Go Packs, Bottled Water, and Unlimited Elmo

What does it take to get ready for a hurricane?

I grew up in central Ohio.  So - I had tornado drills growing up . . . not hurricane drills.  

Further, I have lived on the East Coast north of New Jersey for the last nine years.  So - I have come to expect Nor'easters, public transportation annoyances, and a collective obsession with baseball . . . not hurricane warnings.   Then came Irene.

Five U-Turns

A few weeks ago, my husband, the Bug, and I went on vacation with one of my husband's brothers and his family.  We spent almost every day bumping back and forth between the beach (a five minute walk) and the pool (a thirty second walk).  Tough life.  By the end of the week, in an effort to break out of our routine, we decided to do something different.  

What if I . . .

This week, the Bug has been his usual complex, young self with all of the ups and downs that  naturally accompany being a self in this world.  Included in that complex, young self is a budding yet keen desire to test limits.  And lately, the moment before he tests those limits, he looks at me, smiles a sneaky smile, and his eyes actually sparkle a little -- all as if to say:

three little birds

When I was pregnant with The Fraggle Bug, my body grew and grew and grew (as did my dear Fraggle Bug).  Early in the second trimester, my doctor at the time gave me a little talk about my weight gain in the four weeks since I had last seen her.  What I took from our conversation were two warnings: 

The Boss of Me

We have been brushing Baby's teeth in the evening after the bath for many months now.  At first my husband and I would hold Baby up so that he could see the mirror and sing a song (a singable song for the very young) while one of us brushed the two or three teeth to Baby's name.  Eventually, the song got old, and Baby asserted some independence - taking the toothbrush and doing the work on his own.  Nowadays, the routine has morphed into an occasional mini-battle that ends with the toothbrush thrown on the floor to let us know exactly who is the Boss Baby around here.  

This evening, before the mini-battle could begin, I thought I would try letting Baby brush his own teeth while standing on his own - which is how he brushes his teeth in the mornings with a high success rate.  I brought the toothbrush down to him while he stood in his yellow duck towel.  He spent the next minute or two using the wrong end of the toothbrush in his mouth in what seems to be his budding comedy career.

So, I thought it might help if I brushed my teeth while he brushed his - which is how the morning routine works with that aforementioned "high success rate."  I grabbed my own toothbrush and started brushing. He kept reaching for my brush.  I kept saying, "this is Momma's toothbrush - that is [Baby's] toothbrush."  Baby still grabbed for my toothbrush.  Eventually, I acquiesced . . . which led to Baby brushing my teeth with my toothbrush while I brushed his with his toothbrush.  Just in case I was wondering exactly who is the Boss Baby around here.

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:

Sleeping With A Baby Elephant

A few weeks ago, two nights before his birthday, Baby started waking up at night and crying, and he has continued to do so off and on since then.  We have gone to him almost every time.  One night, after about a week of his new (old) routine, we let Baby cry it out.  It felt about as awesome as it did the first time we "sleep trained" him (i.e., he and I both cried it out that night).  Every other time he has cried in the night, we have gone to him, and he ends up sleeping on one of our chests or between us in our bed.  (One morning, my husband looked across a sprawled-out Baby and said, "Sleeping with him is like sleeping with a baby elephant.") 

With kids, the days are long, but the years are short.

Yesterday was Baby's first birthday, and it was a long day.  

At 8:00 a.m., Baby was standing on the changing table (yes, standing), naked as the day he was born (ha!), and refusing to slow down for a clean diaper or any day time clothes.  

At 8:01 a.m., Baby peed.  Still standing, still naked.  

By 8:20 a.m., Baby was dressed in a very cute birthday outfit (thanks to my grandmother for the awesome striped onesie... Baby looked like an adorable baby bumblebee, which completely made up for my pee-soaked shirt).

By 10:30 a.m., I was leading a conference call.  Perhaps "leading" is too strong... I was trudging through the mud of the call and waving my arms frantically at the other participants as if to say, "Over here, guys!  Oh hey...  I'm over here!!"

Then it was 6 p.m., and I was in my office crying because I did not think I was going to make it out in time to see Baby before he went to sleep.  About fifteen minutes later, I had the following internal monologue:

Even if I left now, I would only get to see Baby for his sleepiest five minutes, and he will not care one way or another if he sees me for those five minutes.

What am I thinking?

Nourishing Mother

The three of us went to Kenyon for a wedding a couple of weeks ago.   The morning after the wedding, we were up early - of course - and on the hunt for breakfast - of course.  The inn where we stayed did not serve anything until 10 or 11... so we put Baby in the stroller and began our trek around Gambier, Ohio to find nourishment.  The local coffee shop was closed; no students yet, so no coffee on weekends.  The Deli was closed.  The Market was closed.  The bookstore looked so different from when we were there as students that my husband and I assumed we would  not find any bagels in there either.

We went back to the lobby of the inn to re-group.

Random Family

A good friend recommended repeatedly (and over the course of several years) that I read Random Family, by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, and I finally did this spring.  My husband, who read the book last fall, warned that I might not want to read Random Family during my commute because so much of the material can be heartbreaking.  I ignored my husband's advice and plowed straight ahead.  While I was waiting for the R train to take me home a few weeks ago, I finished reading it, and there I was, on the platform at Rector Street, finishing Random Family and starting to cry.

Apparently, my husband was right.  But the reason my eyes welled with tears that day was that LeBlanc had done something truly amazing at the end of her book -- she gave her readers the gift of a happy ending.  Random Family follows the lives of two women for eleven years through their multiple teenaged pregnancies, their varied relationships with men and with the criminal justice system, and - most importantly - their even more varied relationships with the members of their families.  After having chronicled an eleven-year series of substantial parent-to-child disappointments, in the end, LeBlanc gives us a brief scene of joy and love between a father and his daughter.

In the ordered and comfortable world of baby books, mommy blogs,  and parenting education, the starting point is always a celebration of the relationship between parent and child with the underlying assumption that each of us is the best parent for his or her baby.  But can that simple notion withstand complex circumstances?  Is a teenaged mom who goes out to clubs, bribing her own mother to watch her small children in exchange for cocaine, the best mom for her baby?  The answer is yes.  Heartbreakingly, yes.  There are many lessons from Random Family, but the one that has serious lasting power for me is that no matter who you are or what you do, your baby will still need your love and support more than anything in the world.  And so it will be my life's work to remember that fact and to honor it.

Night And Day Care

Baby spent a month with Nanny because I went back to work one month before Baby was eligible to start Day Care.  I am the first to admit that that month was peppered with challenges, most of which centered around my slow (and reluctant?) recognition that Baby and I could spend some of our days apart and he would still recognize me, enjoy my company, and not feel abandoned.  I never worried about the quality of Baby's care, I was just jealous that I was not the one providing it.  

Then Baby spent about four weeks at Day Care.  I could go on and on about why Day Care was a bad fit for us.  Instead, I will simply note, for the record, that it was a bad fit.  During those four weeks, my insecurity about whether, as a family, we were happy with Day Care was rivaled only by the guilt associated with having chosen the wrong child care option.  I felt like an idiot.  Apparently, I was more likely to cross examine a cab driver about traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge than I was to discern what my baby's days would be like at Day Care.  Had I been careless (careless!) about this decision?  

Last week, we asked Nanny to come back permanently, and she agreed.  When I opened the door to greet her on the first morning of her return, Baby smiled immediately and looked very happy to see her.

On the third morning after Nanny's return, Baby was suddenly a confident, easy little eater of solid foods.  On the third full day of Day Care, I got a call to come retrieve my little dearheart because Day Care thought he had had too many big poops.

Now seems like a very good time to publicly acknowledge how thankful I am that we are in a position to work with a woman who is so kind, capable, and all around amazing.  The woman who referred Nanny confided in me that she believes that Nanny is an angel.  Nanny definitely manifests goodness, purity, and selflessness - and, perhaps even more importantly, she loves Baby and makes him happy.  So... angel it is.  

Thank You For Riding The MTA

Last night, Baby woke up and announced his displeasure with his lingering cold at 10:00 p.m., 10:30 p.m., 1:00 a.m., 3:30 a.m., and 4:00 a.m..  In addition, as luck would have it, at 2:30 a.m., I heard the sound of a sad song by Sarah McLachlan blasting from the television of our upstairs neighbor.  This morning, I woke up feeling a little worse for wear.  

I packed for the day and realized I was going to need to carry three bags with me: (1) a bag for my work-issued laptop, which weighs at least thirty-four pounds; (2) my purse, which necessarily included bottles, pump accessories, a freezer pack, a wallet, and various gadgets; and (3) a bag for Baby, which included bottles, a freezer pack, a blanket, and two back-up outfits because the poor little guy pooped his way through everything he had at Day Care yesterday.  As such, I could not imagine carrying all of those bags plus Baby in my carrier.  I decided to take the stroller and the bus.

The bus arrived right on schedule, and it lowered to the sidewalk so that Baby, Stroller, and I could hop on.  I thanked the bus driver and said good morning as I swiped my Metro Card.  The bus driver, a man the size of three men who looked like an enormous bullfrog on a lily pad, responded by telling me to fold my stroller.  I pretended that this was not the most ridiculous request I had ever heard, most notably because Baby was in the stroller, and I said that I would work on it when I got a seat.

Did I work on it when I got a seat?  No.  There were about three other passengers on the bus, and the stroller was not blocking the aisle. 

Within about three more stops, I was looking out the window and watching some kids play soccer when I heard someone saying, "Miss?  Miss?  Miss!"  By about the fourth "miss," I think I realized that The Bullfrog Magistrate of Lily Pad B69 was talking to me.  I pretended to be very engrossed in that soccer game, but The Bullfrog Magistrate persisted.  So I relented.

"Yes?" I ask from about the sixth row of the bus.

The Bullfrog Magistrate repeated his instructions.  I was supposed to fold my stroller.  He was clearly upset.  He muttered that he had already asked me to fold the stroller.  

"Oh . . . okay.  I will see what I can do.  Yep.  Okay.  Oh, I hear ya."

I made a pile of my three bags on the floor by my feet.  I pulled Baby out of stroller and set him on my lap. I managed to fold the stroller - a stroller that requires two hands to fold - while I was holding Baby on a moving vehicle without damaging Baby, the stroller, or any of the other passengers (who number around seven at this point in the trip).  

Two lessons here.  First, The Bullfrog Magistrate lets the little stuff get to him.  Second, I am a badass.

But I wonder, do any of you feel that strollers should always be folded on a bus?  Do you think it depends on how crowded the bus is?  Or do some of you feel that buses, like bars, are no place for strollers - folded or unfolded?  

Big Day - Part Three: I Always Take 718 Calls

I am trying to get to the subway, and I am being thwarted by the slowest group of tourists ever to walk past Ground Zero.  I have said, "Excuse me," to try to get past them at least three times.  

I repeat, "Excuse me."  

"Excuse me!"  

"Are you kidding me?" as I move past them (and by "move," I might mean push).

Five minutes ago, I was in my office pumping when I saw that my cell phone, sitting on top of my printer, was buzzing.  I looked at the incoming call ID, and it was a "718" number.  I always take "718" calls at work because Day Care is in Brooklyn, and because my husband works in Brooklyn.  I turn off the pump.

"Hello?"

"Hello, [Momma-In-Training]?"

"Yes?"

"This is [one of the directors at Day Care].  [Baby] is fine, but . . ."

Pause.  Probably just half of a second?  A terrifying length of time.

" . . . but he has had three diapers that were filled with diarrhea today, and we call when there are three because there is a risk of dehydration.  You may want to call your doctor for some [hydrating potion] . . ."

"I understand.  I will be there in . . . "

"If you can get here within an hour, that will be just fine.  [Baby] is in good spirits, but he should probably see a doctor."

"I will be there in half an hour, forty-five minutes at the most."

I am on the train heading to Brooklyn.  That kid's headphones are so loud.  Why is he listening to such crap music?  Is techno even music?  I hope the woman standing next to me, humming her way through the subway ride, is getting off at this stop.  I think I know which stop I am going to . . . I have never ridden to Day Care, only from Day Care.  Am I right that this is the stop?  I think that this is the stop.

"Hi!"

"Oh, hi.  He is so tired this afternoon."

I look over and see Baby reclining in a portable baby seat, thumb in mouth, bottle under his other arm, gazing off into space.  Baby sees me and smiles a dazed, toothless smile.  I plop him in the stroller and pack up the million and two things (including several soiled outfits) we need to go.   After we leave and turn the corner, I pull over on the sidewalk to check in on Baby.  He is, indeed, in good spirits, and so mine lift as well.

   

Epilogue

Baby was fine and got the all-clear from his doctor.  He did have a little bug, though, which brought on a fever, a cough, and an extraordinary amount of snot.  Today he seems better.

Big Day - Part Two: Routines

What do babies need (aside from food, shelter, clothing, and cuddles)?  I have been informed - through myriad sources - that babies need routines.  Routines purportedly provide our little ones with a sense of security in a complex world, which they are only just beginning to explore.

I am the first to admit that I am not prone to routines.  Nevertheless, this past week was Baby's first week at Day Care, and the time seemed ripe for developing a morning routine for both of us.  I imagined a routine that involved a lot of night-before organization followed by an easy morning of putting Baby in the carrier, grabbing my bag(s), and taking the bus to Day Care.

By Thursday morning, however, no routine had materialized.  I woke up feeling groggy and with a bit of a sore throat.  Baby and I played for a little while, and then I made some oatmeal for my breakfast.  As I was enjoying my own food, I looked at Baby and thought, "Maybe now would be a good time to introduce [Baby] to bananas..."  (I do not know why.)  I put Baby in the high chair, mashed up some banana, and gave it a try.  It did not go well.  Baby started to fuss, which I interpreted as, "Mom, why did you think I wanted a banana when what I really need is a nap?"

I responded by hatching a plan to leave in fifteen minutes, put Baby in the stroller, walk slowly to Day Care, and give Baby a chance to nap in the stroller.  After a whirlwind of bottles, back-up onesies, business casual dressing, sun hat grabbing, and general Momma-In-Training hijinx, Baby and I headed out the door.

I took what can only be described as a meandering path to Day Care.  I thought that Carlton Avenue cut straight through the neighborhood to within a block of Day Care.  So, I walked to where I thought I would find Carlton, which is where I found Clermont.  I decided to try my luck with Clermont.  (Baby napping yet?  No.)  Soon, I saw a construction crew in the block ahead of me ostensibly preparing for a wild rumpus of noise and road dust.  I got off of Clermont and took Adelphi instead.  (Baby napping yet?  No.)  Within a couple of blocks, Adelphi ended, forcing me to go right, which was where I finally did find Carlton Avenue.  (Baby napping yet?  No.)

One block later, I was standing on Carlton and Atlantic.  I needed to cross Atlantic to get to Day Care, but the pedestrian bridge was closed thanks to the highly controversial Atlantic Yards construction.  There are plenty of reasons to rally against Atlantic Yards, but on this day, my reason was pragmatic.  Atlantic Yards closed my bridge, which meant that I had to walk Baby down Atlantic Avenue to the next available bridge.  Atlantic Avenue is a loud, gravelly, no-trees kind of nastiness.  (Baby napping yet?  Ummmm, no.)  I started feeling pretty guilty for having created this haphazard, nonsensical, no-routine life for Baby.  I felt like I was failing to give Baby what he needs, and that is the worst feeling for a Momma-In-Training.

Just before I turned the corner to Day Care, I looked down at Baby.  Fast asleep.  We pulled over on the sidewalk, and I let him sleep in the shade while I checked work emails.  A young family walked by.  The mom and dad were walking their toddler in a stroller while the dad sang to his son.  The dad sang, "All you need is . . . "  The kid responded, "love."  The dad sang, "All you need is . . ."  The kid responded, "love, love, love."  The dad sang, "Love is all you need."

Big Day - Part One: Old School Yogini

Today, I went to a yoga class for the first time in many, many months; I renewed my distaste for the Atlantic Yards "project"; and I yelled at several tourists.  It was a big day - so big, in fact, that I have decided that it warrants three separate posts because God knows I do not want to subject any reader to a never-ending story about one day. (I let the professionals handle stories like that.)

With no further ado, here is Part One of a Big Day:

Toward the end of my yoga class today, the teacher asked us if anyone knew the name of the pose that we were practicing.  I answered quickly, "Dead Bug!"  (I am not a whiz at yoga pose names, but, honestly, how can you not remember a pose called "Dead Bug" once you learn it?)

My teacher said that yes, indeed, the pose has been known by the name "Dead Bug."  However, he continued, the name of the pose is subject to some debate.  He explained that people are now calling the pose, "Happy Baby." Although the Momma-In-Training part of me loves the idea of practicing "Happy Baby," I smile to think that I am an old school yogini in Dead Bug Pose.  

Wipes

On the way home from Baby's six-month check-up, a pigeon pooped in my hair.  I was stunned.  My husband, still able to form rational thoughts, suggested that he use the diaper wipes to clean my hair.  And that is exactly what he did.  On the sidewalk on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, my husband used diaper wipes to clean pigeon poop from my head.  After he finished, I used the anti-bacterial gel in the diaper bag to clean my hands, and then, on a pigeon poop induced impulse, I put some of the gel on my head, too.  Moral of the story?  Wipes are for everybody, not just babies.

Celebreality

When I studied for the bar (a lifetime ago), I followed a very specific routine every day.  One of the essential components of this daily ritual was my lunch break when I watched a certain celebrity-gossip-focused cable channel for exactly one hour.  It provided the absolutely perfect respite - juicy enough to capture my attention completely, and dumb enough that it never lingered in my thoughts after I turned off the television.  

Fast forward several years, and you find me in a different city, on a different couch, after a long day at work, and with my baby asleep in his crib. What am I doing to relax?  Oh, just watching a certain celebrity-gossip-focused cable channel - the addiction to celebrity gossip as stress relief is strong.  When a commercial aired for a certain celebreality show, I suddenly found myself extolling the virtues of both the show and a former playboy bunny or mate or girlfriend or whatever her status was.

Is Kendra really my new hero?  Maybe.  At least the commercial for her show might be.  

When I was pregnant, I spent a lot of my time being self-critical about my weight gain.  I imagine that this self-flagellation was due in no small part to the fact that my doctor was herself a loud critic of my weight gain.  But I admit that I contributed to the problem by having set some unrealistic expectations before I got pregnant.  I thought that I would be one of those Stylish New York Moms-to-be (e.g., that pregnant woman standing on the corner of Great Jones and Bowery, sipping her latte from Dean and Deluca, wearing something chic (not just chic-for-a-pregnant-lady), and with a lovely hobo bag hanging effortlessly from her shoulder.  I was not that woman.  My lattes tended to drip onto my belly, my outfits were not chic for anyone, and my purse always overflowed with the million things I needed for the day.

After Baby was born, I knew that "nine months up / nine months down" made sense, but I set some unrealistic expectations for myself again.  I irrationally felt that I should (perhaps magically?) get back into shape and back into pre-prego jeans much sooner than was possible for my body.  

I am not here to blame "unrealistic media images" for my unrealistic expectations (I am a rational, smart adult who understands the limits imposed by physics without a personal chef or plastic surgeon).  Nevertheless, we seem to live in an era when young, famous, and sometimes beautiful people are getting pregnant, having babies, and losing their baby weight on television, on the internet, in US Weekly, and anywhere else I look.  And these famous people are doing it all so quickly.

Enter my new hero.  Three cheers for the commercial I watched where a woman famous for her figure appeared to be fighting - and I mean fighting - to get into shape after having given birth.  Thank you, Kendra.

ADDENDUM:

I just watched five minutes of a certain reality show, and I feel compelled to state that, in the future, I will be more mindful of the meaning of the word "hero."