Red Pen Mama

I set out this month with every intention of posting daily. Then, I dropped a day due to a day chock full of activity and accidents.

And then the girls came down with Coxsackie virus (this is the non-scary link; for the scary one, click here).

The Coxsackie virus, as some of you may be aware, is highly contagious and is the cause of foot-hand-and-mouth disease.

So far the foot/hand involvement has been minimal for my girls (knock wood). A few little pimples; Bun had a blister on her thumb. The mouth involvement, however, was brutal. Imagine how it would feel if your throat were lined with canker sores.

Now imagine being 15 months old.

On Wednesday, after I had been at the office for about 45 minutes, DearDR called.

“Bun is very clingy and whiny, and she’s still feverish,” he said.

“Do you want me to come home?” I asked.

“Yes.”

So I drove the half-hour home to hang with Bun. I just figured she as running a fever as a reaction to her MMR last week. (And if you want to read some really scary Internet stuff, just google “fever after MMR shot”, and read the non-official sites.) After she woke from a short, restless nap, I got a look down into Bun’s throat. She was screaming at the time, so it was real easy.

When the doctor saw it, he said, “Hmm. That doesn’t look like strep.”

They did a culture anyway. Negative for strep throat.

I have to admit here, that for the first time, my pediatrician’s office let me down. I don’t know if the doctor (one of our regulars) was booked or in a hurry to get out of there, but he gave no advice (except for the parting shot, “Tylenol” over his shoulder as he walked out the door) and answered no questions. A nurse answered some of my questions; my brother (a dermatologist) answered a couple more; and the Internet alternately scared me and soothed my fears (see links above).

And no one — not the doc, not the nurses, not even DCL — suggested I keep the girls at home. I mean, how dumb is that?

I think the reasoning was that they had a virus (well, to this point, Monkey didn’t have it, but she was raging with a juicy fever by the time I picked them up from daycare Thursday), and the other kids were already exposed anyway.

In short, I did end up staying home with them on Friday. And somehow or another, I actually got things done around the house over the weekend (this is where the in-laws were invaluable). I sorted through the girls’ clothes, swapping out fall/winter clothes for spring/summer, next sizes up. I got through a mountain of paperwork in the office (this due to a three-and-a-half hour nap on Bun’s part and DearDR’s occupying Monkey during that time).

Also, somehow or another, DearDR and I managed to spend some quality time as a couple. I think our mutual support and team-work fostered a sense of intimacy.

We weathered Bun clinging to me like a barnacle all day on Sunday, and the whining from both girls all weekend (this is where the beer proved invaluable). And now it’s Monday, the in-laws have the girls — we figured one more day at home would be in everyone’s best interest — and I am back at the office. I have my fingers crossed that everyone is on the mend.

Edited to add: Of course, I should have sucked it up and stayed home Thursday, too, but I felt… I don’t know, weird about it. Worried about my job and what my boss/employer would think. I was worried about the wrong, thing, I can safely admit now. I don’t know if I will lose vacation/personal time, or if it will count as sick time, and that doesn’t really matter, either. Everyone’s okay, and I’m certainly glad I stayed home on Friday, and that we’ve made it through the weekend.

Bun has been taking tentative steps without holding onto anything since the end of October. Then she started walking (and jumping and dancing) on her knees. I thought she was going to stick with that for awhile.

But, no. This week she has been walking up and down, from room to room. She walks very carefully, but very well. Her balance is amazing for a new toddler; today she was walking around the kitchen with a blue plastic mixing bowl in her right hand. She walks around things on the floor. She bends down and stands back up.

She’s toddling, therefore, she’s a toddler.

I am sad, a little. Although, I love to watch her walk. She babbles at me — at anyone — incessantly, but she isn’t saying words. She waves hello and good-bye; she tries to use utensils at meal time. (She’s got the idea, but not the coordination.) I keep trying to teach her some baby signs, but so far it’s been no go.

To me, Bun always seemed to do things in leaps. It seemed to take forever for her to turn herself over. Then I wondered when she was going to figure out how to feed herself finger foods. Crawling, too, seemed to take a long time, and the pincher grip, and so on.

And now she is walking, and pointing, and eating by herself, and trying to use crayons (still trying to eat them, too). And climbing! That girl (girl?!) climbs anything she can. Even at the side of the tub at bath time, she lifts her leg as if she could just swing it on over the side.

I think about my two girls, and how, after Gabriel, they have healed me in different ways. Monkey gave me back the faith I needed; not faith in God, but faith in myself, my ability to have a child, my ability to give my husband a child. That last part may sound weird, but part of the after-loss of Gabriel was fear that I wouldn’t be able to make my husband a daddy, which he was so looking forward to. (Gabriel made him a father; Monkey made him a daddy — I believe I’ve said that before.) To this day, Monkey is very much her daddy’s child.

And Bun. Bun was unexpected. Bun gave us some anxiety. In the end, though, Bun is so the child of my heart. As Monkey is her father’s, Bun is mine. I love them both equally (of course), just in different ways. Monkey proved something to me — probably something to everyone. Bun just is. She didn’t have to prove a dang thing.

Bun will be a year old in less than a month. I’ve seen it coming for awhile. I just didn’t realize it would happen so soon.

I have seen the Thursday Thirteen a couple of places (notably here), and I decided it was perfect for Thanksgiving.

13 Things for which I am Thankful:

1. DearDR earning his license. It has been a tough road for us, but I am so happy we’re at the end of the “hard part”. There are a couple of other hoops, but DearDR is well on his way to a successful career as a psychologist. I think the most thankful people are going to be his patients!

2. Deciding not to go back to work when Bun was six weeks old. I miss working, I truly do, and the financial ramifications are difficult. But we are getting through, and I am so glad I haven’t missed my Bun’s amazing, humbling, and amusing development. And of course being home with Monkey has been rewarding, too. I can start working again next year.

3. Deciding on — and keeping, mostly — the TV Vow. It has challenged me to become more involved with my children’s play in such a way that I, too, am entertained and not bored out of my mind. (I’m sorry, but sometimes playing with kids is boring. You know it is; just admit it.)

4. “Arts and craps”. I am so glad that I stumbled onto these types of activities to do with Flora. I’m sure it’s developmentally great for her and blah, blah, blah, but more importantly: fun and she’s out of my hair for a bit.

5. To go along with 3 & 4: I am thankful that my children have the ability to amuse themselves. Mileage varies, but they do not look to me every instance of the day to entertain them. Which, really, is better for them than for me!

6. Oh, to also go along with 4: Bun still usually takes her morning nap. Thank goodness.

7. The Library. (Reaching already and I’m only at 7!) Monkey has just started attending Toddler Time (or whatever it’s called) at our local library. It’s an hour of structured activity that I don’t have to structure! Of course, it would be nice if I would get there on time. Plus, I mean, who’s not thankful for libraries? I can’t buy all the books I read. I don’t got the space and I don’t got the moolah. Free books! (And music and DVDs and puzzles for Bun to bang on while Monkey’s in Toddler Time!)

8. My in-laws. Not only do they help me out in some form almost everyday (they live next door, in case you’ve just tuned in), my mother-in-law Bella is always picking up little things for them. A sleeper for Bun, or a DVD, or, today, a portable folding potty seat for Monkey. She just sees something (usually something too cute to pass up) and she just buys it. It’s a nice bonus in the in-laws category.

9. Being at my parents’ house for Thanksgiving with the whole fam damily. That means: us; my little sister, K, and her dog Buddy; plus my brother T with his wife and three boys (ages 6, 4 and 8 months); obviously, Pap-pap and Nonna. It’s fun; it’s crazy; the food is awesome; the drinks are awesomer; AND I don’t have to change every single diaper or feed every meal or give every bath. Everybody pitches in!

10. Photo Friday.

11. This here blog. I am writing again. Regularly. It is good for my soul, and I hope it leads me to bigger and better things. I don’t even care if they are financially rewarding. Although, obviously, that would be a big bonus.

12. My immediate family. This seems apparent, but I want to put it that way: my immediate family: my spouse, my children. I am thankful to be in relationship to these people in these unique ways: bonds of love and blood. I know that as time goes on, we will redefine holidays and tradition and more, and I am looking forward to the chance to do that.

13. That my husband makes homemade wine. GOOD homemade wine. It’s probably partially responsible for that last post.

Happy Thanksgiving, Blog-O-Sphere. What are you thankful for?

Grief is a strange beast. It ebbs and flows; it buries you. Days you can’t breathe for grief, and when it ebbs, you don’t feel relief, you just wonder when it will become too great to bear again.

I know for a long time after Gabriel was gone, I kept thinking: This is not my life. I would wake up at night and listen for the baby. I would wake up in the morning, and before the truth hit me — again — I would think, “Oh, it was a bad dream.” I thought that any moment I would really wake up and find the nightmare over and Gabriel would be with us.

I kept thinking it was a test, a trial. That after we passed — however you pass a test like that — our son would be returned to us. Like God or the universe was playing a prank. A tasteless, crappy prank, but it was easier to believe that than that our Li’l Bean, as we had called him through the pregnancy, was truly gone. Was dead. Was buried in the ground, in a casket smaller than a bassinet. The bassinet that we had had waiting for him.

I had listened to that heartbeat for 37 weeks. How could it have stopped? This was not my life.

Each year, half a million babies are stillborn. Can you believe that number? 500,000! Dan and I were stunned when we met with the perinatologist and he told us that statistic. I mean, we knew it could happen, but that it did happen that often was… surprising, is as good a word as any here.

In half of those half million cases, a cause is never found. Such was the case with Gabriel. There are some theories as to why we lost Gabriel, but at the time, no answers. And nothing that said to us, “Don’t try this again.” No genetic abnormalities; his cord was not wrapped around his neck; no other trauma or reason.

He just died. Before he was ever born.

The grief washed over us. And even as the days and weeks and months went by, even as I didn’t spend as much time literally crying, the grief didn’t leave. Four plus years later, two healthy daughters later, the grief is still here.

I own it now though. I know this is my life. And while I have accepted that, and I take so much joy in my family, I feel Gabriel’s absence every day. I still cry.

And then I go and hold my little girls and my husband, and I let them heal me.

Thursdays are not good days for me. By Thursday I am very tired. I have had enough of the stay-at-home-mom role. I have had enough of the battle of wills, the feeling I have that every day is spent: feeding, diapering, potty visiting, trying to get to nap or quiet time, cleaning, cooking, feeding, bathing, getting to bed, folding laundry, etc. You know the drill as well as I. I am tired of trying to think of things to do with my girls — cheap, nay, free, things. Even more tired of trying to actually do things like grocery shop with them, or play boat, or go for walks around my sidewalk-less neighborhood.

I am just tired.

The TV vow has actually been going pretty well since I wrote about it. Until today. Today I just couldn’t face trying to get Monkey up to her room where she wouldn’t rest or nap or be quiet enough for Bun to sleep. So I left her in the living room (securely gated in), on her Pooh couch, and let her watch a Backyardigans DVD. I proceeded to eat lunch, read a little, clean the kitchen and put in a load of laundry. Plus check my e-mail, update my resume, and read a little more. She was quiet, I have to admit that. She didn’t move from her little couch. So she watched a total three hours of TV instead of one, for which I’ve been aiming. Oh well.

At least I didn’t have Panda’s day.

Monkey doesn’t name her animals yet. When pressed she will usually name it after an aunt, uncle or cousin she’s seen recently.

But she does love them, even when she buries them in grass.

The Good

Pictures!

Go Steelers! Monkey and Bun dressed in proper Sunday gear. The Pittsburgh Steelers are now 2-0. They actually looked kind of impressive in the second half of Sunday’s game against the Buffalo Bills. It may be a good year to be a Steeler fan!

Bun must pull up on everything and everyone. DearDR says she actually stood on her own Saturday afternoon. She’ll be walking by Monkey’s birthday. I can’t stand it…

The Bad
This is about an argument. And the argument is about sex. And if you don’t want to know about arguments or DearDR and my sex life, avert your eyes. Look at more pictures. Or read the funnyness below.

DearDR and I have a troublesome sex life. I’ve mentioned this before. We both like sex, and it is an important compenent of our marriage. Unfortunately it has taken a hit, and it took a big hit this weekend.

Because of our birth control method, known as Natural Family Planning or the Fertility Awareness Method, and because of our differing libidos (mine quite low as of the past year or so, and DearDR’s still very, very high), and our schedules, fitting in actual sexual intercourse is challenging. Additionally, DearDR needs to have sex or have an orgasm, the way I need to read some of a novel at night, or have a glass of wine. It’s how he wants to relax, sometimes the only way he can relax. And believe me, right now DearDR needs some relaxing.

Yesterday, he came over from next door, where he was studying for his licensure test, and tried to get it on with me. Not only am I having my period right now, but I had had a very difficult time getting the kids in for their naps (and Monkey wasn’t really napping, anyway). This on top of a difficult morning and my over-riding desire to sit still for at least one half hour and watch football. Plus, I was washing dishes when he came home.

I said a very unfortunate thing, along the lines of, “I am tired of our sex life being about you hitting me up for blow jobs.” (DearDR, like many men, I suspect, doesn’t really dig having sex “while the painters are in” as he so quaintly puts it.) This, quite understandably, made him quite angry. So he stormed back off next door to study more; and I regretted my outburst but was unable to apologize for it in the moment.

I got more and more depressed as the day wore on over my gaffe and the hurt it inflicted on DearDR, and the fact that it was going to lead to a bigger fight later when really I wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with my husband after the day, and, yeah, maybe help him out with his needs a little bit. But I was angry, too, because it seems like the burden of solving what is wrong with our sex life is on me, and I really don’t want anything else on me right now. That is probably an unfortunate turn of phrase in this context.

And Monkey wouldn’t be quiet in her room, and I couldn’t watch football, and it’s already been a crappy month, and I had had an… let’s call it an intense conversation — one during which my temper snapped and I cried quite a bit — with a friend earlier in the week. When he came home for dinner later, and I confirmed that he was indeed quite angry, I cried, and it took a lot of willpower not to just get in my car and drive away. I just want to run away from big, emotional, intense things lately. And stuff keeps happening along these lines, and I am really tired.

The Absolutely Hysterical

More hilarity from the Monkey occurred over the weekend.

On a walk near the covent down the road from our house, DearDR and Monkey stopped by a statue of Mary holding Jesus. DearDR said, “Who is that?” Monkey answered, “Mary.” (In Monkey-speak, sounds like, “Ma-wy.”) “And who is she holding?” “Baby Jesus.” Then Monkey looked up at DearDR and said, “Where’s Joe?”

Occasionally, DearDR says to Monkey, “Do you know what I want to tell you?” He usually says, “That I love you very much” or “You’re such a beautiful little girl.” Something along those lines. The day after the “Joe” crack, DearDR said to Monkey, “Do you know what I want to tell you?” And Monkey responded, “That you have my present right here?”

So DearDR e-mailed me this article the other day. Granted, all the data are from 2004, but it’s probably safe to say that not much has changed in three years. (I’m not sure what brought this to DearDR’s attention at this point, either.)At first, I got a little pissy because, frankly, DearDR is much more likely than I am to turn on the tube and let it run when he’s watching the kids. But then I reined myself in, and realized that while I may not let Monkey watch five hours of TV at a stretch, I certainly am not innocent of turning it on when I don’t feel like doing anything. My choice to “use” the TV is usually quite selfish: so I can have a second cup of coffee, or read a few more pages of my novel, or whatever. I turn on the TV for some me time.

But I don’t think I need that much me time anymore. I have nap/rest time (usually); I have an hour or so at night. I think it is better for me to commit the play time to Monkey and Bun, and use the TV less. Also, I am quite lucky that my girls are good at amusing themselves for short stretches of time. At least enough time for that second cup of coffee.

Will I completely turn off the TV? No. In my head, I figure an hour, in two separate 1/2 hours, is a nice amount of TV watching. My chosen viewing for Monkey is usually a DVD — Dora, Baby Einstein, the Scholastic videos (these are awesome, videos based on Scholastic books, and Monkey loves them and reading the books that go with them; I discovered them at the library).

In reading the article, I am less struck by TV’s link to ADD or ADHD (I mean, it’s nice that they are studying this, but it’s not exactly rocket science to make the link) than by this fact: “Last year, the Kaiser Family Foundation reported that a third of children under 6 live in homes where TV is on most of the time, and 33 percent of those children have televisions in their bedrooms.” From this, more recent, article.

Children under 6 have TVs in their bedroom?? For what? So they can fall asleep with it playing? So they can turn it on in the morning and let their parents sleep a little longer? (Well, okay, that sounds, theoretically, like a fantastic idea — talk about selfish!) Why would any child need a TV in the bedroom? I don’t even plan on letting my children as teenagers have TVs or computers in their room. Bed is for two things; one of them is sleeping, and the other I’m desperately hoping my girls don’t engage in until marriage (I can be in denial for awhile yet).

I did not grow up with a TV in the bedroom. In any of the bedrooms of my house. Or in the kitchen. I did watch TV as a kid — I still have very fond memories of the greatest children’s show ever “The Electric Company”. When DearDR and I got married, and he suggested we put our second TV (once we had upgraded from my dinky 13-inch screen with built-in VCR) in our bedroom, I looked at him like he was nuts. (Same as when he suggested we hang his pictures of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary above the bed, but that’s a different story.) We did not have cable TV in my house growing up. It wasn’t even considered as far as I know.

I felt somewhat vindicated about the “no TV in the bedroom” when I saw this study, linking low sexual activity in couples to TV viewing in the bedroom (obviously, they aren’t watching the right thing together, wink wink). But at this point, seeing as DearDR and I only manage to have sex, oh, twice a month, and he often falls asleep on the couch (watching TV, duh) and stays there all night, maybe I should reconsider. Our sex life won’t get better, but at least we’ll be sleeping in the same bed! (Which my parents ALWAYS did and still do. I don’t know how my mother deals with the snoring!)

Now I am not a child psychologist or a sociologist or any kind of child-care professional (unless you count SAHM). These are just my thoughts and opinions, and I’m not really going to analyze the trend or the study. I think it makes a good point, and I for my part am going to try really hard to reduce the amount of time my kids watch TV. I know that they will still get plenty of viewing time in at my in-laws (talk about a household that has TV on all the time! My FIL watches Fox News in the living room; my MIL watches the Food Network or her mystery shows upstairs and/or in the kitchen, and Nanny has her own set in her room), and probably some at daycare (when they go back), and I can live with that. Control what you can, and all that.

It’s been a week, a busy week, yet at the same time, oddly eventfull-less. Shopping trips (grocery-type shopping, not the fun-type shopping), a birthday party, visits to a waterpark, the library.

A few updates:

DearDR passed his first test to become a licensed psychologist. He — and therefore we — is (are) on his (our) way. As he said as he embraced me this morning with the letter still in-hand, “This is going to happen.”

Monkey pooped in the potty. She has also peed a couple of times in the potty. We have a ways to go, but we are going. (Oh, sorry, pun.) M&Ms are, indeed, fantastic motivators.

Bun not quite crawling forward. But so close. Crawling, almost, backwards instead. I wish I could motivate her with M&Ms! Chewing ziewback toast instead (she does not eat it, per say, as the goop down her bib and on her food tray can attest. Pictures coming soon). Being sweet, sweet, sweet (this isn’t new, but bears repeating, IMHO).

I am still unemployed, but not for lack of wanting not to be (if that makes sense). We were even thinking up strategies to “run into” my old boss downtown in the elevator at 6 or 7 a.m., and make the argument to get hired again. But then I discovered the firm had hired another writer. So, as I said to DearDR: “Next!”

Oh, and, um, ashamed to say, have bought pack of cigarettes. Have smoked a few on my front porch/stoop. First one from said pack smoked in a restaurant with Beck’s “New Pollution” playing. No, not ironic at all.

Thought provoking stuff to read online:

Her Bad Mother points out that foisting Bratz Dolls on the “matriarchy” is simply nonsense. (What an awesome argument this is. I wish I had said it even half as well. Especially as the mom of two girls.)
Cynical Dad realizes how lucky he is.
Earthmother talks about the unkindest cut and — more importantly — how to avoid it.
Girl’s Gone Child is lonely, as a lot of moms are. I think young moms, like GGC, are a little lonelier than us “older” (I think I have about ten years on GGC) moms. I miss my friends a lot, though, being able to see them whenever. Although I don’t want to stay out with them until 1 a.m. any longer. What I would really like is a day or two to not get up at 7 a.m. and go until 8:30 p.m. with kids, alone. That is my fondest wish (my fondest selfish wish; my fondest wish is that my children grow up to be beautiful and brilliant and happy and well-adjusted).

Well, we are back from a week spent at a resort nearby in the company of my family (and I mean the whole fam damily: aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins on my father’s side). Bun was a hit, many of the family meeting her for the first time; Monkey had a blast — so much fun I’m sure there were days her head was going to explode. Swimming, playing with Buddy, Play-Doh with Nonna, walks, no naps, ice cream, snacks by the pool, other children (most of to whom she was related). I mean more activity in the life of a two-and-a-half-year old than ever happens. And we all survived.

As has been pointed out (to me, at me and on other websites), vacations with children aren’t necessarily vacations. DearDR was not with us for most of the week, because he had to work. But he was down the first weekend and for the Fourth of July. In spite of my parents’ (with whom we were staying) almost daily tee times, I still had a lot of help with the kids. My sister, who arrived Tuesday night, spent more time in the pool with Flora than I did. And it’s not exactly hard work to spend two hours reading while Bun napped, a luxury I received almost daily because Nonna, Pap-pap and Aunt Krissy (and Buddy) were perfectly willing to hang with the Monkey.

So now I am all refreshed on the Harry Potter books, and ready for the next one. And we are safe at home. I have great video and great pictures, and I will get them here when I can. But right now, Bun is waking from her nap and needs to be tended to. She got her first tooth today, so now I know why she’s been the little crank-meister for awhile now. Poor Bun — vacation/travel-related schedule disruptions and a tooth coming in. And she still had a smile for just about everyone on vacation. What a trooper she is proving to be.

I was changing the Bun’s diapers when I overheard this conversation between my mother (Nonna) and my mother’s mother (G. G. for great-grandmother):

Nonna: So you’re wearing regular panties now?

GG: Yes.

Nonna: You’re not wearing the Depends anymore?

GG: No, not right now.

Nonna: Well, are your pants wet? Should I change you?

I listened to this exchange as I listen to many exchanges between these two women. In some ways, I feel as if I’m listening to my future.

My grandmother, GG, is almost 89 years old. She has been a widow for more than 25 years. Since I was a teenager, she lived in a senior citizens’ apartment complex; she was very independent. Until about two years ago, she drove by herself. Then she started getting lost, forgetting where she was going and/or how to get there. 

Although for most of her life she has been in good health, lately she hasn’t been doing well mentally. She doesn’t have Alzheimer’s (thank goodness), but she clearly has age-onset dementia.

A couple of months ago, she took a spill and fractured her pelvis. My mother and her brother, my uncle, had to move her out of the independent-living senior apartment where she resided. She is now in assisted living and will probably be there the rest of her life. She walks with the assistance of a walker, but she can’t do many other things for herself.

GG is deaf. She is extremely forgetful. Sometimes, she has acute attacks of paranoia. For awhile she was convinced my uncle tried to kill her (he was with her when she fell). Sometimes she thinks my uncle and my mom are stealing all her money.

I watch the interactions between my mother and her mother with curiosity. My mom is already losing her hearing, although she doesn’t like to admit it. She says she misses the first parts of words, and often if she’s not looking at you, she doesn’t realize you’re talking to her.

My mother is in very good health. She eats well; she exercises. At 62, she looks fantastic. She still works, and she and my father are very happily married, enjoying travel and their grandkids, and looking forward to retirement.

Where will she be in 20 years? Will she be forgetting how to get from her house to mine? Will she forget what clothes she owns? Will she forget about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren? Will my brother and sister and I be figuring out who will be taking care of her? Will my father still be around?

Goodness, I don’t mean to tempt fate. But someday, will Monkey or Bun be changing my grandchild’s diaper in the other room while I ask my mother if she needs a new Depends?

Part of me is already in mourning, of course. I know a lot of stories of my grandmother’s life — and they are excellent stories of a well-lived life — and I hope I remember them for a good long time.

Because she can’t tell them to me anymore.