Mihow » parenting

On Soccer Camp.

mihow — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 17:16:31 +0000

I am constantly learning new things as a mother. For example, last week I learned that getting a 3-year-old to listen to a soccer coach for three hours in 90+ degree heat is impossible. We tried. I had high expectations, but it went just about as smoothly as Mom and Baby Yoga. The good news is we didn’t end each class lying on our sides, breastfeeding our kids. The thought of doing that in direct sunlight in 95 degree heat makes me want to puke.

He’s not ready to pay attention for that long. I was silly to think otherwise. Motherhood has been one learning experience after another. For example, I’ve learned that the more you spend on an activity, the less your kid’s gonna get out of it. And the more excited you are by said activity, the less excited they’re gonna be. So, should we ever have a second child, that kid’s gonna be ignored until age five or so, particularly where extracurricular activities are concerned. Sorry, kid. It’s nothing but flour and water for you. Maybe some paint. And we might take you to the playground.

(Wait, I’m a second child. This explains a lot.)

But all was not entirely lost. We had two great days. He followed instructions, had fun and we stayed the entire time. I won’t talk about the other three days; the days I had to take him home kicking, screaming and spitting. (Picture Linda Blair from “The Exorcist” only without the company of The Devil. Because, seriously, had The Devil been there I’d have asked him or her for help.)

I won’t mention those days. I won’t start talking about how age 3 is ten bloody times worse than age 2. If I start talking about all the timeouts we’ve had lately, or the fact that it took him 1 hour, 40 minutes to eat pancakes this morning all the while he sat screaming at the table, I’ll never stop talking. Plus, I’ll develop a stutter and start drinking. And I haven’t had a drink in a very long time.

I will say this: the closer we get to three, the rougher our days become. I’ll leave it at that for now. But soon I’m gonna need some companionship, a gentle shoulder to cry on. Because this has been hard, really hard. It’s kind of like breaking in a wild horse, not that I’ve ever done that. But if I ever apply for a job as cowboy, I’m putting this on my resume.

I’m convinced this is why siblings aren’t often 4 years apart. Who in their right mind looks at their husband after a day spent with a three-year-old and says, “Hi, honey! Let’s have unprotective sex so we can have ANOTHER ONE!”?

Anyway… SOCCER CAMP! The last class went off without a hitch. And I managed to get this short video of my boy following instructions, giving high fives and receiving his final award.

So, we won’t be back next week. But we will be back next year. Because the gentlemen from United Soccer Academy who were in charge of these 3-year-olds were amazing. I’ve never met two Brits more deserving of an award for patience. In fact, everyone pooled together a hefty tip at the end of the week to show how sorry we felt for them. A pity tip! A pitippy!

We’ll be back next year—you know, after three is over.

(Three does end, right?)

Give Me A Bappy!! I Want A Bappy!

mihow — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 19:00:57 +0000

Today is Tuesdays With Murray, which means I’m supposed be writing about Murray. And I have a story to share. But Internet? It’s been a really rough four days and my brain is out of batteries.

You see, Toby and I decided (out of nowhere) that we were going to take away the bappy. Y’all are like, What the hell is a “bappy?” That’s what my son calls his pacifier. He loves his bappy especially when it’s time for night-night or he needs to calm down.

Well, we decided it was time. Just like that. We figured we’d see how it goes for a day. And then when the world didn’t end, we kept going. This is day four and it’s been OK. I won’t try and make things sound too terrible. He has slept relatively well. Things are OK at night. We’ve gotten several desperate pleas for a pacifier, but we usually distract him until he forgets. And those pleas (not to jinx it) are becoming fewer and fewer in number.

But, what’s a nap?

There hasn’t been much napping and when he does nap, it’s a fall asleep where you’re sitting type of thing and it usually takes place the hours right before the bedtime safety zone. The other night he fell asleep eating at 5 PM. I knew that was going to mean later we’d face a great deal of trouble getting him to sleep, but at that point? I so needed a few minutes to myself that I just let him sleep for a while.

The part that’s been REALLY difficult are the tantrums. They don’t happen all the time—most of the time he’s wonderfully funny and sweet and I mean that. But when the tantrums do happen? There’s absolutely NO calming him down. I swear there are dozens of Brooklyn residents that think we beat our child. But that’s a story for another day. I’m not sure if it’s that we took the pacifier away, or if we’re just knee-deep in the terrible twos, but lately the tantrums have been brutal.

So, my days have been tiring and rough lately. And I need a break. I haven’t said that in a long time, but I do. I need a break. And now that winter is upon us and he isn’t in school at all (I will explain whole not moving situation soon) and we don’t have the ability to hit the playground, the days are killing us both. I need to get lost in a movie or something, with a pacifier.

Quite frankly, I have no idea how the anti-TV parents do it. Because the only (and I mean ONLY) downtime I get is when he watches Sesame Street or Night At the Museum for the 100th time. (Incidentally, whomever gave that movie an abysmal 2.5 stars was not a child nor did they speak to children. Stupid, adult movie reviewers.)

Some of you are probably wondering how I’m writing this post—like, what’s he doing right now. He’s building a choo-choo track in his room and begging for me to join him. So, I gotta go lay down some railroad, my friends. But I’ll try my damnedest to have a halfway literate Murray post up later today.

Because this one? Not so much.

First Haircut!

mihow — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 15:16:27 +0000

Emory had his first haircut yesterday. I love his curls, and I’m all for longer hair on boys, but the back of it looked like an albino Brillo pad. Trying to comb it had become impossible. Whenever I did try, he would scream, “OW! OW! OW, MAMA!” And most of the time I hadn’t even touched him yet. Needless to say, I was concerned for the safety of our hair stylist. But I was pleasantly surprised.

I’m not sure if it was the race car they had him sit in, the new toys all around him, or the fact that a new and intriguing, heavily tattooed man was the one doing the cutting, but he was a perfect angel for the duration of the haircut.

It wasn’t until we were leaving and he realized he wasn’t going to be able to take the cool new stuff with him did he begin to put up a fight. This is what I get for scheduling his haircut at a local children’s toy store. And I realize that I probably rewarded bad behavior, but I had to get out of there with a little bit of dignity. That’s how Billy Bee came to live with us.

I personally think he looks a lot more like his father now.

He’s losing his blond hair, which I knew was going to happen, but it still makes me a little sad. It appears he’s going to end up with the nice White Trash brown his mother and father grew up with.

NaBloPoMo: Toddler Politics

mihow — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 13:51:31 +0000

Emory is going through a strange phase. At least I hope it’s a phase. He’s never been a really outgoing kid, but he’s always been unabashedly joyful. (Remember this post?) But recently, he’s become a great deal more introverted and shy. He’s also easily spooked and/or scared away from a situation. And I think that some of the other kids pick up on this.

Now, I’m going to try really hard to complete this post as unbiasedly as possible. I would hate for it to come off as my suggesting that my son is perfect (he’s not) and sweet and all the other kids are beating up on him. That’s not the case at all. I know firsthand that life throws at us strange relationships and confrontations; it’s natural for folks to not always get along. So I’m going to try and finish this post as neutral as a mother possibly can; I’ll present the facts and hope that someone out there has some answers.

Lately, Emory has been reacting to other more outgoing and vivacious kids’ by cowering. It happens while playing with kids he knows and doesn’t know. For example, he’ll be on top of the slide waiting to come down and another kid will come over and say MINE! (Perfectly normal, even Emory does it!) and instead of waiting or stepping aside, he’ll cower—sometimes he runs away. And more recently he’s begun to burst into tears. If he’s near me, he hides behind my legs. It’s really quite hard on my heart, but I want to teach him to face his fears and embrace confrontation in a healthy manner.

Lately, we’ve been telling him after the fact that when kids are mean to him it’s OK to say, “Please be nice to me.” He’s starting to understand more, so we want him to confront the situation instead of running to me or running away period. And bursting into tears solves nothing. Plus, it breaks my heart.

Just last night when Toby Joe asked him how his day went and he answered by telling him that a kid was mean to him.

A few weeks ago, all three of us were on the playground and one of his friends pushed him away and said, “Emory no! GO away!” And he ran away sobbing, like the kind where no sound comes out and no air gets in. As he walked toward Toby Joe and me he said, “I’m so sad, I’m crying.” It was heartbreaking. I wanted to scoop him up and protect him forever, but life doesn’t allow for that a great deal of the time, so we’re trying to introduce him to a happy medium. Does that make sense?

Naturally, I can’t help but blame myself for taking him out of school. But that can’t be it, can it? He sees and plays with other children, it’s just not always the same group of kids. Plus, he’s just two. I didn’t go to school until I was five. Certainly this can’t be that, right? It’s not like he’s not socialized.

I do hope that this phase goes away. My once joyful kid now reacts to others with wariness. And I don’t know how to help him without changing the world and I’m too busy to take that on. ;]

Has anyone else had a kid go through this? Thoughts? Suggestions?

Maybe he’s just going to be a more apprehensive kid. I’m ok with that. But I’m not ok with this manifesting itself in other ways and he thinking twice before doing something creative and carefree.

NYC Mom Takes Her Anti-Sweets Too Far.

mihow — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 22:46:47 +0000

It’s possible to take it too far. Just ask MeMe Roth resident of the Upper West Side.

When offered any food at school other than the school lunch, Ms. Roth’s children — who shall go nameless since it seems they have enough on, or off, their plates — are instructed to deposit the item into a piece of Tupperware their mother calls a “junk food collector.”

I am all for regulating what my child consumes, but the occasional cupcake, ice pop, or brownie certainly isn’t going to hurt him, nor is going to make him fat. Telling him it’s absolutely forbidden? That’s where I think problems arise. Have we learned nothing from Catholic school girls?

All jokes aside, NPR recently interviewed Matthew Amster-Burton, author of Hungry Monkey. The segment was called “Let Them Eat Sugar: A New Guide For Feeding Kids.”

I agree more with what Amster-Burton said regarding the sweet stuff:

“If you’re brave enough to let it be, it’s kind of self-regulating. Efforts to restrict sugar in kids tend to backfire and tend to make kids look for sugar anytime the parents aren’t looking.”

Do parents like Ms. Roth exist everywhere? Or are they based solely out of New York City. I know the answer to this question, but I am a little surprised at just how many parents there are like Ms. Roth in the area. (Granted, there are also a great number who suffer from the opposite problem: they ignore their children to the point of neglect and still others are just simply abusive.)

When it comes to sweets, I let my son indulge fairly regularly. He also loves broccoli, peanuts, every fruit grown on planet earth, and eggs. I think the only food we haven’t given him yet is fast food and highly processed packaged food, although, should he one day discover a Twinkie, I certainly won’t take it away.

Her extreme methods have earned her attention before: The police were called to a YMCA in 2007 when she absconded with the sprinkles and syrups on a table where members were being served ice cream. That was Ms. Roth who called Santa Claus fat on television that Christmas, and she has a continuing campaign against the humble Girl Scout cookies, on the premise that no community activity should promote unhealthy eating.

One must wonder if there’s something else eating (or not eating!) at Ms. Roth.

Toddler Potty Training. Reader’s Email.

mihow — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 14:16:34 +0000

Emory isn’t yet potty trained. Of course, he’s not really supposed to be, at 21 months. We do have one of those Bjorn toddler toilets and have for almost a year but we’re not militant about putting it to use. I store it in our bathroom across from the regular toilet.

There have been a few times right before having a bath where he’ll sit down on it and pee. Which always results in cheers, songs, hugs and kisses. And I can only imagine what type of lasting neuroses we’re inflicting upon him.

Granted, I met one mother who used Jelly Beans as a reward. So, when her son as a grown man suddenly and inexplicably craves Jelly Belly’s every time he poops, we’ll all know why.

But I digress. For those of you without children, this may come as a surprise to you, but it’s true what they say about having kids and then never getting to use the bathroom alone. At first I brought him into the bathroom with me because I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him alone for 30 seconds. But now it’s become a ritual. He waddles in behind me and sits down on his potty while I use the big person potty. And then we have the following conversation:

“Mama goes potty?” (Pronounced “pah-ee?”)

“Yes, mama goes potty.”

“Dadda goes potty?”

“Yes, Dadda goes potty.”

“Emmy goes potty?”

“Yes, Emmy goes potty, too!”

“Murrrrl goes potty?”

“Yup, Murray goes potty.”

You get it. He asks about every cat and then starts over again. This is a common discussion. He enjoys it. As do I. And having said discussion warms him up to the idea. He now knows that people use a toilet. He just hasn’t yet figured out how to plan for it. He’s not yet saying, “Mama, I have to go potty.”

There have been a few times where he’ll be trying to go poop and I’ll scoop him up and sit him on the potty. Usually Toby Joe or I will sit down with him and read a book to relax him. Unfortunately, this is usually when he’s really constipated and therefore experiencing some pain. So it’s not always a pleasurable experience. We read to him to try and relax him so he doesn’t hit an emotional roadblock when it comes to pooping on the potty.

All in all, he’s probably used the potty a dozen times. I call that progress!

This is still a learning experience for all of us. We’re taking it day-by-day. I haven’t yet read a thing about how to actually successfully potty train a toddler. I am not sure what we’re waiting for, really. A sign he’s really ready? Maybe we’re lazy? I don’t know. I can honestly say, however, I’m not even sure at what age you’re supposed to begin such a feat, that’s how little research I have done on the subject.

So, all that said, I’m not sure how much I have to offer a mother who emailed me over the weekend regarding potty training. Here is her email:

Hi I’ve been reading your blog for awhile and your son is a little older than mine. So, I find your advice and information helpful as what you’ll are learning doing we aren’t too far behind. My son is 17 months old. Anyways, I’ve been trying to read up on potty training and thought I’d ask you if you have any insight into the subject. I found a Peter Potty urinal online at walmart and thought it looked pretty cool for baby boy then I’ve read it can be confusing to try to learn to use two separate potties (one for #1 & another for #2) but I also read little boys sometimes much prefer this method and train easier (don’t you just love all the conflicting info out there). Anyways, my question is have you started the process yet and if so have you learned any tips or tricks to make it easier?

Can you help her? Do you have pointers for this momma? And perhaps I can rubberneck and learn a thing or two as well? heh.

Thanks, friends!

Bye Bye, School! We’ll See You Next Time!

mihow — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 17:18:24 +0000

The other day a friend of mine called me sobbing. At first I thought something terrible had happened to someone in her family. My mind raced with possibilities before she was able to get the words out.

“I need you to tell me it’s going to be OK!” She cried into the phone. “I need to know that dropping them off gets easier!”

She had just dropped her 2-year-old daughter off at her first day of daycare.

I knew precisely what she was going through. In January, Emory started going to school for a few hours three days a week. It wasn’t a full time thing, it wasn’t ever meant to be, but I felt it was just enough time for everyone involved.

But it wasn’t easy. I thought about how I felt when Em first started school and how many of you made me feel better. It was time to pay it forward.

I began by letting her know what I have come to realize over the past five months: sending Em to school was one of the more rewarding decisions we’ve made. Emory has thrived because of it. (His mama has as well!) I told my friend that I cried too and I know exactly how difficult it is but that one day in the very immediate future she’s going realize she made a good decision, if not a great one.

Naturally, I assured her that it gets much, much easier. And then I joked that I’ve been crying all over again—not because he’s going school, but because we only have three weeks left!

By the end of the conversation we were both laughing.

It’s true. Em is finished with school in three weeks. The truth of the matter is, Emory has absolutely flourished at school. He has come such a long way in the time he’s been there. I know this is normal; kids are supposed to learn a great deal as they near age two, but this seems different to me. Emory regularly comes home and does something weird yet adorable and Toby Joe and I look at each other suggesting that the other must be responsible only to realize he learned it at school.

Take Laurie Berkner’s “We are the Dinosaurs” song. (See it on YouTube here.) Without school, my family never would have marched together like dinosaurs, a pastime we’ve come to revere as a family, like sitting down to dinner together or sharing an ice cream cone.

And I have school to thank for “The Goodbye Song” which we sing at least a dozen times each day. No joke.

(This next part is falls into that “MY KID IS SO SMART!” territory and I promised myself I would not become that parent, but if this were a court case, it would be admitted as evidence in defense of preschool.)

Emory knows the entire alphabet and has for months. Yes, we take a little credit for that, both Toby and I have been going over the alphabet with him since he was 6 months old. We also count with him a great deal, which is why he counts everything from fingers and toes, to the number of blueberries on his plate. (Numbers are his thing, which means he’s definitely his father’s son.) School had a great deal to do with his education as well.

Probably the most important aspect to his development is the social one. Emory is a little on the self-conscious side and can come off a little shy. I’ve written about this before. But school has allowed him to really shine. It helps he’s with the same eight kids every day (same three teachers, too). He has come to know them and love them. There have been several times we’re on the playground and one of his classmates shows up and they go completely crazy the moment they see one another.

I swear to you, I haven’t ever been so heart-warmed in all of my life.

And I’ve changed too! I met one of my closest friends because of Emory’s school. As a matter of fact, my life is going quite well right now. I have found a wonderful group of friends whom I absolutely adore, one of which I hang out almost every day and our kids play awesome together.

My life is going really, really well and because of that, I think Em is happier too.

So, yes, I have been crying just a little bit because we will have to say goodbye to a really great experience. He’ll no longer play with the same kids every week. He now runs to his teachers every morning and we’ll be saying goodbye to them as well. And all those strange things he does at home where we’re asking one another, “Where did he pick that up!?” won’t happen as much. At least not for a while.

While on the phone with my friend reassuring her that everything was going to be better than OK, I realized something about my situation: I think that the last day of school is going to be equally as emotional for me as the day I dropped him off.

Behold! The Kettler Navigator.

mihow — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 14:18:27 +0000

It’s been a while since I last wrote about this, but we finally pulled the trigger on a Kettler bike for Em. It was money well spent. He loves it. My only complaint is I can no longer keep him stationary whenever we’re out and we stop moving for one second. He’s up and running in no time. But other than that, the bike is awesome. (I think I heard you can buy a seatbelt for them. I may do that.)

We ended up with the the Kettler Navigator. It’s a little pricey, but I like the fact that I can steer. The bike is quite durable as well. I wasn’t expecting it to be as nicely made. If we do decide to have another kid, it will definitely last.

We also picked up an easel for him a couple of months back. We ended up with the Melissa and Doug Standing Easel. Again, money well spent. He loves it.

(P.S. This week’s Mom It Down will be up later this evening. You won’t be let down! One word: Chocolate.)

Not Yet Two and Already Defiant.

mihow — Wed, 27 May 2009 14:33:09 +0000

Toby Joe and I love soccer. We’re huge fans of the English Premier League. Today’s UEFA final between Barça and Manchester United is a match I’ve been looking forward to for quite some time. I’m giddy with excitement, watching the clock and preparing snacks. I really think this one is going to be awesome. Emory and I will probably watch it together once he gets home from school.

Every time Emory sees a soccer match on TV he yells, “OCCAH! OCCAH!!!” And I beam with delight.

I was so excited about this I signed him for a toddler soccer league this summer. How that’s going to be possible—like, how these people plan on getting a bunch of 2-year-olds to play something remotely resembling soccer—that’s not for me to figure out. Thankfully, that’s not my job. Laughing about it? Definitely my job. Organizing it? Not so much.

Toby Joe and I also watch a lot of college football. Pretty much every Saturday in fall we’ll have a football game on the TV. We really look forward to Penn State.

But, I still wouldn’t call us as a very “sporty family”. We don’t watch basketball, hockey makes me nervous, and baseball tends to bore us both. Don’t get me wrong, I love attending live baseball games—partly because I love overpriced, domestic beer—but I don’t particularly enjoy watching it on TV.

But this weekend a Mets game made its way onto our TV somehow. They were playing Boston. So we left it on, because while baseball isn’t particularly entertaining for us, Boston fans usually are.

Naturally, because we wanted Emory to love soccer, he became obsessed with baseball. Just like that. He’s so into it, I had to warn his teachers just this morning about his desire to swing everything in sight. I told them that it’s in their best interest they keep all long, hard objects out of his reach. For long, hard objects are no longer just broomsticks, lint-rollers or hairbrushes; they’re baseball bats. And baseball bats are meant to be swung! And swinging hurts people. Believe me.

“Why baseball?” I have scoffed “Where did I go wrong?” I have cried. “Is this because I pushed too hard for soccer? Why, Emory? Why?” I have begged. To no avail.

“BEEBALL MAMA! BEEBALL!!”

I’m coming to terms with his desire for baseball over soccer. I suppose I can deal with baseball. And I’ll put him on a t-ball team the moment he’s old enough. I want my kid to do whatever it is he pleases. If baseball becomes his passion, I will give him my blessing.

But if he becomes a Red Sox fan, we’re putting him up for adoption.

Please Don’t Blush.

mihow — Wed, 06 May 2009 14:46:24 +0000

When Emory hit the 15-month mark, he started to notice the world around him and that he was sharing it with other people. He went from a dancing, falling down toddler to realizing that people were paying attention. Instead of embracing them and pulling them in, he stopped dancing.

I told everyone around us not to laugh at him, not that anyone really had been. I just wanted to send him the message that it’s OK to carry on and that he shouldn’t care what anybody else thinks or that they’re paying attention at all.

It didn’t work. He just wouldn’t dance anymore. He became shy, and made strange yet adorable facial expressions letting everyone around him know that he knew they were paying attention.

And then one day one of his teachers informed me that some kids are just self-conscious. It came up because we were talking about music class and dancing and I said, “OH! Does he dance for you?”

She answered, “No. He marches, but he won’t dance.”

And while hearing that shouldn’t necessarily break a mother’s heart, it sent a splinter right through mine.

I don’t want my kid to be self-conscious. I want him to dance whenever the mood strikes. I want him to throw his hands up whenever he’s excited to see someone. Most of all, I want him to laugh at himself.

Like with most things having to do with how one goes about parenting, this probably has a lot to do with me. I was once the girl who didn’t care what other people thought. And I was happier for it. But at some point I turned into a self-conscious bore. My concern about what other people thought about me made me fearful. I became just another coward in the crowd, someone to skip over.

I became a girl just like any other girl.

I have since grown to know, accept and work with the new girl, but I do often mourn the old one. And I could sit here and blame everyone else for her departure—society does have a way of normalizing everyone—but I’m the one that let her go.

Recently, a couple of Em’s classmates have decided that he’s pretty great. They let him know as much by screeching his name whenever they see him.

“EMMMMMMMEEEEEE!!! EMMMMMMMOOOOORRREEEE!!!”

And the sound of his name fires off motion in a moment of pause.

Emory stomps his feet, throws his arms in the air, takes his pointer fingers and bores two little imaginary holes into each of their bellies, and they become the greatest gifts he’s ever seen.

And they scream and he screams and everyone is screaming and I start screaming on the inside because she’s in there somewhere boring two holes into my belly because I’m the greatest gift she’s ever seen.

And then the whole world stops spinning and everyone is dancing and stomping his or her feet and listening to the lack of gravity of the situation.

Jubilance. Joy. A total disregard for everything that turns us into cowards, buffoons, and judgmental idiots—a total disregard for all that keeps us grounded and proper and therefore absurd.

So, the next time we see each other—you and me—no matter how much time has gone by—an hour, a day, three days, five years—my vocal chords are going give you the biggest standing ovation you’ve ever felt. They’re gonna stomp on the minutes that dictate your day like a steel-toed boot, and hopefully reduce you to a pile of laughter and a fit of screams.

Because that’s what we should do—you and me. That’s what we need to do.

My only hope is that you don’t blush.

Teething and Traveling

mihow — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 11:33:03 +0000

Happy Friday, my friends! Ready to help out a father in need? I got an email. It read (edited slightly):

”My 5-month old son is cutting 2 teeth and of course goes through bouts of being very unhappy. I was wondering if you gave anything to your son while he was teething? We’re flying from Japan to Los Angeles Monday and we’re worried it will be a very very bad flight. :( Do you have any suggestions?”

There’s so much about those earlier months I have forgotten! For example, I completely forgot that you’re not supposed to give the little people Motrin or Tylenol before they reach a certain age. Quite honestly, I’m not sure how I got through it! Maybe that’s why I don’t remember?

My only suggestions are for older babies since my brain has apparently archived the earlier months. I remember offering Emory pea chips (frozen peas, which he still loves to this day.) I remember that he chewed on our wooden kitchen spoons like a dog with a rawhide. I remember giving him ice cold toys. But that’s all I got and I feel I’m an especially bad person to ask because we never flew anywhere with Em.

So, I thought I’d try and help him by posting his email. Do you have any tricks for teething travelers aged five months?

Kettler Bikes and Play Kitchens

mihow — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 11:59:21 +0000

I sent out a Twitter yesterday mentioning we’re in the process of researching play kitchens. And almost every single person told me to get this one. So, unless someone tells us there’s an even better option out there, that’s the one we’ll be ordering. (Although, check this one out! Sometimes I have to remind myself that these toys aren’t for me.)

Speaking of kitchen stuff that’s not for me, check out this cute wooden hamburger from Oompa.

Toby Joe and I are also in search of a Kettler bike (or something similar). One of the local mamas here told me that’s the one to get. Emory loves bikes! We’ll be out walking and his new thing is to announce every bike we pass by. And let me tell you, there are a LOT of bikes along Bedford Avenue. If he spots one bike, he states as much. Another? He’ll raise the pitch of his voice a bit. The amount of excitement in his voice is proportional to the number of bikes in any given area. So, whenever we pass by the Bedford L subway stop, his BICYCLE! meter skyrockets. You can hear us coming a block away.

We want to get him a bike of some sort. It’s getting tiring prying some other kid’s bike from his hands at the playground. But I’m overwhelmed by the choices! Where does one even begin?

I wish I could “Mom Down” hundreds of Amazon reviews. Plus, I’d rather not spend nearly 200 bucks on a tricycle.

Breast-Feeding: It’s OK If You Can’t Do It.

mihow — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 15:37:04 +0000

Friend and commenter, Missy, linked to an article yesterday that stirred up a number of emotions for me.

And in any case, if a breast-feeding mother is miserable, or stressed out, or alienated by nursing, as many women are, if her marriage is under stress and breast-feeding is making things worse, surely that can have a greater effect on a kid’s future success than a few IQ points.

I didn’t have the best time when it came to breast-feeding. Obstacles began piling up for me the moment Emory was born. For starters, my milk never came in. I didn’t experience the engorgement all the nurses and LCs suggested I would. In fact, my breasts got slightly smaller after he was born.

My postpartum experience was not the best. I was depressed. Words can’t do justice in trying to describe that depression. Chemistry took over. Every time it occurred to me that the birth of my first child was supposed to be the happiest time of my life, I felt even worse because I was experiencing quite the opposite. How could I be a good mom when I felt so unhappy? What was wrong with me? The questions mounted unanswered, and while my head felt like it was going to explode, my boobs did not.

There is an alarming amount of pressure put on new mothers when it comes to breast-feeding. It’s so prevalent, that there are actually Web sites where women congregate in order to slam celebrities who did not breast-fed and praise those who have. There are wars waged against and on Facebook. And some of the pro-breast feeding literature out there borders on militant. A late night google search hoping to discover a little leniency can make one feel like even more of a failure.

In certain overachieving circles, breast-feeding is no longer a choice—it’s a no-exceptions requirement, the ultimate badge of responsible parenting. Yet the actual health benefits of breast-feeding are surprisingly thin, far thinner than most popular literature indicates. Is breast-feeding right for every family? Or is it this generation’s vacuum cleaner—an instrument of misery that mostly just keeps women down?

It goes without saying that many women today feel very passionate about breast-feeding. I have seen fights break out over whether or not it’s OK to do in public. Nursing mothers here in New York have been known to make a statement by taking over an entire subway car. I have seen fights break out about whether or not it’s OK to lend your boob out to feed another person’s baby. I’ve seen people go as far to attack a person’s character because they chose not to breast-feed.

Some women experience intense anger when another woman doesn’t breast-feed. And I would find this hilarious if their reactions weren’t so damaging.

Haven’t we heard enough already? Can’t we be proud of our choices without making others feel worse for making another? And why brag? Boasting is ugly.

Furthermore, if feminism is about making choices, and a woman chooses (for whatever the reason may be) not to breast-feed, she should not receive so much as a nasty look from any fellow Sistren boasting the word feminism. And yet, that often happens. Which begs another question: is it the men we need to talk to about equality?

I welcome discussion and debate when it comes to breast-feeding, but this post probably isn’t for those likely to have breast-feeding listed as their religion. This is for anyone who went through (or is going through) what I went through two years ago. This is for all the new mothers out there overwhelmed by their new roles. This is for the new mother wondering why she can’t accomplish something as seemingly natural as breast-feeding.

Here’s how the first few days I spent with my new son went:

The morning he’s born: I try unsuccessfully to get a latch. I summon the help from two nurses and one lactation consultant. He vomits every time I try. I think it’s me, something I’m doing. Am I gagging him?

“Is the vomit green?” They ask. ”No. It’s not green.” “He’s fine then. Keep trying.”

Day one: A lactation consultant comes in to see me. I’m crying. I tell her I can’t get him to eat. I tell her he keeps vomiting. We try again and fail. She asks me how much milk he’s gotten. I tell her none. She inspects my nipples. Says I may have problems but we’ll succeed! We try formula. He vomits that up immediately. I continue to cry.

Later that day: Emory and I try again. I am told I am not vigilant enough, that I’m not trying hard enough. I am told that I need to be more forceful. I need to force my breast into his mouth. He throws up all over me, the color is green. I call a doctor.

Five minutes later: Emory is taken away from me and admitted into the NICU for reasons unrelated to breast-feeding (or lack thereof). I begin pumping around the clock in hopes of getting something, anything to come out of my breasts. This does not happen.

Three days PP: Emory and I are sent home seeing zero success at breast-feeding.

I should have just given up. Had I felt better back then, I probably would have. After all, Emory was doing well on formula. But I thought that I had to breast-feed. We just never did get the latch worked out so I exclusively pumped for 5 months. I supplemented with formula the entire time because my milk and the engorged breasts everyone warned me about, well, that never took place. At five months, I was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism and put on a drug that wasn’t safe for babies. I stopped pumping (or HUTH, for those of us EPers).

During that time, I received countless email letting me know how difficult it was for women when it came to breast-feeding, which helped a great deal. But in the wee hours of the night, when I felt my most insecure, I turned to the Internet, in search of anyone to tell me everything was going to be OK if I gave up pumping and just formula fed my son. (You’d be surprised how little there is out there for people in my situation. On nights when I looked for reassurance, I found I felt worse.) It took me a long time to realize that the only person I needed approval from was the person doing all the searching.

Truth be told, Internet, I still have a lot of pent up anger when it comes to how I was treated by some breast-feeding mamas out there. Usually, I try and focus on all the positive stuff, because I mean it when I say that when I was going through that rough patch, many of your emails got me through it. But that doesn’t mean the judgmental stuff doesn’t stick with me as well.

The biggest problem as I see it, is that so many women are afraid to state outright: Hey, I didn’t breast-feed! In fact, I have met some mothers that whisper such things under their breath at the playground—like it’s some kind of fatal flaw, and I suppose that for some it is. I’ve also seen a few mothers breath a sigh of relief upon discovering that another mother in the room didn’t breast-feed her baby.

What is everyone so afraid of? Judgement? Receiving a failing grade in motherhood? Getting demoted or fired by your boss? There are no grades or graduation ceremonies to speak of. And your boss really just wants to eat, poop, sleep and giggle. So what are we all so afraid of?

Sometimes, all someone wants to hear (or read) is that they’re not alone.

And so. Consider this a small drop of water in a bucket full of oil: It’s OK, new mama, if you are unable to breast-feed your baby. Formula is a wonderful option. You are not a failure. You’re a new mom! Rejoice in that. You are not alone.

If you’re interested in reading the article, please click here. It sheds light on all the medical claims having to do with formula vs. breastmilk. It’s very enlightening. And it’s written by a breast-feeding mother of three.

FOWAH POWAH!

mihow — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 19:19:09 +0000

One of Em’s first ever words was “flower” only it sounds more like “fowah”. It doesn’t matter if it’s a book we’re reading, a TV show we’re watching, or an advertisement we pass by, he will find that damn flower, or anything that looks like a flower, and he’ll let you know about it.

“FOWAH! FOWAH! FOWAH! ”

On Tuesday, we took a trip to the overpriced grocery store that just opened around the corner from us. I have no idea how these guys are going to stay in business, their prices are astronomically high. But I am constantly amazed at what people are willing to pay here in Williamsburg (ourselves included). I think this is the only neighborhood in New York where rents haven’t yet dropped. We’re immune to lowering rents.

So perhaps this overpriced grocery store will stay in business.

All that said, we only ever go there if it’s really gross out or it’s not wise for Em to be outside for too long. And since Em has been sick this week with yet another wicked ear infection, I took him to the overpriced grocery store.

We weren’t two feet through the doors when I saw his eyes light up.

“FOWAH FOWAH FOWAH! MAMA! FOWAH!”

The flowers were wilted and each one cost me almost as much as a gallon of milk at that grocery store, but I simply had to buy this kid a couple of flowers.

Emory gets excited about chocolate (which is known as “treat” at our house and is pronounced “teat” which makes me giggle), and he gets excited when he sees me walk into the room after a day spent at school, but I haven’t ever seen him this excited. He carried them around like they were treasures, new relationships, tokens of love.

Granted, all three flowers were destroyed by nightfall. They didn’t stand a chance against The Destroyer. He picked one apart petal by petal and I wondered who he might be thinking about. The other two were used to slap things, including Murray who mistook it for PLAYTIME!

Like I said, the flowers didn’t stand a chance.

But it was kind of worth it.

File This Under: Inappropriate Children’s Book Illustrations

mihow — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 21:45:00 +0000

Back in 2005 when the pope was dying, I wanted to capture the historical event on film. It was a rainy, chilly day, so I decided to rest on a pew inside Saint Patricks Cathedral for a bit. While there, I saw this peeking out from the top of a hymnal book.

Now, I saw a penis right away. But others felt I was grasping. Perhaps I was. I mean, what (relatively) straight gal doesn’t want to grasp at a penis every now and again? But I think it’s a no-brainer to suggest that the Catholic church make absolutely certain that all printed materials are free from the mere hint of a penis. Don’t they have a Penis Free committee for matters like this? If not, they should. I will head it up. (hehe)

But even so, I am now willing to retract my original belief that there was indeed a penis printed on that religious literature.

But this time? Well, if you suggest that it’s just me this time, then I suggest that you’re crazy.

What you see above is indeed an illustration taken directly from a children’s book my friend reads to her daughter. And we laughed long and hard (hehe) about it.

I am not sure what scenario would bother me more: that a man drew this for a children’s book and didn’t realize it was a penis; that a man drew this for a children’s book and realized it was a penis; or that a man drew this for a children’s book, did or did not realize it was a penis, and his editors let it slide (hehe).

Dear Rae Rae,

mihow — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 21:53:00 +0000

This response is very late and you’ve probably moved on by now. Truth be told, I am not sure you even visited after the way I initially responded. I can’t imagine why you would have. But I have to write this.

I think about you all the time, not necessarily you personally, because I haven’t ever met you. I don’t even know what you look like. The only role you had in my life was leaving a comment on my blog.

It read:

July 25th, 2007 at 02:21 PM

You only go through this a few times in your life. This time with your unborn baby and your husband are precious – don’t wish it away.

You were right.

I didn’t want to admit it then. Hell, I was about to meet my first child for the first time. I was sick of being pregnant. I wanted him out of me. I vowed to friends and family, “There’s no way I’ll sleep less when he’s born than I do now.”

(What a naive and silly person.)

But that’s not what this is about. This isn’t about losing sleep or having to pee a lot. It’s not about any of that. This is about what you said and how often I think about it.

I guess I never realized how true your comment was until friends of mine started getting pregnant—close friends, acquaintances, internet friends—just friends. And I promised myself a long time ago I would not become that person, ready to give suggestions without being asked. And I’m not accusing you of that; I can’t begin to thank you enough for what you wrote. But I continue to bite my tongue even though sometimes it’s unbearable.

What I wanted to say to you then was this: OH MY GOD, WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO ENJOY THIS! I HATE YOU!

That’s a little harsh. I know. It was true at the time, but that’s because you weren’t really a person to me. You were just someone taunting me, pointing out something I refused to see.

Perhaps my hatred was due to the fact that a part of me (the instinctual mother part every woman is born with) knew you were right. I don’t know. I never will. But I hated what you wrote. I spit at your words. I told my husband, “HOW CAN SOMEONE TELL ANOTHER PERSON TO ENJOY THIS!” And, well, come on! I was having trouble sleeping. I peed myself several times. I had trouble doing “other things”. I could not be intimate with my husband. I couldn’t eat because of the heartburn, my ankles swelled up to triple their size. I had high blood pressure. I was seeing white or black spots every time I stood up. I wanted that baby out of me! I felt awful.

I was mad at you.

Well, Rae Rae, I’m no longer angry. In fact, I want to thank you for having had such a huge impact on my life and in such a small way.

I mentioned earlier that I don’t like giving people advice unless they ask for it, specifically when it comes to motherhood. I had so many ideas when I was pregnant and then my son was born and I could barely keep up with any of them. I had delusions of how it would (and should) be. I made plans. And even though I knew that things were going to be hard, I never knew exactly how hard. How could I have known? (They offer classes about how to give birth and how to breastfeed these little people, but no one really helps you out with the remaining 50 years.)

Anyway, I did something out of character the other night in honor of you. I wrote this on a friend’s Facebook page:

You know, I said the same thing and meant it. And one day someone emailed me and said “enjoy this time!” and I wanted to punch them and I hated them. you know what’s funny? I think about it all the time now because they were so right!

So I am going to be that asshole now: enjoy this time. Sleep. Have morning sex. Cook. Take walks together. Go out! Go out! Go out! Have a romantic meal.

He will be here soon enough, so enjoy this time you have alone.

I have never left a truer comment.

But don’t hate me for it!

Have you ever experienced that moment right before a fresh snowfall where the world becomes eerily quiet, cars distance themselves from one another, the sky turns orange or burnt sienna, everything seems at peace in the world and we’re greeted with a smashingly fine silence?

Do you know that moment?

Or, how about that moment during a kickoff where opposing teams stand guarded on an untouched field. The crowd roars, the whistle is blown, feet stomp, the rising sound is spectacular. The ball is kicked! And as soon as it leaves the kicker’s foot, the moment the ball departs his toe, a silence blankets the crowd as if guided by a maestro.

How about that one? Do you know that moment?

I look forward to moments like those. They give me goosebumps fueled by anticipation. Those undeniable rests that punctuate great big, audacious sounds are pretty outstanding.

Rae Rae, you were right.

I should have known to enjoy that time more. I should not have wished it away. That time was just like the moments I described above. I just didn’t realize it until after the game was in session, the cake was cut, and the blanket of snow had already fallen.

Sincerely yours (a year or so late),

Michele

Beat Down And Falling Around.

mihow — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 20:19:00 +0000

I have no idea what’s wrong with Em and I hate that I’m about to post this, because I never wanted to talk about such personal things (about him) online, but I need help.

For a while now, he’s faced a great deal of frustration trying to poop. It can literally take him all day sometimes to get anything out and that’s after a great deal of straining and pain. And when it finally does come out, it’s rather hard. We called the doctor who told us to feed him lots of fruits and vegetables, which is just absurd because that’s all he really eats. (Unfortunately, this was left on a message as she was busy and I haven’t called back yet so I couldn’t then tell her no, that’s not the problem.)

A few nights ago, we woke up to hear Emory SCREAMING from his bedroom. He was making horrible sounds, like a woman in labor. He was trying to poop. He tried so hard, he threw up and it came out of his nose as well. (I am crying as I write this because he’s in school and I want so badly to hug him right now.)

Anyway, I decided that enough was enough, I did some online research. Several people suggested that babies who go through this type of situation often have milk allergies (which they eventually outgrow) and that it’s not often talked about by doctors. So, we decided to give him some soy milk instead of milk milk and see how that goes. We also added flax as well as prune juice into the mix. Things got better. They weren’t perfect, but they were better.

But then last night happened. I stupidly (I think it was the culprit?) gave him a homemade bread and cream cheese sandwich with chopped up dates. He ate it up fast—loved it. He drank some water and then some soy milk and went off to bed.

We woke up at 11 listening to him scream. He continued to go into contractions every 10 minutes until 4 AM or later. It was heartbreaking and there was nothing I could do for him.

I am not sure what’s going on with Emory. I need to fix it. I feel so badly for him. I am tired. I am making mistakes, fighting with my husband, flicking off construction workers, fighting with our passive aggressive previous landlord, discussing things with other mothers—mere strangers to me at his daycare—that I should never discuss. I feel as though I am bordering on that insane, hysterical mother—the one everyone whispers about when she leaves the room.

I have no idea how to control this, how to fix it, how to make him better, us better, me better.

I can’t help me. But maybe someone else can.

A Good Ache

mihow — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 20:30:00 +0000

We dropped Em off at school today for his first full day. I keep checking my phone to make sure they haven’t called letting me know he hasn’t stopped crying. I keep checking the clock to make sure I didn’t enter a time-warp and I’m actually hours late picking him up so they gave him to another parent.

I miss him. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but I miss him.

After I left, I had the best run I’ve had in months. I think it’s related to how I am feeling. I imagine I wanted to not let myself think about it. Sometimes the best way for me to do that is to beat myself up physically.

So I ran. I ran really, really long and hard.

Is this how people cope with losing a parent, child or spouse? I found this thought meander through my head as I walked home.

I felt immediately shameful and sought to apologize to anyone.

This isn’t the first time I have thought this.

When Toby and I were packing boxes to move from Russell Street to where we are now, Em stayed with my mother for two nights. We were midway through putting Emory’s toys into boxes, when I tearily looked at Toby and said, “Awwww, I miss him.”

“I know! Me too! But he’s not dead.” Toby said. “We’ll see him tomorrow.”

I know, that probably seems like a pretty harsh thing to say, and out loud. But it was precisely what I had been wondering about but unable to say. The taboo many prefer to ignore was suddenly filling our half empty apartment.

“How do people deal with losing a child? There’s no way I could do this.” I said referring to boxing up a bunch toys and clothing. “I cry just boxing up clothing that no longer fits him!”

“You know, I hope to never have the answer to that.” Toby said, sealing the hole again.

Sometimes I think I let my mind “go there” in order to mingle with an ache I hope to never know firsthand.

That particular ache is something undefined, impossible to know—wordless. That ache exists all around us but it’s rarely let out into the room.

I hope to never know that ache.

But the ache I’m feeling now is a good ache. I miss him, sure, but I know that he’s having a blast and I know I’ll get to scoop him up in just a few short hours. This is the good ache.

I am lucky to know this ache.

^{(This post turned out to be really depressing and I hadn’t meant for that. I’m actually in good spirits. I am truly sorry for bringing up quite possibly one of the ugliest thoughts imaginable. My apologies all around.)}

Daycare Week!

mihow — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 23:29:00 +0000

I anticipated a rough week. And I could probably sum this post up in one sentence but that would be too easy. And this is a blog, blog posts are supposed to take up pages and pages of words before making one small point.

And so!

Emory had his first half day of school this week. They were to spend the half day in their classroom while we sat in a room down the hall, waiting there just in case there were any serious meltdowns. (You know, the ones that last longer than a specific amount of time and include a consistent and high level of desperation.)

Emory has been with me since the day he was born. I don’t have a babysitter, although, my mother watches him sometimes. I haven’t used a nanny, nor have I used a daycare. It’s been him and me from day one.

I anticipated a great deal of anxiety from him. I readied myself for a long few weeks of crying and screaming and carrying on. I readied myself for the worst.

There was one time that he was roughly 8 months of age, Toby Joe and I visited a gym where they have a daycare. For five bucks an hour, you can work out and drop your kid off while you work out

Ten minutes went by before a woman came to collect us. He had had a full-fledged meltdown.

And so I anticipated that sort of reaction from him. And I’m sure that by now you’ve already guessed the outcome.

It was WORSE THAN HORRIBLE.

ha! Just kidding!

It was perfect! Emory did amazingly well. He adjusted immediately. The only tears took place the very first day whenever I returned to the room. I think he was startled by all the parents, who crashed through the door unannounced and all at once. When he saw my face, he broke down. But the best part was how he walked up to me with both his arms open. I got the best hug ever. (Emory is not very affectionate, much to his parent’s dismay.)

Today went really well too. There was no crying at all this time around, even when I returned to collect him. He seemed to have a blast and his teachers said he’s doing exceptionally well with adjusting. I left bursting with joy and relief.

On Monday we can drop them off for the full day, or stick around if we want to. I anticipated having to transition him for a bit longer. But I’m thinking now that that’s probably not going to be the case. Which means my “free time” begins next week.

Keep in mind, that many of us “stay-at-homes” gave up full time careers the moment we had children. I discussed this today with another mother, who happens to be the main caregiver at their home. Our husbands went back to work right after our sons were born. They have had time to themselves (good or bad) and continued doing what they were doing before. The stay-at-home gives all of that up. We no longer have regular alone time. We all but forget what it’s like. In a sense, we lose a little bit of ourselves. At least temporarily.

When I realized that starting next week I will have a set number of hours to myself, I felt a little nauseous.

What am I going to do with this time?

I once compared motherhood to being on house arrest and I received criticism for it. (Granted, I also received a lot of comments and email from people agreeing with said sentiment). It’s obviously not entirely true and I don’t think that way all the time, but the alienation and the difficulty at which one can come and go is pretty on.

That comparison resurfaced again today.

I have heard that some people released from solitary confinement get into trouble the very day they are set free. (I think there is even a term for this.) They have been inside for so long, they no longer have any idea how to cope with the outside world, or who they were before that time. Whether it’s conscious or not, they simply freak out.

What will I do next week? I have been asking myself this repeatedly.

I will probably pace around outside, waiting to go pick him up so I can hug him, cuddle him, kiss his wonderful pink cheeks. I will think of all the things I can make him for dinner, buy him, bake for him. I will think about reading to him.

(My goodness, do I ever love this person.)

Truth be told, I don’t want to be “free” ever again. Imagining a world without my son is a world I want no part of. Yes, I am very excited that I will have a given number of hours all to myself every week, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t also make me a little uneasy.

To Socialize Or Not To Socialize.

mihow — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 22:18:00 +0000

I’m going back and forth regarding our decision to send Emory to school three days a week. My emotions aren’t to be trusted, however. Because a lot of how I’m feeling can easily be attributed to my fear of letting him go. But I know that some of my thoughts at the root of the situation are legitimate.

How important is it to socialize children early on in their development? Because, when it comes right down to it, that’s why we’re doing what we’re doing. I know I complain from time to time about not having any “Me Time” but that’s because I’m an awesome complainer (you know, like most bloggers). When it comes right down to it, I love spending my days with him. I’m just not sure he should be spending every single day with me.

Em doesn’t get a whole lot of interaction with other children. Sure, I bring him to the playground and I take him on walks, but it’s getting increasingly colder here and the weather keeps us (and others) from venturing out much. I have brought him to a place called Mamalu’s here in Williamsburg, but now that it’s cold, it gets way too crowded and the bigger kids make him uneasy. He also always seems to get a new cold every time we go.

About a month ago, Toby and I started talking about ways to get Emory around other children—not only other children, but the same children. That’s how we ended up signing him up for school. (Well, that and I complain a lot about having no life—pathetic.)

But he’s not even two! He’s 17 months old. That seems so young! Is he ready? I know I am not, but is he?

I keep coming back to the fact that I was at home with my mother until I was five or six. I had my older brother around and we are very close in age, but he didn’t have anyone before I was born. And he’s relatively normal. (heh) My younger brother was even further away in age (six years), and so he spent early childhood alone. (I think. But only my mother could answer this definitively.)

We probably went to church groups growing up (CCD and the like), but not at aged two. And I know we went to camp but, again, not that early. I reckon my mother had other mothers over and perhaps they brought kids close to our age, but that’s not really an option much anymore (especially here) because most families around here do not stay home with their children and instead hire nannies. Many of the nannies around here are Tibetan. They know each other and tend to stick together.

What I’m trying to say is that I know of only one local mom who stays home with her daughter. That’s not to say there aren’t more, but that’s been my finding. Every other local mother I know works. So playdates are difficult.

Both Toby and I feel that socializing Emory is important, which is why we chose a school. But are we doing the right thing? Are we being over zealous? Are we possibly pushing him too early?

How important is it to socialize these little dudes at a young age? What are your thoughts on the matter?

The Truth About The MMR

mihow — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 18:20:00 +0000

Emory received his MMR immunization last Monday. We were told that any side effects associated with this vaccine would kick in after 7 to 10 days. We hit day seven and nothing happened and we thought, “Awesome! We’re in the clear!”

We were wrong.

Yesterday I noticed a few red spots on his face—just four—and lifted his shirt to check for more. Sure enough, there were a few more spots on his torso. At that point I took his temperature—a solid 100 degrees.

He was cranky all day, but it wasn’t any worse than whenever he cut his molars. We gave him some Tylenol and he was fine by morning. He’s back to his usual, insane, toddling self.

But we did notice something regarding the MMR and its apparent side-effects. They won’t tell you about this. So I am going to take the opportunity to do so. I hope you’re prepared. You may even want to sit down.

The MMR makes babies speak. It’s true! I watched it happen.

Prior to having been vaccinated, Em said a few words such as Mama, Dada, (a warped version of) Kitty Cat (that sounded like “Keecah”), Night Night (that sounded like this: “Nighnah”) and Hi. That’s pretty much it.

But since receiving the MMR words have been flying out. He’s like a little tape recorder! He now says Cracker, Blue, Blueberries, Mama (clear as day), Kitty Cat, Daddy, Hi, Elmo, Baby, Finished (not very well, however), Bubble and One, Two, Three.

I have deduced that the MMR vaccine makes babies speak. It may sound absurd, but then again, so does suggesting it causes autism.

Speaking of the MMR, there is a fantastic This American Life episode about a family who refused the MMR for their child. At age seven, he traveled overseas and brought the measles virus back home with him. The episode is about how he and his family brought an entire town to a screeching halt.

While all of that may sound really serious, it’s actually very funny. It’s well worth the listen.

(I know! Can you believe how much I’ve changed when it comes to immunizations? I am shocked by my transformation!)

Emory Is Starting School!

mihow — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 19:54:00 +0000

Emory is starting school in January. He’ll be there Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. This comes as bittersweet news, naturally. On the one hand, I would love to get back designing and writing again. On the other, I’m really going to miss him. I think this will be good for him, though. My feelings aside, he likes to be around other kids and at this particular school, he’ll be with the same ten kids each day he’s there. Plus, they have music class, language class and art class. Which is awesome. I’m really excited for him.

I am worried about the food situation, however. Emory is not an eater. He is very picky. Generally speaking, if it’s not a fruit or a vegetable, good luck getting him to eat it. He will eat bread sometimes, as well as cheese (but not too often) and meat tends to freak him out (although, we’ve only tried chicken, fish and turkey). We’re working on the eating thing. He loves his milk. He lives for the milk. I haven’t ever seen a creature drink and desire so much milk! He’s picky so I got a little worried whenever I read over through manual.

They don’t allow nuts (makes sense), peanuts (of course), whole apples with any skin (Em likes the skin), grapes (unless they’re cut up in fours), string cheese (unless it’s diced up. Part of the reason Em eats string cheese is because he thinks it’s fun to pull apart), dried cranberries, or raisins.

We’ll make due with most of it. But raisins? Raisins? Emory loves raisins, like, they are the most awesome snack on planet earth. He lets out a joyous gasp whenever he sees the container.

He’s going to miss his raisins probably as much as I’m going to miss him.

As evident in the video above, we’re still trying to get settled into our new home. Naturally this is going to take some time, especially considering parts of it are still under construction, which has Murray in a tizzy. He just doesn’t like all the hammering on the 6th floor, the strange smells, the weird voices coming from the hallway.

We’ve had some growing pains with the move. Moving always comes with some setbacks, but deep down I know that things are going to be great. The cost of living here is almost double our previous rent and we had an overlap of rents. We’re entering the Christmas season. We owed the school its first installment. Murray had the whole vet fiasco last month. Things are hitting all at once, and this has put a huge dent in our savings. But I suppose that’s what a savings is for. There’s been some bickering. Transitions (for this family) don’t come without some fender benders. I owe my husband a massage and a night out with friends for sure.

I know he could use some rest.

So! If anyone out there knows of anyone who needs some design work done—production, layout, even dancing the Charleston—please let me know. I am all yours. I need to pull my weight somehow, especially now.

Edited to add: To those of you who emailed, called, and commented about how amazed you were at how delicate Em was with the can of raisins, this is how Em normally deals with his snacks. :]

Curious George: A Bad Role Model For Our Children.

mihow — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 21:46:00 +0000

I don’t usually go around blaming outside influences for my child’s behavior. I promised myself years before becoming a mother that I wouldn’t become that mother. But this time I simply can’t hold back. Curious George must be stopped.

I’m annoyed that he hides behind a guise of curiosity. I don’t see a curious monkey, I see a stupid monkey, one that teaches our children it’s OK to be ignorant, bigoted, cruel and irresponsible.

It’s even worse because a lot of children really like bananas and I think sometimes (for them especially) the line between “Human” and “Monkey” is blurred and so they start acting like monkeys. And if this is going to be the case—with the bananas and all—I think we need a more educated monkey for our children.

It’s time that mothers everywhere come together and put an end to Curious George. We need to collectively stomp our designer shoes and scream that we’ve had enough. (Gather up the nannies too, we need all the help we can get!)

No more George!

Exhibit A: George acts carelessly and dangerously.

When asked what George rides around his room, we are told he rides a ball. (See below.)

My son will most definitely give this a try if given the chance. And whenever he falls off said ball, we’ll have George to thank for it. Does this mean I can’t go out and buy him a large ball? Thanks, George. He’s a boy. All boys need their balls.

Exhibit B: George hangs out with strange men.

Who is the “Man In The Yellow Hat”? Does this man have a name? He shows up twice out of the four Curious George books I own. George gets into a blue car with him, he even lets this man talk him into going to the moon. (Is that a euphemism?)

And he wears knickers. NEVER trust a man in knickers!!!!!!!

And while we’re on the subject of strange men, who is Professor Wiseman? I think I heard that name used on a recent episode of “Law and Order SVU”. Got news for you, creeps, tacking “Professor” to the front of your name isn’t not going to make me (or anyone else for that matter) trust you.

While on the playground, please be on the lookout for any strange men wearing yellow hats and knickers. It’s a perfect disguise, one our kids have come to trust. This is just like the media letting terrorists know exactly where to find our least secure targets.

Curious George is a terrorist to our children.

Exhibit C: George is a pusher.

I don’t know about you, but this mother DOES NOT let her child eat cake or sugar of any kind. Curious George keeps cake around the house and that sets a terrible example. When I read that part to my son, I immediately had to explain what “cake” is. “What’s cake, mommy?” Naturally, I lied and told him that “cake” is fish food.

Lying is OK if it’s about God, sugar or sex.

Also, who uses cake to catch fish? An idiot! That’s who!

Exhibit D: George (an animal) is guilty of animal cruelty.

This one really kicks me in the cottontail. In one of the books, George is curious about holding a bunny, so George just takes a bunny from the bunny cage. (Poorly raised?) Naturally, the bunny runs off “like a shot!” (Pro gun?) And in order to find the bunny, George looks to its mother. He doesn’t ask the mommy bunny for help, instead he ties a string around the mother bunny’s neck!!!! What is this, Guantanamo bay for bunnies? (Terrorist?)

I have already sent an email to PETA. I have asked them to suggest that if this is going to continue—the printing of such dangerous literature—all future editions remove the bit about the string.

Exhibit E: Friends of Curious George think monkeys are more useful than women

Apparently this particular space organization was too busy hiring monkeys to hire any women.

Are women dumber than monkeys? NOT THIS WOMAN! Unite with me, mommybloggers. Curious George hates women, prefers strange men, condones sugar, and takes advantage of helpless animals. Please help me in my fight against George.

The Little Things Parents Wonder About

mihow — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 22:48:00 +0000

Em has one pair of gloves and they don’t really fit him. We’re definitely going to have to invest in a few more pairs immediately. On Saturday this became very clear. Tobyjoe and Em were out for a walk and TJ couldn’t find Emory’s gloves (not that they fit him anyway) so he put his adult-sized mittens on Em’s tiny hands. As they were walking through Williamsburg, a passing stranger whispered to her friend, “That baby has giant hands.”

Three days earlier I took part in a discussion on the playground about gloves and how difficult it is convincing them to put (and keep) them on. We all just kind of shrugged about it, unable to come up with a solution.

While on a playdate this morning, the question came up again. My friend asked, “What do you do whenever you’re at the playground? They can’t very well climb stuff in them, can they?”

What do you do with these little guys in winter? It’s really hard to climb stuff while wearing gloves and it’s certainly cold—cold enough to turn their bony fingers into tiny human icicles. What to do?

As of late, I’ve been kind of winging it, but I bet there’s something out there—some type of product—that makes everything better.

And while I’m on the subject of products, let’s talk squirters. (Incidentally, do NOT type that word into a Google Web search. Ugh.) I have a bunch for Em to use at bath time and I try and make sure and squeeze the water out after each use. But recently I noticed that the yellow lizard was growing funk. I pinched it and the funk moved around. Disgusting, right?

Naturally, he’s gone.

What do people do with these things? Do they bleach them? Do you not use them for this very reason? Is there something I’m missing when it comes to keeping them funk-free? If I have to clean these things every time he uses them, they’re going to end up becoming land critters.

And last but not least, there is one product that has helped us out a lot lately. We picked up a couple bib crumb catchers recently and boy have they helped cut down on laundry!

But stick with the flimsy, softer materials. We bought a couple of the harder plastic Baby Bjorn bibs and he hated it, refused to wear it. I think the hard plastic attachment was the culprit. (Also, they’re not cheap!)

However, they seem to have excellent reviews on Amazon, so maybe it’s just us.

Please feel free to rant and rave about any products you’ve discovered (or cool tricks) in the comments sections.

Studies Show, Studies Meant To Stress New Mothers Out

mihow — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 20:42:00 +0000

CNN is reporting about a study released out of London today stating that babies that face away from their parents in a stroller are less likely to talk, laugh and speak with their parents.

The study included 20 babies. They were pushed by their parents for 1 mile. Half of that mile was spent facing outward, the other half, inward.

I can’t help but shake my head at this one. Did they take in consideration the amount of time each parent spends with his or her child when they aren’t out walking with a stroller? Does a baby whose parents work full time and is cared for by a nanny talk to his or her parents less than a baby who spends his or her days with one (or both) of his or her parents? (I’m not suggesting one is better than the other, I’m suggesting that there are dozens of other factors involved here.) Does the position of the baby in a stroller really have anything to do with how a child communicates with his or her parents? Wouldn’t a child have to spend hours per day in a stroller for this to really matter?

And if we’re talking strollers, why not take it a step further. Are babies that face the rear of a car also stressed out? Does that mean suburban babies are likely to feel more stressed out than city babies because they spend more time in a car?

I am not asking these questions because I want answers. I’m also not suggesting that the study offended me. What I would like to suggest is that we start analyzing the information we’re given and what we then choose to do with it. This study leaves me asking too many questions. It’s my opinion that this is more in line with what mommybloggers should be getting worked up over.

Lastly, I wonder if the study was funded by Stokke. heh

There was another study done as well. It compared babies being worn by their parents vs. babies that face outward in a stroller and the babies that were worn by their parents were able to recite Infinite Jest at 15 months while those facing out in a stroller were banging hookers and dealing cocaine.

Get Your Paci? Go Night-Night?

mihow — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 21:01:00 +0000

Toby and I went to DC a few weeks ago. We knew we’d be doing a lot of driving and decided that it would be best if we left Em with my parents for a few days. On Thursday night we drove to South Jersey. We spent the night there and left early the following morning. We left Em behind.

Naturally, being away from him was hard, but it wasn’t nearly as hard as I had anticipated. He spent two nights with my parents, just two.

Why does the number of days matter? It matters because we’re pretty sure they replaced our child with an exact replica. Even my mother joked during a text message conversation we had last week. (The flow of the conversation is shown in reverse. Incidentally, does the iPhone do this as well?)

Emory hasn’t ever been a sleeper. He doesn’t like going to sleep. It takes a while for him to do so. And he doesn’t stay asleep for very long. We’ve grown used to it. We’ve gotten used to spending anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour trying to put him to sleep each night. (Naps have been easier for a while.)

Well, the first Friday he spent with my parents, he was down in five minutes. This is particularly funny to me because I warned my mother over and over again before we left that she’d have a lot of trouble putting him to bed. I apologized profusely in advance.

Saturday night rolled around and the same thing happened. He went to sleep without a peep. All they had to do to get him down was say, “Get your paci? Go night-night?” And he’d run off toward the stairs—actually run off toward bed!

I haven’t wanted to mention this to anyone for fear that I’ll jinx the sheer awesomeness of the situation. But the truth is, ever since he spent the night with my parents, all we’ve had to do to get him to go to sleep is say, “Get your paci? Go night-night?” And every time since his stay he’s run off to his bedroom. Sometimes he even grabs his crib and waits for one of us to lift him up. He’s done this twice per day (he’s down to one 2 to 3 hour nap) since we picked him up.

What happened at my parents house? It remains a mystery. But we’re not looking a gift horse in the mouth. If this particular baby is here to stay, we’re grateful for it.

But I’m not bragging. Because he still wakes up two or three times per night. Since he was born, we have yet to sleep through the night. I’m thinking another getaway is in order. Let’s see what grandma and grandpa can do for us in that department as well.

A Child’s Portion Please

mihow — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 21:41:00 +0000

Last Christmas, Em received a Fisher Price glow worm. It plays children’s songs if you press its chest. It also lights up. He didn’t really care much for it back then. We played it for him and he would stare at it. We’d put it to bed with him at night just to keep him company. It was just something that made noise and lit up.

Then one day the batteries died. It laid dark and silent for months and months until recently when I pulled out a screwdriver and brought it back to life. I was so proud of myself! Not only did I NOT forget to buy a bunch of batteries, but I actually sat down one day and replaced the batteries to each and every toy that had died over time. (Parents-to-be: factor hundreds of dollars worth of batteries into your budgeting.)

Emory wasn’t nearly as pleased with my success, however. For reasons I may never come to understand, Em has decided that Mr. Glow Worm is the scariest thing ever. I wish I were exaggerating this point, but the mere sight of this small plastic, legless creature makes him lose his mind. His face fills with terror, actual terror. The glow worm triggers a part of his brain that spits back “FEAR”.

The first time it happened, we thought maybe he was just tired—maybe he had just seen a long day. So we kept it around for a bit. But then two days ago, when I put him down for a nap, I realized that it wasn’t his mood at all, it was the glow worm itself.

About an hour and half into his nap, I heard blood curdling screams coming from his bedroom. I was certain something terrible had taken place. I dropped everything I was doing and ran like hell into his bedroom. I found him standing upright and rigid in his crib, silently screaming. He pointed down at the glow worm, which I had stupidly placed in his crib (like I had done in the past). Tears streamed down his face. His lip quivered. And I hate to admit this next part, but if it hadn’t obviously freaked him out so much, it would have been really quite hilarious.

That’s not the only creature that invokes terror in our little boy. Balloo is guilty of it as well.

Em loves watching Elizabeth Balzano sing songs and play guitar on the show Bounce. He smiles when he hears her voice. I think he may have a crush on her. But as soon as it’s time for bed and Balloo appears, he completely freaks out. Again, this would be hilarious if it weren’t so terrifying for him. I think the funniest part about Balloo making his bedtime debut is how we act. As soon as she starts singing the goodbye song, one or the both of us sprint to the remote control in order to turn it off.

Yesterday, as I stuffed the glow worm into a box and sealed it shut, something occurred to me. I was afraid of everything when I was a child—ghosts and monsters and all things make believe. Tobyjoe had real fears to contend with and every time I hear him talk about his childhood, my heart breaks a little bit. I can’t imagine having to deal with real terror at such a young age. I much prefer my child-sized portions of it (if you call being afraid of poltergeists and skeletons terror) over his.

I’m hoping that my son remains afraid of things like a glow worm or an animated egg-shaped creature sporting suspenders. Because before you know it, adult-sized fears are keeping you up at night. There’s something to be said for prolonging innocence.

I’d give anything to fear a glow worm again.

Em Dancin’ To Ted Leo.

mihow — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 23:25:00 +0000

Emory dances a lot. He has two dances. The first one (which we can’t seem to capture on video) is by far my favorite. He shakes his head really fast from side to side until he gets dizzy and falls down. It’s truly one of the most outstanding things you’ll ever witness.

The video I have for you today features his other dance. This one is a little easier to capture because it lasts longer (since he doesn’t get dizzy right away). I love this one as well.

I’m two parts melancholy, three parts joyful today, so I thought this might be a perfect way to express as much. (You may watch Ted Leo play the song live here.)

Voting As A Primary Caregiver.

mihow — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 23:34:00 +0000

Here in New York we weren’t allowed to hit the polls early. I’m anticipating long lines tomorrow. I’m wondering how other stay-at-home-moms are doing it (or have done it). Do you have a story to tell? Ideas? Suggestions? I have to bring Em with me. And while I’m hoping he behaves himself as long as we’re in line, I can’t promise anything.

Perhaps Election Day should become a national holiday, so that whomever goes to work for a living can stay home while the primary caregiver gets out to vote. While employers face charges if they don’t give their employees time off to vote, babies don’t have to follow the law.

If they can’t give the nation the day off, maybe they should have a “Fast Track” option for those of us with toddlers who really don’t enjoy being confined to a stroller for very long. Not that I’m looking for special treatment or anything. ;]

Edited to add: Early voting could go nationwide. Maybe in four years, this won’t be an issue for SAHMs and Dads after all.

Teen Pregnancy Linked To Sexy TV Shows?

mihow — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 19:04:00 +0000

RAND Research has linked teen pregnancy to watching a lot of television. The study shows that the more sex (on TV) a teenager watches, the more likely it is for that teenager to get pregnant or impregnate.

That makes sense, right?

Here’s my problem with it. Could it be that the kids who are watching more television are getting pregnant because he or she spends less time with communicating with his or her parents? Could it be that parents who are more likely to plop their kid in front of the TV are less likely to communicate regularly with their children?

I always feel slightly irritated by how studies such as this one get reported (I haven’t read the study firsthand) because I think the report becomes an obstacle at getting to the heart of what the real problem may be.

Is it in fact true that children that watch racy TV shows are more likely to have sex, or could it be that children who watch a lot of TV are less likely to spend that time communicating with his or her family?

If the goal is to lessen the number of teen pregnancies in America, I think figuring out why it’s happening should become our top priority. And quite frankly, I’m not convinced that the problem has to do with what they’re watching and instead has to do with why.

But my opinion still isn’t quite ripe. I’m open to debate.

VIOLENCE AND TV (A late addition to this post.)

I’m about to admit to something that probably seems contradictory to the top half of this post and state that I do believe that watching violent TV shows (and playing violent video games) can lead to violent behavior. Perhaps I’m naive where sex is concerned? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I do not believe that humans are inherently violent—that violence (or lack of compassion) is a learned behavior. I do believe that humans are inherently sexual, however.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t feel that parents can do much to keep teenagers from being curious about (even craving) sex. I do think we can control how educated our children are regarding the topic. I have always thought that when it comes time, I would talk openly to my son about sex. I am not nearly as liberal when it comes to violence, however.

Obviously, my opinion on the matter is still morphing.

Mihow » parenting

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