Red Pen Mama

What the girls are up to:

Bun says new words every day. Her first sentence? “I want that.” Rendered phonetically: “Eyeontdat.” Picture the little pudgy hand reaching out in a grasping motion as well.

Cute — adorable, actually — but probably spells trouble for the future.

DearDR asserts that she hasn’t actually said a sentence because she doesn’t yet understand conjugation: She wants that; you want that. I understand his point, but I’m still calling it her first sentence.

Monkey’s first sentence was a question: “What is that?” Phonetically: “Wot dat?”

Bun doesn’t seem to care, she just wants “dat”. Especially if her sister has it, of course.

Holy cow, I did not realize the “must do everything older sibling is doing” phase would start at 17 months.

And who knew girls wrestled?? I’ll try to post video. As long as I don’t have to intervene to keep someone from suffocating her sister. And that can go either way.

Monkey is dressing herself. She usually does a good job, although she occasionally puts things on backwards. She has not yet insisted on picking out her own clothing. Once in a while, she will insist on wearing her rain boots, but she seems content to leave sartorial decisions to me. For now.

We went to the pediatrician and he proclaimed all ears are clear of fluid and infection. This is a relief, but I wonder how long it will last.

We have an appointment with an ENT doctor at the end of the month.

The chiropractor suggested going dairy free. I am dubious, and my pediatrician was downright nonplussed. I give him credit for not blurting out, “What crazy person told you that??” Because I saw it flit across his face before he became composed and simply said, “I have never heard of dairy affecting ear infections.”

The chiropractic literature is full of the suggestion that dairy allergies lead to ear infections. I have doubts. The pediatric literature doesn’t mention it. So… yeah.

I would like to avoid tubes for the girls as I know they will outgrow this problem. (Thanks for the comments, everyone — online and off.) At the same time, I would like to stop treating them with antibiotics, because I think we may be creating a problem down the line. I have my doubts about going non-dairy because the girls don’t really seem to have a problem with dairy — no lactose intolerance, no runny noses, etc. Plus, they usually get organic dairy, and their exposure to cow’s milk (as a beverage) is minimal. They drink fortified soy or rice “milk”.

Also, quite frankly, going completely dairy-free is next to impossible. I am a label-reader because of the vegetarian thing anyway. I challenge you to find food without some kind of dairy (casein, whey, non-fat milk, you name it). Fresh fruits and veggies are about it. And very expensive organic cookies. But even “Veggie Slices” is loaded with dairy; it just doesn’t contain lactose, which is the most common culprit of gastric distress in those who can’t tolerate dairy.

In short: lots going on, as per usual. We probably will not go dairy-free — I just don’t think it’s a good idea. I feel pretty good that despite the ear infections Bun’s language development is moving right along. No doubt her next sentence will be, “I’m going to scream if I don’t get that.” Oh, wait. She doesn’t really need language per se for that, huh?

At least she is signing “please”.

(and it broke my heart a little bit.)

Picture Monkey, arms stretched to the sky. She is wearing a cute peasant skort and a white tank top. She is dancing under bubbles that float up and up to the sky.

She is joy embodied; she is arms and legs and feet and hair and blue eyes and smiles and freedom.

And I flash to her at 16, or 18, or 22 years old, laughing and free. And I know any boy looking at her will surely lose his heart. And when I see it happen I will think of this day, the day my daughter was dancing under bubbles with skinned knees.

And I will think, “That was yesterday.”

For now I can say it: It was yesterday. And I hope I always carry that yesterday in my heart and in my head. We will need those yesterdays: we mothers, and we daughters, and all of us who have ever loved.

All those yesterdays for all those tomorrows.

It’s an odd time of the year for me.

It’s the time of the year when I think most about Gabriel. He would be 5 years old this year, tomorrow.

I usually think of Gabriel at least once every day. Often just in passing. It’s especially poignant when I am with my nephews and niece and my children all together. As much love as I have for them all, I feel with a little bit of my heart that there is a child missing.

A child is missing. I am missing a child.

I feel in dwelling on him, as I do around this time of year (starting Mother’s Day, and going through the anniversary of his delivery), that I run the risk of seeming self-indulgent. That I run the risk of seeming ungrateful.

I am extremely blessed in my marriage and my family. I have two wonderful girls who fill my life and my heart, fill it to overflowing. I thank God every day for what he has bestowed on me.

And I still miss my little boy.

Although here’s a confession: I forgot to miss him a little bit recently.

Around Mother’s Day this year, I looked ahead to the anniversary of Gabriel’s delivery.

I noticed it was on a Sunday, so I talked briefly to DearDR about going to go to church as a family, then to the cemetery, then to lunch. He agreed.

But DearDR has his own ritual about Gabriel. He usually marks June 4, as this is the day that Gabriel actually died.

So on Tuesday, when he mentioned he had taken Wednesday off, I was very surprised.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t take it totally off,” he said. “I have two late appointments.”

“Oh. Why did you take most of the day off?”

“I have a physical tomorrow, first of all,” he explained. “With a new doctor.

“And I was going to go to the cemetery.”

With a jolt, I realized the date. I also realized that I had “forgotten” to think about Gabriel, to miss him. In kind of a knee-jerk reaction, I felt guilty. Which I almost immediately knew was ridiculous.

I have been wrapped up in the everyday details and stressors of my life — what I recently referred to as “the daily” — full-time/overtime work, a household to run, bills to pay, children for whom to care, ear infections with which to deal. Sometimes I forget what day it is, let alone what date it is.

Second, I have set aside the day I consider to be the day to mark Gabriel’s… passage.

And because of these two things, I actually hadn’t given much thought to my son in recent days. When I realized that, I felt bad. Then I got a hold of myself.

I shouldn’t feel guilty for forgetting to think about Gabriel. He is in my heart every day, if not always in my head.

And I shouldn’t feel self-indugent thinking about him, and continuing to commemorate the day I feel is most appropriate. Grief doesn’t have a deadline. There is no day that I will wake up free from my sorrow at having lost a child. It’s just not going to happen. I will never forget my uncle, who lost a 22-year-old son more than two decades ago, saying after Gabriel’s death, “Don’t let anyone tell you that it’s time to ‘get over it’. You’ll never get over it.” As difficult as that is to hear, it is also a relief.

Someday I will wonder what kind of teenager he would have been had he lived. I will tell his sisters about him — we tell them now; we take them to the grave with us, but I am sure they won’t understand for a few years. And I will continue to write about him. And tomorrow, we will put white flowers on his grave. And let him know: We will never forget.

So, I had to take a sick day yesterday. The doctor says I probably don’t have anything serious, since I didn’t have a high fever. He advised rest and liquids, Tylenol for discomfort (I had a very sore throat), and said I could travel this weekend, “as long as you’re not flying to Italy.”

Sigh. Italy.

I’m back at work today. I feel pretty good — about 70 percent. I could use more sleep. Monkey was up at 4 a.m., stealing my covers and kicking me. She was whining, too, but it wasn’t until 6:30 a.m., when she started wailing that we really paid attention. She was crying about how her ear hurt.

DearDR and my father-in-law took her to the doctor at 8:45 a.m. She has a double ear infection. Meds are pending. My father-in-law has the prescription.

DearDR hasn’t packed anything yet. I have the girls’ clothes, shoes, and rain gear together. Plus the toys, books, and arts & crafts stuff we will be taking. Tonight is the big packing night.

I want to go. I need to go. I need to hang with my friends and drink some beer (not too much — I’ll be doped up on cold medicine as needed, too). I want to watch my kids run around in the mud.

My whole team at work has just been placed on mandatory overtime, starting yesterday. So is it understandable I need to blow off steam?

Am I being crazy or selfish, taking my just-recovered-from-coxsackie-virus kids (one with a cough, one with a double ear infection) and myself into the woods? And DearDR, too, let’s not forget. Who will sleep as much as he can. To see friends I haven’t seen in awhile? To drink beer?

We’re not contagious any longer (or, not much, I guess. Who knows what germs my darling little petrie dishes are crawling with?). What would you do?

Yesterday’s schedule:

8:15 a.m.: Call from Bella, interrupting, um, special time with DearDR to inform me that green goo is coming out of Bun’s nose, and I need to call the doctor.

9:00 a.m.: Head next door to pick up the children and assess Bun for myself. Bun looks utterly exhausted, yet is in good spirits. Goo from nose is indeed a funny color, kind of yellowish. Bella informs me Bun has not slept for more than two hours at a stretch all weekend, which is weird because she sleeps through the night at home. Bun is not running a fever, but I call the doctor anyway. They have an opening at 12:45 p.m. I take it, thinking I can just cancel it later.

10:30 a.m.: Head across the yard with the kids. Bun is fussing a bit; Monkey seems fine, even happy, to be going home. We show Monkey her newly decorated room, and she oohs and aahs in appreciation.

11 a.m.: Try to put a very fussy and obviously tired Bun in for a bit of a nap.

11:05 a.m.: Try again.

11:15 a.m.: Give up on Bun, and make the girls some lunch instead. Neither one of them seems very interested in eating. In face of fussiness, Bun gets the binky. Goo from nose is now clear, and I think about canceling doctor’s appointment. When I tell this to Bella, she insists I take Bun.

12:30 p.m.: Head to doctor’s office. Bun, naturally, falls asleep on the ten-minute drive.

12:45 p.m.: Sign in at doctor’s office. Am informed that my insurance company is refusing to pay my bills because I have failed to fill out a questionnaire regarding other coverage. Get insurance company on phone, clear up misunderstanding about coverage; pay my copay. (I pay out the arse for COBRA benefits, which is the only reason I have decided to actually take Bun to the doctor. Can’t wait until I start my new job and new benefits kick in.)

1:05 p.m.: Doctor informs me that Bun does indeed have an ear infection. He seems just as surprised as I am; Bun has been smiling at him since he came in (hell, if I were younger and single, I’d be smiling at him too!), and playing peek-a-boo from between my legs.

1:13 p.m.: Get back in car to take Bun home for nap. Bella will come sit with her while Monkey and I run to the store to fill prescription.

1:44 p.m.: Get in car to go fill prescription.

3:15 p.m.: Finally get home with prescription. Bun has been up for 20 minutes. Give Bun medication.

4:15 p.m.: Monkey starts fussing at left ear. Informs me, “My ear hurts.” I wonder if this is a plea for attention and/or medicine (you know, medicine should taste like crap, the way it did when I was a kid; my children think medicine is a treat).

4:20 p.m.: Monkey covers her whole ear with her hand, and cries out, “Mommy, my ear really really hurts.” Starts wailing.

4:21 p.m.: I get doctor’s office on phone. I give Monkey some ibuprophen. Doctor’s office sez, “Come on down.” Monkey falls asleep on the ten-minute drive, thereby confirming that she does indeed feel like crap.

4:55 p.m.: Monkey informs everyone in waiting room that her ear hurts. From the looks of the waiting room, it seems she is not the only one.

5:05 p.m.: Doctor (different one from earlier) informs me that Monkey, too, has an ear infection.

5:30 p.m.: Get kids home and eating some dinner. They don’t have much of an appetite. Shocking.

6:30 p.m.: Get kids upstairs for baths. They haven’t had one since Friday. The in-laws can entertain and feed my children, but due to very bad backs, they are unable to bathe them.

7:06 p.m.: Everyone is bathed and dressed in jammies. We do clean up of front room and I vacuum.

7:30 p.m.: Bella comes over bearing Ratatouille, a kissy-lip cookie, and wine (for herself, I assume).

7:35 p.m.: Tuck very unconscious Bun into bed.

7:45 p.m.: Head to store to fill Monkey’s prescription.

8:30 p.m.: Head home with prescription.

8:40 p.m.: Give Monkey medicine. Say goodnight to Bella, and promise not to bother her for two days (at least). Read Monkey one book, help her brush her teeth, and sing to lullabies to her.

9 p.m.: Clean kitchen. I am not feeling so hot myself.

9:30 p.m.: Make myself hot toddy, hoping that will soothe my throat. Wonder if I need antibiotics, where I am going to go to get prescription. I don’t really have a doctor in the area.

10:30 p.m.: Call DearDR to inform him I am going to bed. He tells me his throat hurts, too. I briefly consider never leaving girls next door for two days again, then I get a grip. If it’s offered, I know I will take it. Thank God that I haven’t yet started new job, and can stay home with sick children the next day. Probably being sick myself, too.

10:31 p.m.: Pass out.

Today, we are all sick, with varying degrees of pain, achiness and energy. But seeing as we all slept until 9 a.m., I think with plenty of rest, fluids, and antibiotics for the girls, we will all recover. DearDR did go to work. Thank goodness, because I can’t see taking care of him today, too.

Ciao.

Things I had forgotten:

The dark, intense beauty of Radiohead
The bombastic genius of Pearl Jam
The pure genius of Beck

Playing music really loud is good for your soul.

Being with my husband without worrying about a child waking up (or walking in).

Life without a baby monitor buzzing in the background.

Walking around my house without having to step over baby gates.

Sleeping in — not because the kids slept in, just because no one else was waking me up in the morning.

Working uninterrupted to get the house clean, instead of cramming in an hour or two a day trying to get on top of the chaos.

DearDR and I have another day child free. Of course, we miss them. But frankly I, at least, needed the break. We are getting a lot done; we are having some fun as well.

Although fishing diapers, clothes and poopy underpants out of a heating duct kind of sucked.

Because what one finds relaxing these days is different.

For example, only having one child as one runs errands. And I had the quiet one, at that. The Bun one, who is content with her binky and her new Uniqua doll from Barnes & Noble. The one who will walk in circles around me as I exchange clothes at Old Navy. The one who will share my spinach and feta pretzel, and talk to me. I’m not sure I understood, but I think she was saying, “Hey, mommy! It is nice to have you all to myself for a change. That other one is noisy! Always chatting, or screaming in the car when the sun gets in her eyes, or yelling, ‘Look at that!’ while you’re driving.”

It’s nice to only have one child to follow or feed or buy a treat for (thank goodness for gift cards). And also have the one child who will smile at everyone and hug legs of people who don’t belong to her. “Hey,” I know she explained at some point during that lunch, “everybody looks the same from the knees down.”

What makes us relax, what vacation days are like, they are different now.

I think I am also holding onto these things because things may be changing. Some job interviews have gone well. And these contented hours I spend now, will be hours I seek, hours we need to get, hours that will have to be scheduled. And while that kind of change makes me apprehensive, I know that it is a change we need.

(Oh, sorry about the lack o’ recipe this Monday. I haven’t tried anything new in a while, so I wanted to wait until I had a couple stored up to share.)

No, I’m not pregnant. Not even “trying”.

It’s just that the other night, out of the blue (okay, not totally apropos of nothing; we were watching Lost Season 3 on DVD, and Juliette had just told Jack she was a fertility doctor) DearDR said, “Do you want to try for another baby?”

To which I was quick to respond, “Not right now.” I’m such a wit. Or twit. Your pick.

But it’s had me thinking for a couple of days now.

In truth, I always thought I would have three children. Technically speaking I did have three children, of course, but I thought I would be raising three children.

I don’t know why three. My mother had three children (really three, not three with an asterisk like me). I mean, I have never made plans according to what my mother did (as she can well tell you), so I doubt that’s it. (Although, as the third aside in this paragraph alone, I will admit I am turning into her. That’s to pre-empt DearDR from pointing it out later, if he ever reads this.)

Another truth is: I really want another boy. I mentioned this in my Crazy Eights post. And I know DearDR brought it up because he, too, wants another boy. It’s a guy thing. Especially an Italian guy thing. Although it turns out, we are firmly in the majority in preferring a boy over a girl (in a future pregnancy; I wouldn’t trade my girls for anything…). For completely different reasons than those listed in that article. (I know in part DearDR wants a boy to carry on the family name. He’s the last shot.)

I don’t want a boy for him, though, I want a boy for me. Because (rumor has it) mothers and sons have a completely different relationship than mothers and daughters. More akin to the father-daughter dynamic.

As a first-hand witness to my mother’s relationship with my brother, and comparing said relationship to my relationship with my mother, yeah, I get that. He was special to her — not more loved by her — it’s just that there was truly something different about their dynamic. It was more peaceful, maybe… more hopeful. It’s hard to describe. Suffice to say that I remember being on the outside and looking in at my mother’s relationship with my brother, and thinking, “I want that at some point in my life.” (Not the relationship with my mother; a relationship with a son.)

To clarify: I did not have a bad relationship with my mother (with either of my parents). As a teen, I butted heads with my father — we were each as stubborn as the other. In my early 20s, after Mom saw my tattoo, she did threaten (in writing, in a letter about three days later) to never speak to me again, because of, and I quote, “the things you have done to and with your body”. Which, to sum up in my mother’s eyes, included piercing my lip, losing my virginity, smoking, and getting a tattoo (not necessarily in that order). I’m not sure she knew about the birth control pills.

Anyhoo, I have gotten way off track here.

To attempt to return to the subject and in the spirit of High Fidelity (the movie with John Cusack, not the book by Nick Hornby; I haven’t read it yet, and I just caught some of the movie today), here are the Top Five Reasons to Immediately Have My Tubes Tied:

5. I have very stressful pregnancies. Der.
4. Every child I have seems to put my writing career further out of my reach.
3. As if it’s not bad enough, I’m sure another child would be financial suicide.
2. I’m pretty sure my perinatologists’ reactions would be, “You again? What are you, out of your mind?”
1. I’m almost sure my midwives would kill me.

(I would never, ever have my tubes tied, for the record. DearDR’s not getting snipped, either.)

Plus, what if I have another girl? I mean, I wouldn’t care, as long as she was healthy and happy and all that, but poor DearDR. I don’t think he would be able to handle the hormones, especially once they hit puberty and I hit menopause.

Top Five Reasons to Try One More Time:

5. It’s a baby!
4. It would totally mess with my in-laws.
3. It’s actually possible it will be a boy. I thought it was more likely that older moms had girls, but not according to this article. She adds, “(Actually, there is about a 51% chance that everyone will have a boy! Older mothers are also more likely to have boys according to some recent studies.)” I wish she had linked to those studies!
2. I just don’t feel like we’re done. Even after Bun was born, I didn’t have the feeling, “That’s it; we’re done.” More like, “Oh, good. She’s here; she made it. Maybe when I get over this, I’ll think about having another one. It’d be nice to have a healthy, living baby boy.”
1. We would have an excuse to have lots and lots of sex.

Listen, people, not having sex as a method of birth control is fool proof, but frankly, it sucks. And technically, NFP isn’t NO sex, but it’s so… rigid about when to avoid sex if you don’t want to be pregnant that it feels that way sometimes. Especially when we’re horny at the same time (DearDR, it probably goes without saying, is horny almost all the time) and/or I want to feel close to my husband.

Also… well, let’s just say, I was no virgin when I got hitched. But, baby, I saved the best for last.

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 been meaning to write this post for two weeks now: Bun Weans Herself.

I have already written about my position on breast-feeding. I’m not a hard-core La Leche lady or anything like that; it just seems the most natural, although not always the easiest, thing to do.

So up until two weeks ago, I was still nursing Bun. She was also getting some formula, and of course, lots of solid food at this point. Like her sister before her, Bun definitely is a terrific eater. I have yet to try something that she absolutely will not eat.

At seven months, she was nursing three times a day: early morning (anywhere between 5 and 7 a.m.), 10-10:30 a.m., and 5 p.m.

Then, about six weeks ago, she started losing interest. She would occasionally sleep through the early morning feed. She almost always still wanted the 10 a.m. nurse-n-nap. And then the 5 p.m. session became hit or miss.

Although Bun didn’t seem to miss anything. She didn’t look for it. She was never one of those pull-on-the shirt type nursers.

Then about three weeks ago, she really lost interest. Instead of nursing, she would smile at my breast, laugh even. She would thoughtfully knead my breast, even giving it an occasionaly pinch. After playing a bit, sometimes she would still take a few sips. As a source of entertainment, my breasts seemed to do the trick; as a food source, not so much.

And then Bun started nipping the nipples, and that was the end. She would catch the very tip in between her four teeth, and that actions hurts like a m-f’er.

I know I am very lucky. Monkey was much the same way about weaning. It just wasn’t that big a deal. Real, solid food seems to be much more interesting than what I have on offer (DearDR probably thinks this too…). Unfortunately, because she is only ten months old, I still have to offer her formula, which she seems to like very well.

The other downside to having breast fed? I have a negative bra size now. I am not even close to kidding. Before kids I was barely an A cup. Pregnancy and breast feeding were boons to my husband. And now. Now, my bra laughs when I put it on. “Honey,” it says, “if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have any curves.”

And you know, it’s right.