to another nurse, who said that ear infections can be very subtle and he could have one.
Now here's a funny thing: She started talking very cautiously, saying "Now, I don't know what your plans are today, but you might want to take him to the emergency room. But it is probably safe to wait until tomorrow, again, I don't know what your plans are."
I said, "Thats OK, we're not traveling today, and frankly, even if we were, I'd still take him into the ER, this baby is suffering."
She said,"Yeah, just talking to you, I thought you would. But some people are very determined about their Christmas plans. I had to be careful."
I couldn't believe it. Some people would drag their sick baby around on Christmas? I'm sure there's a story behind this nurse's behavior. I'd guess she's dealt with hysterical parents screaming "No! We have to drive to Baton Rouge today! My stepmother's cousin's daughter-in-law made a special Christmas ornament!"
(Whoops, I got a little off-topic there.) Anyway, back to my kid. Ron and I took him to the ER, loudly announcing that our baby has had a fever for days and hasn't slept. Benny promptly produces a 98-degree temp on the rectal thermometer and falls asleep in the hospital bed in his little gown, waiting for the doctor. It was hard to see him lying there. I wanted to scoop him up and run out of the hospital.
But Benny did have an ear infection. A bad one. He perked up on the medicine and took a three-hour nap. That night, he played with his activity table from Santa and chased his cousins. So Christmas came after all.
##
Monday, December 27, 2004
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Benny's Nightmare
Benny and I visited Aunt Orla's, staying for lunch and dinner. Benny loved the dog. I brought Scott and Jen a housewarming gift and I gave Aunt Orla a vanilla-sugar bubble bath, lotion and sponge. After that, she'll either be relaxed or really hungry.
Benny's been running a low-grade fever off and on since dinnertime yesterday. We've been giving him medicine and I talked to the doctor's office. He's eating well and is very active, just a runny nose.
His babysitter said he had an irritable edge to him today. She added that if she said that to someone there who didn't know him well, that person would think she was nuts, because he was still playing and smiling. But we could tell.
Around 10 p.m., he woke up crying, covered in sweat. I changed his jammies and his sheets and Ron wiped him down and rocked him to sleep. There was no fever, none at all. It was a weird cry; he actually sounded scared. We think it was a night terror.
When we went in, he wasn't standing like he usually does; he was lying on his back, turning back and forth, eyes closed, crying. When I picked him up and put him on the changing table, I don't think he knew where he was. He was fine the next morning.
##
Benny's been running a low-grade fever off and on since dinnertime yesterday. We've been giving him medicine and I talked to the doctor's office. He's eating well and is very active, just a runny nose.
His babysitter said he had an irritable edge to him today. She added that if she said that to someone there who didn't know him well, that person would think she was nuts, because he was still playing and smiling. But we could tell.
Around 10 p.m., he woke up crying, covered in sweat. I changed his jammies and his sheets and Ron wiped him down and rocked him to sleep. There was no fever, none at all. It was a weird cry; he actually sounded scared. We think it was a night terror.
When we went in, he wasn't standing like he usually does; he was lying on his back, turning back and forth, eyes closed, crying. When I picked him up and put him on the changing table, I don't think he knew where he was. He was fine the next morning.
##
Thursday, August 19, 2004
We Sneak out of Michigan
6:40 p.m., Friday: Our glorious departure is now a panicked getaway. The three of us are wedged so tightly into our VW Beetle that Baby Ben looks like a piece of luggage with a head.
I’d imagined a grand occasion, sort of “Apollo 11” meets “Herbie Goes to Maryland.” Instead, we sneak out of Ann Arbor like theives in the night, weakened by hunger, with an overtired baby wailing from his dufflebag fort in the backseat.
We emerge from Ann Arbor’s Construction Area and Hundred-Mile Parking Lot and peel down US 23, where workers have decorated the shoulders with more pointless orange barrels a show of solidarity. On the left, we pass Ebenezer Baptist Church and Grain Silo. Benny scrabbles around under his blanket and drifts off to sleep.
We drag our weary behinds into a Friendly’s in Maumee, just before the Ohio Turnpike. Benny bounces in his highchair, shredding napkins and staring pop-eyed at fellow diners. Ron and I glumly eat our diet turkey plates (smothered in gravy) and peer at the map. The Ohio Turnpike curves under Lake Erie toward Cleveland, but we plan to break off at Highway 77 and find a hotel near Akron.
We aren’t on the Turnpike long before we turn into the giant concrete pillbox that is the Commodore Perry Service Plaza. The gift shop offers such vital travel commodities as plush butterflies on sticks. Also prominently displayed is a bright yellow self-help book asking “Have You Felt Like Giving Up Lately?” I guess after driving across Ohio, a lot of people feel like giving up.
It was dark before we lurched onto a very bumpy Highway 77, the lights of Akron ahead, but our hopes of a quick hotel room were doomed. The sold-out Holiday Inn displayed a huge placard saying “Welcome NEC International Golfers.”
We fled south, desperate to escape the Golf Tournament Zone. At 11 p.m., in Nowhere, Ohio, I found myself in another Holiday Inn lobby. Five drunk, middle-aged bleach blondes surrounded the desk, keening for connecting rooms. “We made this reservation a YEAR ago!” the ringleader screamed.
The desk clerk nervously smoothed his comb-over. “We can’t guarantee specific rooms, only a certain type --”
“Connecting!” another one yelled. “You know, with the doors between the --”
“We don’t have connecting rooms, here are your keys --”
“We stay here every year for tournament!” the ringleader cried. And apparently every year they reserve the nonexistent connecting rooms. “Where are the ... we’re miles apart! We’re on SEPARATE FLOORS!”
“That’s not right ...”
“... Way the fuck out there ...”
“Connecting! We want connecting rooms!”
Attracted by the chaos, some drunk man wanders over and stirs the pot. “Give ‘em connecting rooms! You oughta have connecting rooms -- with a big bed -- for an orgy!”
I should’ve left right then. Instead I slunk over to a second hotel clerk and asked if there were rooms available. He said only smoking. Deeply relieved, I raced back to the car. “Get us the hell out of here,” I hissed to Ron.
We woke the next morning in a dumpy little hotel in Strasburg, outside the NEC zone. The landscape had changed, surrounding us with little mountain ridges and deeper forests. But our entrance onto 77 was delayed by a New Jersey man who left his van to talk to woman with Ohio license plates. It was an intense coversation; obviously vital enough to back up traffic for a quarter-mile.
Woman: How do I get to Zanesville?
Man: Sorry, I’m from New Jersey..
Woman: Should I take 77 or 22?
Man: I ain’t from here, lady. See the pukey yellow license plate? Now if you want to get to New Brunswick or Pompton Lakes, there I can help you. Pompton’s real nice --
Woman: What if I took 77 east to -- (sudden scream) Eeeek! A crazed silver Beetle with a bike rack and a baby seat is about to run us over for sheer stupidity! Look out!
##
I’d imagined a grand occasion, sort of “Apollo 11” meets “Herbie Goes to Maryland.” Instead, we sneak out of Ann Arbor like theives in the night, weakened by hunger, with an overtired baby wailing from his dufflebag fort in the backseat.
We emerge from Ann Arbor’s Construction Area and Hundred-Mile Parking Lot and peel down US 23, where workers have decorated the shoulders with more pointless orange barrels a show of solidarity. On the left, we pass Ebenezer Baptist Church and Grain Silo. Benny scrabbles around under his blanket and drifts off to sleep.
We drag our weary behinds into a Friendly’s in Maumee, just before the Ohio Turnpike. Benny bounces in his highchair, shredding napkins and staring pop-eyed at fellow diners. Ron and I glumly eat our diet turkey plates (smothered in gravy) and peer at the map. The Ohio Turnpike curves under Lake Erie toward Cleveland, but we plan to break off at Highway 77 and find a hotel near Akron.
We aren’t on the Turnpike long before we turn into the giant concrete pillbox that is the Commodore Perry Service Plaza. The gift shop offers such vital travel commodities as plush butterflies on sticks. Also prominently displayed is a bright yellow self-help book asking “Have You Felt Like Giving Up Lately?” I guess after driving across Ohio, a lot of people feel like giving up.
It was dark before we lurched onto a very bumpy Highway 77, the lights of Akron ahead, but our hopes of a quick hotel room were doomed. The sold-out Holiday Inn displayed a huge placard saying “Welcome NEC International Golfers.”
We fled south, desperate to escape the Golf Tournament Zone. At 11 p.m., in Nowhere, Ohio, I found myself in another Holiday Inn lobby. Five drunk, middle-aged bleach blondes surrounded the desk, keening for connecting rooms. “We made this reservation a YEAR ago!” the ringleader screamed.
The desk clerk nervously smoothed his comb-over. “We can’t guarantee specific rooms, only a certain type --”
“Connecting!” another one yelled. “You know, with the doors between the --”
“We don’t have connecting rooms, here are your keys --”
“We stay here every year for tournament!” the ringleader cried. And apparently every year they reserve the nonexistent connecting rooms. “Where are the ... we’re miles apart! We’re on SEPARATE FLOORS!”
“That’s not right ...”
“... Way the fuck out there ...”
“Connecting! We want connecting rooms!”
Attracted by the chaos, some drunk man wanders over and stirs the pot. “Give ‘em connecting rooms! You oughta have connecting rooms -- with a big bed -- for an orgy!”
I should’ve left right then. Instead I slunk over to a second hotel clerk and asked if there were rooms available. He said only smoking. Deeply relieved, I raced back to the car. “Get us the hell out of here,” I hissed to Ron.
We woke the next morning in a dumpy little hotel in Strasburg, outside the NEC zone. The landscape had changed, surrounding us with little mountain ridges and deeper forests. But our entrance onto 77 was delayed by a New Jersey man who left his van to talk to woman with Ohio license plates. It was an intense coversation; obviously vital enough to back up traffic for a quarter-mile.
Woman: How do I get to Zanesville?
Man: Sorry, I’m from New Jersey..
Woman: Should I take 77 or 22?
Man: I ain’t from here, lady. See the pukey yellow license plate? Now if you want to get to New Brunswick or Pompton Lakes, there I can help you. Pompton’s real nice --
Woman: What if I took 77 east to -- (sudden scream) Eeeek! A crazed silver Beetle with a bike rack and a baby seat is about to run us over for sheer stupidity! Look out!
##
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
My Job
7 a.m.: Time to wake up and get ready for my job.
I roll out of bed and into the shower. Ron feeds 6-month-old Ben while I wrestle with the curling iron. I’d laid out my clothes the night before and set out cereal bowls and boxes. By 8:30, Ron, Benny and I are washed, dressed, fed and out the door.
After dropping Ron off at the office, I head for my job -- grocery shopping today. Then I’ll do laundry (Benny’s wearing a torn shirt and a pink bib) and wash the car..
Yup, I’m a stay-at-home mom, living a life filled with sloppy hugs and suspicious odors (“Ewwww ... is that the cat? The kid? Or me?”). No schedules, no deadlines, no meetings. Personal chores like eating, showering and trashy-novel-reading could be accomplished at a mother’s convenience.
A mother’s what? There is no mother’s convenience. My baby’s paranormal Spidey sense can detect a book opening three rooms away. Tooth barely meets chocolate donut before an outraged wail resounds from the bedroom.
Oh sure, there’s plenty of flexibility. Which is why I used to find myself cowering in a darkened living room on a sunny afternoon, wearing day-old sweats and picking dust off Benny’s feet. A bottle ... baby’s bath ... a quick laundry load ... and it’s 4 p.m. and I haven’t gone to the store or even opened the drapes. Guess it’s takeout pizza for dinner again.
I was baffled. After all, I was once a newspaper editor juggling multiple deadlines. Now I couldn’t crawl two feet from my front door for the daily paper. What was wrong with me? Why could I handle a job, but not motherhood?
Ouch! Yes, I heard you. I know I’m doing The Most Important Job in the World. This is undeniable. Then I realized: Of course motherhood is a job, but I wasn’t treating it like one.
I understood how to function in the work world. I knew that unless I consistently washed clothes, bought hair products and ate breakfast, I’d show up to work looking like a blonde Woody Allen on speed. So I picked up my dry cleaning, sliced bagels, polished shoes, cleaned out purses. I kept the house marginally clean so I could find my car keys and leave on time.
But how was I showing up for motherhood each morning? Was I prepared to raise America’s Future? Well, the answer wasn’t pretty. A quick check of five pre-requisites to a professional performance yielded the following:
Grooming: Missmatched hairclips hold up my scraggly locks until I can shower during Ben’s morning nap. If he takes one. If it lasts more than 10 minutes. If I’m not derailed by a thousand another necessary chores. At 3 p.m. I give up and slap on a baseball cap. Must hunt and forage for food. I brush my teeth while packing Ben’s diaper bag. I file my nails at red lights on the way to the grocery store.
Clothing: Start the day in ragged sweats and spitup-stinky shirt.. Plan to change after shower (see above.). Upgrade to wrinkled khakis and faded t-shirt for my supermarket audience.
Meals: Breakfast is a cold dinner roll and leftover Gerber’s squash. Lunch is a bag of Oreos (gobbled while driving home from the grocery store) and a bottle of iced tea.
Organizational skills: Can’t find the paper towels. Can’t find the TV remote. Can’t find the cat. Buy giant bale of name-brand Ultra-Trim Leak Guard Moisture System, size 3. Go home and trip over unopened megapack of identical diapers in baby’s room.
Professional development: Log onto baby web sites while Ben chews my mouse pad. Read parenting magazines at bedtime. (“Recent studies indicate that the educational value of fig-filled cookies is greatly .... “ Zzzzzzz.)
True, Ben looks healthy, happy and sort of clean, so I’m succeeding at my job, right? Well, sure, but at what unnecessary cost? I’ve worked at jobs with inadequate resources and impossible deadlines. You can’t keep it up. You gotta quit the job or change your work habits, or one day your coworkers will find you huddled beneath your desk, gnawing on computer cords for a cheap thrill.
Many stay-at-home mothers claim, justfiably, that their work is undervalued. But sometimes that’s because we ourselves undervalue it. We never ask: What do I need to do my best work? The answer is simple. We need the same things our partners need so they can haul that lumber or type those HR memos without going crackers. We need adequate food and rest as well as appropriate clothing, grooming, professional development and -- of course -- a little stress relief.
So here I am at my job, writing this while Ben naps. The house is marginally clean, my cat is sunning on the windowsill and my shirt matches my pants. It’s after 5 p.m., but I’m not punching a time clock. Tonight Ron and I will dine on my patented Hamburger Excitement, made from the ground beef I bought today.
And Ron will feed the baby while I pursue some professional development: a pedicure. My kicky new sandals oughta be a real hit at baby music class. Although last week Benny cried during the opening song, then gnawed on a banjo for thirty minutes. So, maybe we’ll go, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll go to the park instead. It all depends on a mother’s convenience.
##
I roll out of bed and into the shower. Ron feeds 6-month-old Ben while I wrestle with the curling iron. I’d laid out my clothes the night before and set out cereal bowls and boxes. By 8:30, Ron, Benny and I are washed, dressed, fed and out the door.
After dropping Ron off at the office, I head for my job -- grocery shopping today. Then I’ll do laundry (Benny’s wearing a torn shirt and a pink bib) and wash the car..
Yup, I’m a stay-at-home mom, living a life filled with sloppy hugs and suspicious odors (“Ewwww ... is that the cat? The kid? Or me?”). No schedules, no deadlines, no meetings. Personal chores like eating, showering and trashy-novel-reading could be accomplished at a mother’s convenience.
A mother’s what? There is no mother’s convenience. My baby’s paranormal Spidey sense can detect a book opening three rooms away. Tooth barely meets chocolate donut before an outraged wail resounds from the bedroom.
Oh sure, there’s plenty of flexibility. Which is why I used to find myself cowering in a darkened living room on a sunny afternoon, wearing day-old sweats and picking dust off Benny’s feet. A bottle ... baby’s bath ... a quick laundry load ... and it’s 4 p.m. and I haven’t gone to the store or even opened the drapes. Guess it’s takeout pizza for dinner again.
I was baffled. After all, I was once a newspaper editor juggling multiple deadlines. Now I couldn’t crawl two feet from my front door for the daily paper. What was wrong with me? Why could I handle a job, but not motherhood?
Ouch! Yes, I heard you. I know I’m doing The Most Important Job in the World. This is undeniable. Then I realized: Of course motherhood is a job, but I wasn’t treating it like one.
I understood how to function in the work world. I knew that unless I consistently washed clothes, bought hair products and ate breakfast, I’d show up to work looking like a blonde Woody Allen on speed. So I picked up my dry cleaning, sliced bagels, polished shoes, cleaned out purses. I kept the house marginally clean so I could find my car keys and leave on time.
But how was I showing up for motherhood each morning? Was I prepared to raise America’s Future? Well, the answer wasn’t pretty. A quick check of five pre-requisites to a professional performance yielded the following:
Grooming: Missmatched hairclips hold up my scraggly locks until I can shower during Ben’s morning nap. If he takes one. If it lasts more than 10 minutes. If I’m not derailed by a thousand another necessary chores. At 3 p.m. I give up and slap on a baseball cap. Must hunt and forage for food. I brush my teeth while packing Ben’s diaper bag. I file my nails at red lights on the way to the grocery store.
Clothing: Start the day in ragged sweats and spitup-stinky shirt.. Plan to change after shower (see above.). Upgrade to wrinkled khakis and faded t-shirt for my supermarket audience.
Meals: Breakfast is a cold dinner roll and leftover Gerber’s squash. Lunch is a bag of Oreos (gobbled while driving home from the grocery store) and a bottle of iced tea.
Organizational skills: Can’t find the paper towels. Can’t find the TV remote. Can’t find the cat. Buy giant bale of name-brand Ultra-Trim Leak Guard Moisture System, size 3. Go home and trip over unopened megapack of identical diapers in baby’s room.
Professional development: Log onto baby web sites while Ben chews my mouse pad. Read parenting magazines at bedtime. (“Recent studies indicate that the educational value of fig-filled cookies is greatly .... “ Zzzzzzz.)
True, Ben looks healthy, happy and sort of clean, so I’m succeeding at my job, right? Well, sure, but at what unnecessary cost? I’ve worked at jobs with inadequate resources and impossible deadlines. You can’t keep it up. You gotta quit the job or change your work habits, or one day your coworkers will find you huddled beneath your desk, gnawing on computer cords for a cheap thrill.
Many stay-at-home mothers claim, justfiably, that their work is undervalued. But sometimes that’s because we ourselves undervalue it. We never ask: What do I need to do my best work? The answer is simple. We need the same things our partners need so they can haul that lumber or type those HR memos without going crackers. We need adequate food and rest as well as appropriate clothing, grooming, professional development and -- of course -- a little stress relief.
So here I am at my job, writing this while Ben naps. The house is marginally clean, my cat is sunning on the windowsill and my shirt matches my pants. It’s after 5 p.m., but I’m not punching a time clock. Tonight Ron and I will dine on my patented Hamburger Excitement, made from the ground beef I bought today.
And Ron will feed the baby while I pursue some professional development: a pedicure. My kicky new sandals oughta be a real hit at baby music class. Although last week Benny cried during the opening song, then gnawed on a banjo for thirty minutes. So, maybe we’ll go, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll go to the park instead. It all depends on a mother’s convenience.
##
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Wheels Spinning, Stuck in Reverse
Well, Ron hurt his back. He is back to work, but he can barely walk and sit. I have to tie his shoes. He spent three hours at work, then three hours stretched out at home. Now he's at work until 7.
I've been trying to take care of him and Ben and the house. Ben decided to quit sleeping through the night. He's on a growth spurt and I can't feed him fast enough. Andy helped me install our air conditioner last Wednesday. Greg came over Friday to watch over Ron while I drove to Stevensville. My friend Judy watched Ben and Ron while I went to a movie rehearsal Saturday.
The excessive rain produced wet spots in our basement and a musty smell through half the house. So I spent last week mopping up dampness and changing dehumidifier pans. It's fine now -- no smell or anything -- but now it's raining again. The grout around our bathtub is leaking so Ron's coaching me on how to fix that.
##
I've been trying to take care of him and Ben and the house. Ben decided to quit sleeping through the night. He's on a growth spurt and I can't feed him fast enough. Andy helped me install our air conditioner last Wednesday. Greg came over Friday to watch over Ron while I drove to Stevensville. My friend Judy watched Ben and Ron while I went to a movie rehearsal Saturday.
The excessive rain produced wet spots in our basement and a musty smell through half the house. So I spent last week mopping up dampness and changing dehumidifier pans. It's fine now -- no smell or anything -- but now it's raining again. The grout around our bathtub is leaking so Ron's coaching me on how to fix that.
##
Monday, June 07, 2004
Tornado Alley
We’re trucking right along here in Michigan. (State Motto: "We Have Tornado Warnings Three Days in a Row!")
Ron, Benny and I spent much of last Thursday night in the basement bathroom, sitting on a comforter. Winds topped 95 mph.
The next morning I went to the eye doctor and had my pupils dilated, which sentenced me to a day of blurry vision. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except we had another frightening storm that afternoon, which sent Ben and me underground again. I couldn't see a thing. Branches were crashing against the house. The cat went ballistic.
Since then, we've had a steady diet of thunderstorms marching through here; parts of the Detroit area are totally flooded.
##
Ron, Benny and I spent much of last Thursday night in the basement bathroom, sitting on a comforter. Winds topped 95 mph.
The next morning I went to the eye doctor and had my pupils dilated, which sentenced me to a day of blurry vision. Which wouldn't have been so bad, except we had another frightening storm that afternoon, which sent Ben and me underground again. I couldn't see a thing. Branches were crashing against the house. The cat went ballistic.
Since then, we've had a steady diet of thunderstorms marching through here; parts of the Detroit area are totally flooded.
##
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Benny's First Portrait Sitting
Well, I have survived what must be one of motherhood’s most harrowing experiences: the first portrait sitting.
I wasn’t looking forward to it. I know many mothers were sticking garters on their girls’ heads and baseball caps on their boys at 2 weeks and carting them out to the nearest Sears Portrait Studio.
Then they trot out these faintly strange pictures of newborns in odd poses (“Gee, that picture of Katylynn sitting on a princess throne would be really cute if she could sit, or hold her head up, or even keep her eyes open.”) One common pose is to lay the giant head on some sort of podium, with the poor little tadpole body dangling off to the side like an afterthought.
But now Ben is 4 months and it’s time to get with the program. I’d been warned by B. against JC Penney, so we went to Sears. The whole experience was nerve-wracking. I’m led into the “studio” (which looks like somebody’s dusty basement with photographic equipment lurking darkly in one corner). My guide is Tammy, she with the perky, faintly psycho voice that women who work with kids sometimes develop.
She coos over Benjamin, who is, admittedly, a handsome chap. But she keeps calling me “Mom,” which is a small thing, but grating. I tell her my name is Christine, but she still doesn’t stop. I don’t thinks she’s even aware she does it anymore. It’s an unconcious thing, a verbal tic. I think it’s disrespectful.
Babbling at a pitch that only dogs could appreciate, she promptly buried Ben in a pile of props. Throw in some crazy backgrounds and you could barely see the baby. After 30 minutes of her maniacal behavior (which included freaky hand puppets, various stilted poses and three costume changes), Ben finally started crying. I was ready to bawl after 5 minutes.
##
I wasn’t looking forward to it. I know many mothers were sticking garters on their girls’ heads and baseball caps on their boys at 2 weeks and carting them out to the nearest Sears Portrait Studio.
Then they trot out these faintly strange pictures of newborns in odd poses (“Gee, that picture of Katylynn sitting on a princess throne would be really cute if she could sit, or hold her head up, or even keep her eyes open.”) One common pose is to lay the giant head on some sort of podium, with the poor little tadpole body dangling off to the side like an afterthought.
But now Ben is 4 months and it’s time to get with the program. I’d been warned by B. against JC Penney, so we went to Sears. The whole experience was nerve-wracking. I’m led into the “studio” (which looks like somebody’s dusty basement with photographic equipment lurking darkly in one corner). My guide is Tammy, she with the perky, faintly psycho voice that women who work with kids sometimes develop.
She coos over Benjamin, who is, admittedly, a handsome chap. But she keeps calling me “Mom,” which is a small thing, but grating. I tell her my name is Christine, but she still doesn’t stop. I don’t thinks she’s even aware she does it anymore. It’s an unconcious thing, a verbal tic. I think it’s disrespectful.
Babbling at a pitch that only dogs could appreciate, she promptly buried Ben in a pile of props. Throw in some crazy backgrounds and you could barely see the baby. After 30 minutes of her maniacal behavior (which included freaky hand puppets, various stilted poses and three costume changes), Ben finally started crying. I was ready to bawl after 5 minutes.
##
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
The Witching Hour
The minutes just before midnight carry a real angst for me. First of all, Ben was born just a few minutes before midnight on Jan. 30. In the weeks after his birth, my medical crises always happened around midnight. So midnight has truly been the witching hour. And around midnight tonight, Ben finally seems to have gone down for the night. It’s frustrating to be dealing with sleep problems at nearly 4 months.
But the witching hour today wasn’t midnight. It was earlier this evening:
It’s 5 p.m. I’m on my hands and knees, mopping the kitchen floor while the baby screams hysterically from his bassinet. I can barely see what I’m wiping since I’m close to hysterical tears myself. Since Ben had spit up a good portion of his lunch, he was starving by 4:30, but I’d hoped he could hold out another 10 minutes. I needed to put on my makeup. Yes, I’m an evil, selfish mother-type who lets her helpless babe cry while she smears on Silver Mist eyeshadow. I have no excuse. All I can say is that I’d been trying to put on my makeup since 10 this morning, that I couldn’t leave the house without it, that makeup is essential to feeling OK about myself. I’ll leave the house with a child’s neon green scrunchie holding up my bangs, but you won’t catch me without makeup.
So I made the “Mommie Dearest” choice and put on my makeup, albiet with frequent interruptions to reassure Ben that I hadn’t disappeared forever. And I pulled it off; he wasn’t too bad and now I was dressed and painted and ready to go. Feeling slightly cocky, I put Ben’s bib on him, then sauntered to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle.
I shook the bottle, causing the inadequately fastened nipple to fly off, and nearly 8 ounces of formula to slosh all over my face, my clothes and the floor. Ben screamed as if he’d seen the whole thing. I raced to his bassinet, shedding clothes as I went, to plug in his pacifier. But I couldn’t feed him now; I had to clean up the formula. It would attract an army of ants, not to mention the cat. so I ripped off paper towels and sopped up puddle after puddle as Ben screamed and goosebumps covered my arms and the cat watched interestingly from under a nearby chair.
I pulled out the swiffer mop and ripped open a new box of floor wipes. As I viciously pumped the mop back and forth to the tune of Ben’s screams, a litany of self-defeating thoughts pounded in my head. I should’ve closed the bottle tighter, I shouldn’t have waited so long to feed him; why did I put my makeup on; why is this floor so disgusting. I’m just not cut out for motherhood, my spacey, aimless self-absorption is completely unsuited to such responsibility.
I heated up a second bottle, found some clothes and settled down with Ben in an amazingly short period of time. Ben calmed down enough to take the bottle well and took a nice nap afterwards and I had the chance to get a grip. Then he woke up and we were able to visit the dry cleaner, the photo shop and the grocery store in an hour’s time.
That’s when I realized that Ben wasn’t a newborn and I wasn’t an invalid and things were OK. I remembered when taking the baby to Big Boy’s was terrifying. When I lost his only pacifier in the mall when he was a month old and I had to feed him in the back seat and somehow get to Wal-Mart and find a new pacifier. I remembered the first sponge bath I gave him, when I repeatedly scraped his head against the plastic basin. How I kept nipping his fingers when I clip his nails. Motherhood is the great equalizer for women.
So I’ll have more witching hours, but it won’t be like that first month. That is over. Whew!
##
But the witching hour today wasn’t midnight. It was earlier this evening:
It’s 5 p.m. I’m on my hands and knees, mopping the kitchen floor while the baby screams hysterically from his bassinet. I can barely see what I’m wiping since I’m close to hysterical tears myself. Since Ben had spit up a good portion of his lunch, he was starving by 4:30, but I’d hoped he could hold out another 10 minutes. I needed to put on my makeup. Yes, I’m an evil, selfish mother-type who lets her helpless babe cry while she smears on Silver Mist eyeshadow. I have no excuse. All I can say is that I’d been trying to put on my makeup since 10 this morning, that I couldn’t leave the house without it, that makeup is essential to feeling OK about myself. I’ll leave the house with a child’s neon green scrunchie holding up my bangs, but you won’t catch me without makeup.
So I made the “Mommie Dearest” choice and put on my makeup, albiet with frequent interruptions to reassure Ben that I hadn’t disappeared forever. And I pulled it off; he wasn’t too bad and now I was dressed and painted and ready to go. Feeling slightly cocky, I put Ben’s bib on him, then sauntered to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle.
I shook the bottle, causing the inadequately fastened nipple to fly off, and nearly 8 ounces of formula to slosh all over my face, my clothes and the floor. Ben screamed as if he’d seen the whole thing. I raced to his bassinet, shedding clothes as I went, to plug in his pacifier. But I couldn’t feed him now; I had to clean up the formula. It would attract an army of ants, not to mention the cat. so I ripped off paper towels and sopped up puddle after puddle as Ben screamed and goosebumps covered my arms and the cat watched interestingly from under a nearby chair.
I pulled out the swiffer mop and ripped open a new box of floor wipes. As I viciously pumped the mop back and forth to the tune of Ben’s screams, a litany of self-defeating thoughts pounded in my head. I should’ve closed the bottle tighter, I shouldn’t have waited so long to feed him; why did I put my makeup on; why is this floor so disgusting. I’m just not cut out for motherhood, my spacey, aimless self-absorption is completely unsuited to such responsibility.
I heated up a second bottle, found some clothes and settled down with Ben in an amazingly short period of time. Ben calmed down enough to take the bottle well and took a nice nap afterwards and I had the chance to get a grip. Then he woke up and we were able to visit the dry cleaner, the photo shop and the grocery store in an hour’s time.
That’s when I realized that Ben wasn’t a newborn and I wasn’t an invalid and things were OK. I remembered when taking the baby to Big Boy’s was terrifying. When I lost his only pacifier in the mall when he was a month old and I had to feed him in the back seat and somehow get to Wal-Mart and find a new pacifier. I remembered the first sponge bath I gave him, when I repeatedly scraped his head against the plastic basin. How I kept nipping his fingers when I clip his nails. Motherhood is the great equalizer for women.
So I’ll have more witching hours, but it won’t be like that first month. That is over. Whew!
##
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Grandpa
My Grandpa died last Thursday and the funeral was today. I was taking the baby to see him on Wednesday (he and my Grandma lived three hours away) when he took a turn for the worse. So my one-day trip turned into six days. Ben and I lived out of plastic shopping bags and his diaper bag for three days until Ron arrived with a suitcase.
So I'm back home again and grateful to be here. Ron and I were both becoming a little unglued. I had him bring half my wardrobe when he came over because I didn't know what fit me anymore and I STILL ended up at the mall twice, hunting down shoes for me and a tie for Ron.
Ben wore nothing but sleepers for two days until Ron arrived. Thank God Ben is such a good baby. I was dragging him to various relatives' homes, putting him to sleep in his carseat, on his activity mat, in my baby cousin's bassinet. He handled it very well. Then Grandpa died Thursday night at 10:30 p.m. and I dragged poor Ben out of bed, bundled him up and hauled him to where the family was gathered. We didn't get home until 2 a.m.
I'm trying to deal with this OK; after all Grandpa was
87. He was a remarkable person, born in 1917 to Polish immigrants, served in World War II, went to work as a bank teller after the war and worked his way up to become a vice president. At age 62, he retired early because his doctor said his emphysema would kill him within 10 years. Well, we got 15 extra years. It was the emphysema in the end, though; Hospice put him on a morphine-induced coma because he was struggling to breathe.
Anyway, he was a great person. He bought me my first car and helped our family after my dad died. He built his own house, grew grapes and made wine, did carpentry and read history books. He was brilliant.
Sometimes I miss San Francisco so much and second-guess our decision to return. But I guess this is why we did, huh? I was able to be there for my mother and my Grandma and Grandpa saw Ben twice before he died.
This is vintage Grandpa: When Ron and I arrived last Easter with Ben, my Grandpa gave us a card with $20 in it. Ben was in top form, laughing and smiling and giggling and blowing bubbles and just staring at Grandpa. Grandpa was so charmed that he pulled out his wallet (he was having a good day, healthwise) and said "Ben, you've just earned another $20" and made Ron take it. I've put the card and money aside and will buy something special with it.
##
So I'm back home again and grateful to be here. Ron and I were both becoming a little unglued. I had him bring half my wardrobe when he came over because I didn't know what fit me anymore and I STILL ended up at the mall twice, hunting down shoes for me and a tie for Ron.
Ben wore nothing but sleepers for two days until Ron arrived. Thank God Ben is such a good baby. I was dragging him to various relatives' homes, putting him to sleep in his carseat, on his activity mat, in my baby cousin's bassinet. He handled it very well. Then Grandpa died Thursday night at 10:30 p.m. and I dragged poor Ben out of bed, bundled him up and hauled him to where the family was gathered. We didn't get home until 2 a.m.
I'm trying to deal with this OK; after all Grandpa was
87. He was a remarkable person, born in 1917 to Polish immigrants, served in World War II, went to work as a bank teller after the war and worked his way up to become a vice president. At age 62, he retired early because his doctor said his emphysema would kill him within 10 years. Well, we got 15 extra years. It was the emphysema in the end, though; Hospice put him on a morphine-induced coma because he was struggling to breathe.
Anyway, he was a great person. He bought me my first car and helped our family after my dad died. He built his own house, grew grapes and made wine, did carpentry and read history books. He was brilliant.
Sometimes I miss San Francisco so much and second-guess our decision to return. But I guess this is why we did, huh? I was able to be there for my mother and my Grandma and Grandpa saw Ben twice before he died.
This is vintage Grandpa: When Ron and I arrived last Easter with Ben, my Grandpa gave us a card with $20 in it. Ben was in top form, laughing and smiling and giggling and blowing bubbles and just staring at Grandpa. Grandpa was so charmed that he pulled out his wallet (he was having a good day, healthwise) and said "Ben, you've just earned another $20" and made Ron take it. I've put the card and money aside and will buy something special with it.
##
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Ah, There's the Epiphany
Something amazing happened last week. It began as an ordinary Tuesday. I decided to take Ben to our usual weekly movie. I put him in a cute outfit and went easy on the Vaseline (for his dry skin) so his head wouldn’t shine like a cue ball.
The cat was moping around the house, emerging only to yowl pitifully or shred newspapers in an orgy of frustration. She was starved for attention. Hell, I was starved for attention. Ron was exhausted and I was having trouble connecting to others on more than a superficial level. I tried to sound upbeat, but it was all I could do not to bawl into the phone.
On some level, I was just going through the motions, functioning by rote, doing what I was supposed to do. I changed him, made bottles, rocked him, fussed over his little red face. I smiled and talked to him because that was good for babies. But sometimes I concentrated on just making it through until I could hand him off to Ron.
And so it went until last Tuesday. Going places with Ben has been very stressful for me. I was always doing something boneheaded, like losing his pacifier or propping him up weirdly in a cart or trudging through miles of mall with his carrier jolting against my leg. The simplest tasks like picking up film, getting groceries, filling a pescription seemed overwhelming. I was always overdressing him for winter weather, and the poor little thing would sweat copiously under all those layers.
But I decided to go to the movie after all. This meant I had to get myself presentable -- no easy feat as Ben cried and whimpered. Then he quieted long enough for me to eat a toasted bagel. A small thing, but important. It kept my blood sugar from dropping, strengthened a link with my past life and settled my nerves. As I dusted the bagel crumbs off my hands, that’s when my Tuesday really began. I couldn’t be a complete screwup if I was able to locate, toast and eat a bagel.
The stroller worked beautifully. I wheeled Ben into the mall and joined the line of strollers outside the movie theater. I was even able to have a little popcorn and Coke. I managed to feed Ben with a minimum of drama, although I did squirt formula all over the seats and drop his pacifier on the filthy floor.
Giddy with success, I decided we would shop after the movie. Ben just stared at me like the angel he was while I tried on 10 pairs of pants and a half-dozen tops. As a reward, I bought him booties and a funny hat.
Elated, I called Ron, thinking of stopping by the office. But his harried hello reminded me that it was deadline day, so I made up another excuse and got off the phone. I then called Caroline, who’s laid up from knee surgery. I got directions, bundled Ben and stroller back into the car and headed to her house.
Ben was his lovable, charming self and cheered her up. But soon it approached 3 o’clock. Ben was hungry again and I was fading fast. He cried most of the way home and I was hungry too. I set up his bottle while he howled and a sandwich for myself. I managed to feed him while wolfing down the sandwich and afterwards we just sat on the couch, worn out.
I didn’t have the energy to rock him to sleep, so I just wrapped him in a blanket and took him into my darkened bedroom. I tucked him in and ay beside him, holding his pacifier until we fell asleep. We slept for three hours. Ron found us there when he got home at seven.
A typical day, almost mundane. But a miracle happened that day. That was the day I stopped seeing Ben as a fussy little being who made everything difficult. He was my little buddy. We’d spent the day together in a real sense for the first time. We went to the movies and shopped and visited and took a nap. It wasn’t just me doing these things while dragging a heavy appendage along. I’d spent the day with my son and without him, the day would not have been so good.
Books, articles and websites make much of bonding. A lot of it is hooey. But it is important to forge a bond with your baby, to go beyond caregiver and infant. It’s important that the woman sees this being as her child and the baby to see this big person as his mother. That you belong to each other.
For some people, this emotion happens at birth. Hell, some people feel this connection when the line on the pregnancy test is barely pink, naming the baby and reading to it and later playing videotapes of the ultrasound. But for me, there was a gap between how I was supposed to feel and what I actually felt.
Well, now Ben is crying. He’s not trying to interrupt my writing, he’s just hungry. He’s a good boy and and I look forward to spending the day with him. For many mothers, such feelings are a matter of course. For me, it’s a miracle.
##
The cat was moping around the house, emerging only to yowl pitifully or shred newspapers in an orgy of frustration. She was starved for attention. Hell, I was starved for attention. Ron was exhausted and I was having trouble connecting to others on more than a superficial level. I tried to sound upbeat, but it was all I could do not to bawl into the phone.
On some level, I was just going through the motions, functioning by rote, doing what I was supposed to do. I changed him, made bottles, rocked him, fussed over his little red face. I smiled and talked to him because that was good for babies. But sometimes I concentrated on just making it through until I could hand him off to Ron.
And so it went until last Tuesday. Going places with Ben has been very stressful for me. I was always doing something boneheaded, like losing his pacifier or propping him up weirdly in a cart or trudging through miles of mall with his carrier jolting against my leg. The simplest tasks like picking up film, getting groceries, filling a pescription seemed overwhelming. I was always overdressing him for winter weather, and the poor little thing would sweat copiously under all those layers.
But I decided to go to the movie after all. This meant I had to get myself presentable -- no easy feat as Ben cried and whimpered. Then he quieted long enough for me to eat a toasted bagel. A small thing, but important. It kept my blood sugar from dropping, strengthened a link with my past life and settled my nerves. As I dusted the bagel crumbs off my hands, that’s when my Tuesday really began. I couldn’t be a complete screwup if I was able to locate, toast and eat a bagel.
The stroller worked beautifully. I wheeled Ben into the mall and joined the line of strollers outside the movie theater. I was even able to have a little popcorn and Coke. I managed to feed Ben with a minimum of drama, although I did squirt formula all over the seats and drop his pacifier on the filthy floor.
Giddy with success, I decided we would shop after the movie. Ben just stared at me like the angel he was while I tried on 10 pairs of pants and a half-dozen tops. As a reward, I bought him booties and a funny hat.
Elated, I called Ron, thinking of stopping by the office. But his harried hello reminded me that it was deadline day, so I made up another excuse and got off the phone. I then called Caroline, who’s laid up from knee surgery. I got directions, bundled Ben and stroller back into the car and headed to her house.
Ben was his lovable, charming self and cheered her up. But soon it approached 3 o’clock. Ben was hungry again and I was fading fast. He cried most of the way home and I was hungry too. I set up his bottle while he howled and a sandwich for myself. I managed to feed him while wolfing down the sandwich and afterwards we just sat on the couch, worn out.
I didn’t have the energy to rock him to sleep, so I just wrapped him in a blanket and took him into my darkened bedroom. I tucked him in and ay beside him, holding his pacifier until we fell asleep. We slept for three hours. Ron found us there when he got home at seven.
A typical day, almost mundane. But a miracle happened that day. That was the day I stopped seeing Ben as a fussy little being who made everything difficult. He was my little buddy. We’d spent the day together in a real sense for the first time. We went to the movies and shopped and visited and took a nap. It wasn’t just me doing these things while dragging a heavy appendage along. I’d spent the day with my son and without him, the day would not have been so good.
Books, articles and websites make much of bonding. A lot of it is hooey. But it is important to forge a bond with your baby, to go beyond caregiver and infant. It’s important that the woman sees this being as her child and the baby to see this big person as his mother. That you belong to each other.
For some people, this emotion happens at birth. Hell, some people feel this connection when the line on the pregnancy test is barely pink, naming the baby and reading to it and later playing videotapes of the ultrasound. But for me, there was a gap between how I was supposed to feel and what I actually felt.
Well, now Ben is crying. He’s not trying to interrupt my writing, he’s just hungry. He’s a good boy and and I look forward to spending the day with him. For many mothers, such feelings are a matter of course. For me, it’s a miracle.
##
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Shooting Up
Ben had his two-month shots on Friday. He took it like a man. I thought I'd be a mess, but I handled it fine. The nurse (who'd obviously seen nutcase moms before) said I could step out if it was too much for me. I just looked at her like she was nuts. She expected me to LEAVE my baby while he received painful shots? I just kept looking at his face and talking to him. It's for his own good, after all. Then as soon as I picked him up and held him, he quieted down. Such a good boy.
Today we went to see a movie. (A theater here has a special matinee for mothers with little babies every Tuesday.) Then we went shopping. Then we went to visit the wife of the publisher of the Ann Arbor News. She just had knee surgery and her recovery is slow. She loved seeing and holding Ben, though, who was a real charmer.
But after that we were both hungry and tired, so we went home and ate. I gave Ben his bottle while munching a sandwich and watching "Baby Story" on TLC. It’s this nutty half-hour show that follows some poor woman through the birth process. 15 minutes to meet the happy couple and 15 minutes of anguished birthing.
The parents are ALWAYS a happy, heterosexual, well-off, usually white married couple who always dreamt of children. They often have an adorable toddler already and Daddy is intensely involved. Mommy talks in that annoying sing-song voice that you usually only hear from 30-year kindergarten teachers. Although I've noticed that more women my age with children talk that way ALL THE TIME.
Anyway, the second 15 minutes take you through the birth itself, which is generally a trip. Most of them don't want drugs (??!!) so they hoo and hah through the contractions. One woman had her toddler witness the whole thing. Another woman had her neighbor's 8-year-old grandson in the room, where he stayed for the whole 12-hour labor. Poor kid was exhausted.
So anyway, after that, Ben and I crawled into the bedroom and took a long nap on the bed -- myself, the baby and the kitty. We were wiped out. Ron found us still there when he came home at 7 p.m.
##
Today we went to see a movie. (A theater here has a special matinee for mothers with little babies every Tuesday.) Then we went shopping. Then we went to visit the wife of the publisher of the Ann Arbor News. She just had knee surgery and her recovery is slow. She loved seeing and holding Ben, though, who was a real charmer.
But after that we were both hungry and tired, so we went home and ate. I gave Ben his bottle while munching a sandwich and watching "Baby Story" on TLC. It’s this nutty half-hour show that follows some poor woman through the birth process. 15 minutes to meet the happy couple and 15 minutes of anguished birthing.
The parents are ALWAYS a happy, heterosexual, well-off, usually white married couple who always dreamt of children. They often have an adorable toddler already and Daddy is intensely involved. Mommy talks in that annoying sing-song voice that you usually only hear from 30-year kindergarten teachers. Although I've noticed that more women my age with children talk that way ALL THE TIME.
Anyway, the second 15 minutes take you through the birth itself, which is generally a trip. Most of them don't want drugs (??!!) so they hoo and hah through the contractions. One woman had her toddler witness the whole thing. Another woman had her neighbor's 8-year-old grandson in the room, where he stayed for the whole 12-hour labor. Poor kid was exhausted.
So anyway, after that, Ben and I crawled into the bedroom and took a long nap on the bed -- myself, the baby and the kitty. We were wiped out. Ron found us still there when he came home at 7 p.m.
##
Monday, April 05, 2004
I Wish I Was a Duck
Ron keeps stealing my songs! He’ll hear me sing them to Ben, and then the next day he’s singing them! What am I going to have to do, get them copywrited? This is no trivial issue -- it takes a truly poetic soul to compose lyrics like this:
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
I would be so lucky if I was a little ducky.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Ron says I can adopt his songs if I like, but since his lyrics run along the lines of ...
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club.
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club.
My name is Benjamin.
... His offer is less than enticing.
I tell you, if Ron keeps doing this, he’ll soon be a member of the Bruised Head Club.
##
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
I would be so lucky if I was a little ducky.
Oh, I wish I was a duck.
Quack quack quack.
Ron says I can adopt his songs if I like, but since his lyrics run along the lines of ...
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club,
Clean Butt Club.
I’m a member of the Clean Butt Club.
My name is Benjamin.
... His offer is less than enticing.
I tell you, if Ron keeps doing this, he’ll soon be a member of the Bruised Head Club.
##
Friday, April 02, 2004
It's Probably Not Fatal
It’s hard to still be hurting. I mean, the baby’s over two months old. It’s very discouraging. I’m constantly running a debate in my mind -- should I contact the doctor? Is it getting better? I hesitate to call my doctor. She’s a little nuts, the type where you turn up with a little cough and she says, “Well, it’s probably not walking pneumonia … but we should check.”
Plus I’ve got this screenplay to finish. A local aspiring filmmaker wants to produce a 15-minute movie of “The Europa Society.” (See www.apprenticefilms.com and buy a tote bag.) Writing fiction is the last thing I feel like doing. For years I would have killed for an opportunity like this, and it comes at a time in my life when I’m least able to do it.
Well, at least I can take care of Ben.
##
Plus I’ve got this screenplay to finish. A local aspiring filmmaker wants to produce a 15-minute movie of “The Europa Society.” (See www.apprenticefilms.com and buy a tote bag.) Writing fiction is the last thing I feel like doing. For years I would have killed for an opportunity like this, and it comes at a time in my life when I’m least able to do it.
Well, at least I can take care of Ben.
##
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Bizarre Napping Rituals
I'm finally joining the real world again. Baby Ben is getting bigger, I'm finally feeling better, and spring is FINALLY here. He's sleeping on his activity mat right now (one of those big square pads with dangly toys hanging above).
I keep hearing about these moms and their elaborate napping rituals:
1. Swaddle kid
2. Turn on special lullaby CD
3. Sway for 20 minutes
4. Rock for 20 minutes
5. Put kid in crib
6. Turn on special light-and-music gizmo
7. Lower lights to prescribed level
8. Tiptoe out while holding breath
9. Break into liquor cabinet (Oops, that’s me)
Repeat five times daily.
Some mothers watch their babies like hawks for special signs of tiredness. "If the baby is fussy, it's too late," they say. Is the baby rubbing his eyes? Bobbing his head? Breathing slower? I bet there's a gal in Albany N.Y. taking her baby's blood pressure every hour to identify the optimal nap time.
My kid has "Nap Attacks,” dropping wherever he happens to be when the attack hits. Sometimes he's in his swing, sometimes he's in my arms, sometimes he's in the carseat or on his mat. I usually just leave him wherever he is and cover him up. I don't know, maybe I'm courting disaster and sentencing Ben to a life with insomnia, restless legs, sleep apnea, night sweats and bedwetting.
##
I keep hearing about these moms and their elaborate napping rituals:
1. Swaddle kid
2. Turn on special lullaby CD
3. Sway for 20 minutes
4. Rock for 20 minutes
5. Put kid in crib
6. Turn on special light-and-music gizmo
7. Lower lights to prescribed level
8. Tiptoe out while holding breath
9. Break into liquor cabinet (Oops, that’s me)
Repeat five times daily.
Some mothers watch their babies like hawks for special signs of tiredness. "If the baby is fussy, it's too late," they say. Is the baby rubbing his eyes? Bobbing his head? Breathing slower? I bet there's a gal in Albany N.Y. taking her baby's blood pressure every hour to identify the optimal nap time.
My kid has "Nap Attacks,” dropping wherever he happens to be when the attack hits. Sometimes he's in his swing, sometimes he's in my arms, sometimes he's in the carseat or on his mat. I usually just leave him wherever he is and cover him up. I don't know, maybe I'm courting disaster and sentencing Ben to a life with insomnia, restless legs, sleep apnea, night sweats and bedwetting.
##
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Baby Massage
I have a terrible cold. I feel just awful. Ron has a milder version and Ben is pretty stuffy too. Ben and I just sat on the couch and watched TV all morning because I didn't have the energy for anything else. I wash my hands every two seconds because I don't want to make Ben sick. I feel like wearing a surgeon's mask.
Ben seems to be doing well. He’s eating and sleeping fine and has his usual happy times. He smiles and babbles and blows bubbles now. He's a good baby.
Ron ran into some reverse sexism yesterday. God, I'm irritated. He signed himself and Ben up for a baby massage course on Wednesday mornings, where they teach all kind of techniques to calm babies. Anyway, the instructor acted like Ron was some sort of freak in a roomful of women. He comes home saying the instructor wants me to go too, because mothers have special hormones and instincts and God knows what else.
I personally don't see why I need to go. This is supposed to be a nice thing for Ron and Ben, plus it gives me time to do something for once. (The class is once a week for four weeks.) We thought Ron would learn the techniques, then teach me. He had to teach me how to swaddle and bathe the baby, as well as clean the cord stump when I could finally take care of him. Geez.
##
Ben seems to be doing well. He’s eating and sleeping fine and has his usual happy times. He smiles and babbles and blows bubbles now. He's a good baby.
Ron ran into some reverse sexism yesterday. God, I'm irritated. He signed himself and Ben up for a baby massage course on Wednesday mornings, where they teach all kind of techniques to calm babies. Anyway, the instructor acted like Ron was some sort of freak in a roomful of women. He comes home saying the instructor wants me to go too, because mothers have special hormones and instincts and God knows what else.
I personally don't see why I need to go. This is supposed to be a nice thing for Ron and Ben, plus it gives me time to do something for once. (The class is once a week for four weeks.) We thought Ron would learn the techniques, then teach me. He had to teach me how to swaddle and bathe the baby, as well as clean the cord stump when I could finally take care of him. Geez.
##
Monday, March 22, 2004
Where's My Epiphany?
I'm not insane yet, but I'm working on it. Here I am, rocking my kid in Small City, USA, waiting for an epiphany. Everyone told me that "motherhood changes everything" and "you look at everything in a different way," that "nothing matters but the baby" and "you won't be able to imagine life without him." All admirable sentiments. And in my case, all a load of hooey.
Granted, motherhood changes a lot, but not everything. I'm still the cranky, opinionated, Snapple-slurping, self-indulgent, half-crazed woman I always was. Of course I'm crazy about my kid. A major cutie. Perfect physical speciman. Mental giant.
Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe next month I'll be using seven different soaps to bathe my kid and a special brush for his ears. For now, I dump some baby wash in some warm water, slop it all over the baby (and myself) and hope for the best. He seems to like it, anyway.
Ron has been amazing. My labor and delivery went beautifully, but I developed complications afterwards that kept me in the hospital for five days. Plus a half-dozen trips to women's triage afterwards. So I was not a happy camper, and Ron was the primary caregiver during that time. By the time I took over, many of the routines were set, and that's kept me from being too obsessive.
##
Granted, motherhood changes a lot, but not everything. I'm still the cranky, opinionated, Snapple-slurping, self-indulgent, half-crazed woman I always was. Of course I'm crazy about my kid. A major cutie. Perfect physical speciman. Mental giant.
Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe next month I'll be using seven different soaps to bathe my kid and a special brush for his ears. For now, I dump some baby wash in some warm water, slop it all over the baby (and myself) and hope for the best. He seems to like it, anyway.
Ron has been amazing. My labor and delivery went beautifully, but I developed complications afterwards that kept me in the hospital for five days. Plus a half-dozen trips to women's triage afterwards. So I was not a happy camper, and Ron was the primary caregiver during that time. By the time I took over, many of the routines were set, and that's kept me from being too obsessive.
##
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Midnight Musings
Almost midnight. My lifelong status as a night owl is being sorely tested. I'm typing at the computer while Ben sleeps in his carseat: his bed of choice. Forget the cute bassinet or heirloom crib; he's happiest sitting in a plastic carseat on the floor.
My friend L. had the same situation with her first baby, who would only sleep in her swing. L. and her husband actually moved the swing into their bedroom and put her in it at night. Hey, whatever works.
Anyway, so Ben's in the carseat, padded by a special u-shaped pillow so his big ol' head doesn't flop around. Both the carseat and pillow come from my sister. Actually nearly everything Ben uses is either a hand-me-down or a baby shower gift. We're seriously doing this baby on the cheap. I dropped a couple hundred on baby supplies two weeks before he was born, and Ron surprised me with a gliding rocker when we came home from the hospital. That's it.
I've bought him exactly one outfit, all green and blue, which I found in the hospital gift shop after one of my visits to the emergency room. I haven’t even entered a Baby Gap.
But really, he does have cute clothes already, mostly gifts from family and friends. He's got sleepers with duck feet, jumpers with frogs and overalls with cows. And he looks adorable in everything, although perhaps I'm biased. Since we didn't know the gender until he was born, he's got a lot of green and yellow. Come this summer, I'll probably set him down on the lawn and be unable to find him.
##
My friend L. had the same situation with her first baby, who would only sleep in her swing. L. and her husband actually moved the swing into their bedroom and put her in it at night. Hey, whatever works.
Anyway, so Ben's in the carseat, padded by a special u-shaped pillow so his big ol' head doesn't flop around. Both the carseat and pillow come from my sister. Actually nearly everything Ben uses is either a hand-me-down or a baby shower gift. We're seriously doing this baby on the cheap. I dropped a couple hundred on baby supplies two weeks before he was born, and Ron surprised me with a gliding rocker when we came home from the hospital. That's it.
I've bought him exactly one outfit, all green and blue, which I found in the hospital gift shop after one of my visits to the emergency room. I haven’t even entered a Baby Gap.
But really, he does have cute clothes already, mostly gifts from family and friends. He's got sleepers with duck feet, jumpers with frogs and overalls with cows. And he looks adorable in everything, although perhaps I'm biased. Since we didn't know the gender until he was born, he's got a lot of green and yellow. Come this summer, I'll probably set him down on the lawn and be unable to find him.
##
Friday, March 12, 2004
Shopping Spree
I went nuts at Meijer tonight. I left Ben with Ron and it felt good to be out without him (Evil Mom!). But then I spent an hour picking out things for him. I bought him a bib that said "I love Daddy," because he always wears his "Mommy's Little Boy" bib. I bought a cloth-and-rod shelving unit with little
cubbyholes for his clothes. Then I bought a bunch of picture frames. Then I bought a Big Mac at McDonald's. I felt I deserved it.
cubbyholes for his clothes. Then I bought a bunch of picture frames. Then I bought a Big Mac at McDonald's. I felt I deserved it.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Mommy Angst
Last night was rough. I only slept three hours and had nightmares the whole time. I dreamed I was lost, I dreamed I couldn't park the Beetle, I dreamed I couldn't get on the right freeway. Then I dreamed I had no shirt on and coudn't find one. Then I dreamed about dead baby animals. It just went on and on.
Ben cried all morning and I couldn't eat anything until after noon. Then he went to sleep, finally. We slept for two hours and both felt much better.
Then Ben had his first official bath. (He’d just had sponge baths before.) I just put the infant bath seat on a towel on the bathroom floor. He seemed to like it; at least he didn't cry. I took pictures cuz he was so cute. Then I dressed him in his warmest sleeper and put a hat on him.
Giddy from the success of this first experiment, I decided to put him in the big baby swing for the first time. He looked a
little freaked out, but still game. Now he's asleep. I'm in the office now, with Ben swinging in the swing and the kitty sleeping on a chair beside him.
Ben cried all morning and I couldn't eat anything until after noon. Then he went to sleep, finally. We slept for two hours and both felt much better.
Then Ben had his first official bath. (He’d just had sponge baths before.) I just put the infant bath seat on a towel on the bathroom floor. He seemed to like it; at least he didn't cry. I took pictures cuz he was so cute. Then I dressed him in his warmest sleeper and put a hat on him.
Giddy from the success of this first experiment, I decided to put him in the big baby swing for the first time. He looked a
little freaked out, but still game. Now he's asleep. I'm in the office now, with Ben swinging in the swing and the kitty sleeping on a chair beside him.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Labor Weirdness (Not For the Faint of Heart)
When Benny was born, my labor and delivery went very well, but I did a few goofy things.
I was induced on Jan. 29. The next morning, after a few hours of strong contractions, they put me on morphine, which made me feel itchy all over.
"How do addicts do this?" I asked the nurse. "I could never be a morphine addict, the itching would drive me nuts. Maybe I could get addicted to something else. Does cocaine make you itchy? What about heroin?"
I just went on and on, naming everything from angel dust to cocoa beans. The nurse just stared, she didn't know what to say.
Then a hospital staff member entered and asked me to be part of an epidural study. I was given a paper slide rule with a smiley face on one end and a frowny face on the other. I was told to position the gauge to reflect how much pain I felt.
The first thing I did was push the gauge next to the frowny face. Then I said I didn't want to be part of the study.
After the staffer left, I told my husband, "Gee, that guy must have been really disappointed." Ron rolled his eyes. "That was a woman, honey," he said.
Then I started calling the nurse by my husband's name. ("You're a really big help, Ron.") When I saw it irritated my husband, I did it some more.
After Ben was born, I tried to distract myself during recovery by babbling about my journalism career and the job I used to have in California. I talked about the newspaper's circulation, editorial stance, the subjects covered, major stories I edited. I even tried to name all 45 newspapers owned by its parent chain. Ron just patted my hand, gave me updates on our son, and corrected me whenever I made a mistake. ("Honey, they don't own the Chicago paper. That's Crain's.)
The doctors must have thought I was nuts.
##
I was induced on Jan. 29. The next morning, after a few hours of strong contractions, they put me on morphine, which made me feel itchy all over.
"How do addicts do this?" I asked the nurse. "I could never be a morphine addict, the itching would drive me nuts. Maybe I could get addicted to something else. Does cocaine make you itchy? What about heroin?"
I just went on and on, naming everything from angel dust to cocoa beans. The nurse just stared, she didn't know what to say.
Then a hospital staff member entered and asked me to be part of an epidural study. I was given a paper slide rule with a smiley face on one end and a frowny face on the other. I was told to position the gauge to reflect how much pain I felt.
The first thing I did was push the gauge next to the frowny face. Then I said I didn't want to be part of the study.
After the staffer left, I told my husband, "Gee, that guy must have been really disappointed." Ron rolled his eyes. "That was a woman, honey," he said.
Then I started calling the nurse by my husband's name. ("You're a really big help, Ron.") When I saw it irritated my husband, I did it some more.
After Ben was born, I tried to distract myself during recovery by babbling about my journalism career and the job I used to have in California. I talked about the newspaper's circulation, editorial stance, the subjects covered, major stories I edited. I even tried to name all 45 newspapers owned by its parent chain. Ron just patted my hand, gave me updates on our son, and corrected me whenever I made a mistake. ("Honey, they don't own the Chicago paper. That's Crain's.)
The doctors must have thought I was nuts.
##
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Benjamin L. Signs with the Tigers
GUESS WHERE, Mich. -- Benjamin Andrew L. signed a lifetime contract with the Detroit Tigers baseball team today after nine months of negotiations with his agents, his mother, Christine K., and father, Ron L.
Although Ben has no batting, pitching or fielding statistics, he bulked up over the past nine months to reach 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and he grew to 20.5 inches at birth, at 11:53 p.m. Friday, Jan. 30.
Hordes of reporters assembled at University of Guess Where Hospital, and the departure of Benjamin and his mother from the hospital was delayed until the early afternoon of the following Wednesday.
Christine had some minor complications but now is continuing her recovery at home, according to sources who requested anonymity ... and received it.
"I'm thrilled," Christine said about Benjamin's birth and his subsequent signing with Detroit. "But I thought the Tigers were a minor-league team."
The future All-Star will play multiple positions at the same time for the Tigers. "We could use the help," Manager Alan Trammell said. "We've been waiting for someone like 'Big Ben' for a long time."
Terms of the contract were not disclosed. But ESPN reported that Benjamin received a signing bonus that included several bottles of ready-to-feed Similac formula and stuffed toys.
The youngest-ever pro sports prospect (the previous record holder was a 7-year-old girl signed last year by the Cleveland Cavaliers NBA team) has asked for his own lounge chair and a locker away from his other teammates.
"Waaa-hhhh. Waaa-hhhh. Oogh. Oogh. Waaa-hhhh," Benjamin said at a news conference, sounding much like his father during tense newsroom times.
Benologists -- out of work Kremlinologists -- took that quote to mean that Benjamin was happy to sign with the Tigers but did not want to be nicknamed "Pudge."
Callisto, the wonder kitty, who observers feared would be threatened by the introduction of a teammate to the household, was seen nudging Benjamin with her nose and brushing her tail across Benjamin's face.
###
Although Ben has no batting, pitching or fielding statistics, he bulked up over the past nine months to reach 8 pounds, 3 ounces, and he grew to 20.5 inches at birth, at 11:53 p.m. Friday, Jan. 30.
Hordes of reporters assembled at University of Guess Where Hospital, and the departure of Benjamin and his mother from the hospital was delayed until the early afternoon of the following Wednesday.
Christine had some minor complications but now is continuing her recovery at home, according to sources who requested anonymity ... and received it.
"I'm thrilled," Christine said about Benjamin's birth and his subsequent signing with Detroit. "But I thought the Tigers were a minor-league team."
The future All-Star will play multiple positions at the same time for the Tigers. "We could use the help," Manager Alan Trammell said. "We've been waiting for someone like 'Big Ben' for a long time."
Terms of the contract were not disclosed. But ESPN reported that Benjamin received a signing bonus that included several bottles of ready-to-feed Similac formula and stuffed toys.
The youngest-ever pro sports prospect (the previous record holder was a 7-year-old girl signed last year by the Cleveland Cavaliers NBA team) has asked for his own lounge chair and a locker away from his other teammates.
"Waaa-hhhh. Waaa-hhhh. Oogh. Oogh. Waaa-hhhh," Benjamin said at a news conference, sounding much like his father during tense newsroom times.
Benologists -- out of work Kremlinologists -- took that quote to mean that Benjamin was happy to sign with the Tigers but did not want to be nicknamed "Pudge."
Callisto, the wonder kitty, who observers feared would be threatened by the introduction of a teammate to the household, was seen nudging Benjamin with her nose and brushing her tail across Benjamin's face.
###
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