How to Ask Your Mother Rude Questions: newyorker.com

Well, if you can pick up a copy of this week's New Yorker, or if you want to subscribe online, then I recommend without reservation Tina Fey's piece about working motherhood.  It is smart and funny - i.e., par for her course.  Enjoy!

Cognitive Dissonance And Pre-School: Part One

Recently, I learned a bit about cognitive dissonance and self-justification, and I could go on for many, many posts about examples of both in my life, but here I focus on pre-school.

Pre-school?  

Did you, or did you not, write recently about your child's first birthday?  

Do you, or do you not, still refer to your child as "Baby" on this blog?

Yes.  

Yes, I did.  

And, for as long as I can, yes, I do.

But I live in New York, and pre-school is a Thing here.  It is exciting and wonderful, but it also requires research, tours, applications, at least one (albeit very brief) expository writing sample, and a deep, deep reserve of patience.

Here is the dissonance:

Family Values

There has been a lot of talk lately about types of mothers.  Are you a Tiger Mother?  A Western Mother?  A Wimp Mother?  All of the talk, the criticism of mothering-types, and the declarations of values led me to wonder where I fit on the spectrum.  What values am I imparting - consciously or unwittingly?

At the beginning of the process, I have to admit that I wondered whether I actually had any values to articulate.  Frequently, especially at the beginning, I felt like I was not making values-based decisions but was just getting by.  (See e.g., I describe myself as a momma in training -- not a woman in charge -- and certainly not a woman with a clear set of values guiding my parenting decisions).  Then I realized that I had spent a lot of time thinking about my motherhood through the lens of my childhood.  My own feelings about what I liked (and probably more about what I didn't like) about growing up informed a very substantial part of my approach to parenting.  Last, and on a less myopic note, I looked to friends' choices and the advice I could read in the limitless variety of parenting books, magazines, and - yes - blogs.

When I told my husband about this post and my values-evaluation, he told me that the following are his sources for his parenting values [and I believe that they are in order of importance]:  

1. Ninja movies; 
2. Survival shows [e.g., Man vs. Wild]; and 
3. America's Test Kitchen.

So we have all that going for us, which is nice.

thank you

Baby woke up too early for us one morning last week.  We pulled him into our bed hoping to lull him back to sleep with a spell cast by our own exhaustion.  Baby was not lulled, he was ready to play.  We tried to ignore him.  We tried to snuggle him into quiet-time.  Soon Baby had his head on my belly and his feet on my husband's belly.  Then I heard a little voice in the dark: Baby saying his version of "thank you."  Over and over again.  I know his understanding of those words is rudimentary, but I like to think that Baby was thanking us in advance for waking up and playing with him before the sun was officially above the horizon.  So you're welcome, Baby.  You are always welcome, my little goofball.

It's What's For Dinner

For the first few months of Baby's adventures in solid foods, he refused bananas consistently until my husband and I finally decided that Baby, unlike most babies, did not like bananas.  In the last few weeks, as if to make up for lost time, when Baby sees a banana in the fruit basket, he points at it with an unparalleled  adamancy. 

Two nights ago, I came home to see my husband feeding Baby dinner.  Baby had not wanted soup.  He had not been interested in turkey, sweet potatoes, peas, or carrots.  He had, instead, chosen a banana for dinner.  When I sat down to join Baby and my husband, Baby had already eaten an entire banana.  

But there was still one banana left in the fruit basket.  He pointed.  I peeled.  And that was dinner.  Two bananas.

Resilience

I swear I have been trying to come up with at least one potentially fun and witty post . . . but then . . .

Baby got sick on Tuesday night.  He called out for us, I went in, and as soon as I got to him, the poor thing puked.  Repeat twice.  We ran out of sheets and crib liners, at which point I said I would just sleep with Baby on the couch in his room.  But sleeping with Baby is, to coin a phrase, like sleeping with a baby elephant, and that couch is small.  So I put Baby on a blanket on the floor, hoping he would not puke again, while I got rid of the couch cushions, pulled out the sofa bed, and got us some covers.  Baby and I snuggled down.  He proceeded to flop around like a confused baby elephant, and an hour later he finally fell asleep.   Baby woke up, flopped, then puked around 7 a.m..  He did it again after half of his oatmeal breakfast.  Then, all was clear through his toast and apple juice lunch and after his nap.  Around 4 p.m., the worst of an awful, gusty, rainy day was over, and we both needed some fresh air.  I took Baby down to a coffee shop where I had some tea and a cookie while he pointed at everything in sight.  I was almost done with my cookie when he puked again.  I jumped up, grabbed a stack of napkins about four inches thick, and tried to clean up Baby, his shirt, and the sleeping-bag-type-thing that keeps him warm in his stroller.  I did my best, but I still felt embarrassed in the elevator up to our apartment with a nice couple who must have smelled a not very nice smell coming from the afore-mentioned sleeping-bag-type-thing.

I should note that Baby (perhaps like all babies) is resilient in a way that puts me to shame.  His expression is so small and sad when he gets sick, but within minutes he is pointing at something else and smiling.  Seriously - smiling. 

Over the next couple of days, Baby slowly but surely stopped puking and started taking more substantive food than toast.  

My husband got sick on Friday night.  He had a fever and felt sick to his stomach.  Then he came to the bathroom just as Baby finished his bath routine, and he puked.  He has not been feeling well since then (though he is better than he was on Friday and Saturday).

I have no kernel of wisdom from this experience to share here.  I am, very simply, very tired (and wondering if - or when - I will get sick, too).  

Just when you thought . . .

Recently, I was thinking about the state of my mommahood and noticed that the challenges have changed as Baby makes his way to The Great State of Toddlerhood.  I even had the nerve to say out loud to my husband, "I think that my biggest challenge right now is walking the line between giving [Baby] gentle nudges to try new things and making sure I do not push him too far out of his comfort zone." Implicit in this statement is my ridiculous assumption that the earlier challenges of spit up catastrophes, poop explosions, and sleepless (days and) nights were all distant "memories" (i.e., "blog posts" because Mother Nature has been kind enough to give me amnesia about the early wilds of living with a newborn).  Baby - again - proved me wrong.  

It was a weekday morning.  All was well.  We were in the middle of the routine.  Oatmeal, apple sauce, a scrambled egg.  Done.  Then a little fuss and cranky-face I like to call, "Get me out of this high chair before I come at you like a spider monkey."  Down you go, Baby.  Then his morning constitutional, and it's off to the changing table.  I open the diaper and am on wipe number forty-two when Baby decides he is done with this part of the morning.  He starts to kick his legs.  One of his legs gets right into the good stuff and then smears it everywhere.  As I try to use wipes to mitigate the situation, Baby's legs continue to smear while he reaches down to see what all the fuss is about.  Casualties: changing pad cover, changing pad liner, PJs, Baby's hands and legs and belly, my own hands.  A morning bath never seemed more appropriate.

Lesson learned, Baby.  I promise not to get ahead of myself (or you) next time I think about the state of our momma/baby-hood.