My Very Coxsackie Birthday

So two Fridays ago - Owen and I went back to Gymboree. (Well now about six since I apparently forgot to publish this post but that's probably unimportant.  When I did stand-up comedy I told jokes about my brother 'having a baby the other week' until that baby was about eight so. . .

So, for any of you who read my first Gymboree post you may question why I even went back to Gymboree but hey, I'm a person who is willing to give someone a second chance, especially if the second chance is free and involves some of my good friends on an otherwise boring Friday afternoon.

The class was actually better than the first.  There was still a Ms. _______ with the omnipresent creepy clown mascot but it was less like Tammy Faye Baker running a Kindergarten class and more like a gym class programmed for babies with ADD.    I was still not sold on attending but Owen really loved the space, crawling through fabric tunnels, "climbing" up cushioned inclines, etc.   But not quite. . .

Then Sunday night, after our first night out with a babysitter, Owen spiked a fever.   Well, we did not go out with the babysitter, she stayed with Owen and we went out with some friends. We were home by nine, nothing crazy but Owen woke up around midnight burning up and inconsolable.  I brought him into bed to nurse him and console him but he was. . oh yeah inconsolable.  We took his temperature in the morning and it was close to 103 degrees so I called the Dr. as soon as they opened.  I gave him some Tylenol although i briefly considered waiting because I did not want to mask his symptoms and also think that the purpose of a fever is to burn off sicknesses so if we stop the fever we stop that process but he was so miserable I could not make him wait.  We made an appointment for 10:15 and got there ten minutes early.  They were running thirty minutes late.  I walked Owen around the block a few times as he slumped in the Ergo whimpering softly.  His eyes were glassy, and he kept looking up at me as if I had betrayed him, or was just failing to fix what was wrong.  I guess he should have been used to that by now but he seems to awaken each day with renewed faith in me.  I went to the grocery store to buy a banana because it can never hurt to have a banana in your bag and went back to the doctor's office.  Sadly they were still not ready for us.

When we finally went in Owen was crying like a baby and languishing against my chest.  After a brief examination the doctor said it looked like he had Coxsackie.   Well, I'm going to be honest, what I heard was cocksucky but after I googled it upon returning home, turns out I was off in name, if not accurate description.   It is also the name of a town in New York where they first isolated the virus in human feces in 1948.  I am slightly amazed that in the last sixty-odd years they have avoided successful resolutions to change their name.  You think somewhere along the way someone might have said, "Hey we have the same name as a virus that is spread by infected feces that results in skin blistering and throat ulcers and a high fever, what do you say, we switch it around?"

So we went home, cursing Gymboree, and there we stayed for days.  Owen stopped eating at some point, I assume when the blisters erupted in his throat.  Luckily he still nursed so I didn't worry about him.  And that was pretty much the only thing that gave him comfort.  So we sat on the couch, lay on the bed, lay on the floor, and he nursed and nursed and nursed.  The only bright side was that I figured all of this extra nursing would burn some calories to make up for the fact that I was about as sedentary as a contestant on the Biggest :Loser before their trip to the ranch.  And as his skin blistered more and more, I tried not to cry because he looked so awful.  The doctor had said the rash would not bother him, aside from the ulcers in his throat, but it definitely bothered me, and either was he was miserable.

After three days he started to feel better and was back to eating some fruit purees.  And then, the night before my birthday I had gone out with some friends for a pedicure and about half-way through I started to feel exhausted.  This alone is not that unusual since I have felt exhausted for approximately the last nine months but  suddenly all I wanted was to be home in bed.  We finished up, we went home and within ten minutes, I knew I was the lastest victim to be claimed by the cocksucky.   Within thirty minutes my temperature was over 103 and I was down for the count.  Luckily my husband took charge of Owen all night and I slept and slept (well aside from a brief tortured pumping session.)  The next morning I crawled out of bed, threw a blanket and pillow on the floor and sobbed with happiness that Owen was not walking yet.  My husband looked at me with both worry and doubt as he walked out the door.  The doubt was probably that either of us would be alive when he returned home.  "I guess we should cancel the babysitter for tonight," he said.  Considering the fact that I could neither sit-up or swallow, I thought that was a logical action.

So for my birthday dinner, I choked down a cup of soup and a piece of bread and crawled back into bed as my husband took over with Owen again.  I guess if I was a better person I would say that throughout it all I just kept thinking that it was still an amazing birthday because it was the first I spent with my son but really I kept thinking, "Damn, I wish I could swallow my birthday cake."

So, I'm sorry Gymboree, I blame you for this.

Sweet Potato Madness

When Owen first started eating solid foods, we started off with bananas and then added pears and apples (both organic) to the mix.  He seemed to love them, and love eating so I figured it was time to move on to vegetables.  I thought that my best bet was sweet potatoes, though one could argue that a sweet potato's vegetable status us somewhat dubious.  In make your own baby food world sweet potatoes have a stellar reputation, they are virtually the baby gourmet equivalent of foie-gras (minus the unethical tarnish) so I thought I was in easy home-run territory.  So, I purchased some wonderful organic sweet potatoes, steamed them, pureed them with some fresh breast milk and presented them to a smiling Owen.  He leaned his mouth forward to take the spoon heaped high with a mountain of orange glory, took it in his mouth and then promptly spit it out with such force that it painted my face, his high chair, and even the wall behind me.

I took this as a sign that he needed another bite.  After all everyone says that babies can not develop a like or dislike for a food until they have tried it several times.  I thought perhaps if I added a train noise and roller-coaster swoop as I brought the spoon towards his mouth he might find it more enjoyable, much like baby dinner theater.  This time he spit it out so hard it landed on the ceiling fan.  This time the message was clear - Owen did not like dinner theater.  I tried a third time as the cat wisely hid under a chair just in time.  Then I gave up, put the spoon down and peeled a banana.

Over the next few weeks, I tried sweet potatoes a few more times but all to the same effect, though the furniture suffered less as I learned to cover everything with TV's Dexter's kill-room like precision.  He learned to love several other foods he originally hated: peas, spinach, zucchini, but alas the poor potato that helped so many Irish survive was the eternal pariah, that is until one momentous Tuesday.

We were over at our friend G_____________'s house having "music class."  (As an aside I know it is ridiculous to use a letter and a dash to refer to people but I quite enjoy the Austen/Bronte quality of it and no one really asked to be written about in my blog so I want to protect the innocent) Music class mostly consists of having music on in the background as four babies crawl around occasionally banging on a xylophone but mostly chewing on maracas and batons.  At some point, I stopped and fed Owen his lunch of papaya and mango that I had brought with me but after he ate he still seemed hungry.  G___________'s mother brought out some food for all the babies and offered some to us.  It was of course, sweet potato.  But it was not just sweet potato, it had been cooked in a slow cooker with onions, pork, salt and pepper.  I took a bowl without great hope but Owen had that piranha/succubi mouth action going so I put the spoon in. And lo and behold, he LOVED it.  I could not shovel it in fast enough.  He lurched towards the spoon as soon as he had swallowed, gasping and grunting for more.  Before I knew it, the bowl was empty.

He lurched forward again, mouth agape and met an empty spoon.  "It's all gone baby," I said as his mouth started to twitch.  I added the sign language for 'all done' in case that would help clarify things but before the knowledge could sink it he started to sob.  And not just the 'I am slightly upset sob' of discontent but a full-on body shaking wail.  As he screamed at the top of his lungs, tears coursed down his face as he shook so hard I thought he might be having a seizure.  He reached out his hands towards the bowl and looked at me in desperation.

"What's wrong with him?"  one of my friends asked.

"Um, I think he wants more," I said, mildly embarrassed at Owen's clear lack of table manners and gratitude.  Luckily, instead of being horrified G_________'s mom found this cute.  I guess in some ways it was a huge compliment on her cooking, if somewhat of a condemnation of mine.  Apparently even babies can recognize the difference a little salt, pepper, and pork fat bring to an otherwise annoying vegetable.  (It is here I will confess that I actually hate sweet potatoes as well but also found these to be delicious.)  So, we stole some sweet potatoes from the other babies who were less gluttonous and Owen sighed in contented relief as a full spoon of  porky potatoes made their way into his mouth.

I was so inspired by this that I decided to repeat the experiment at home, making my own slow-cooker concoction of similar ingredients.  And I can honestly say, it had nothing with trying to heal my wounded sense of pride at my own food having been rejected with a vigor equivalent to the joy the other was received.  

And low and behold, the porky-potatoes were a hit!  I tried to snap photos to show my friend the joy that her recipe had inspired at home, but it is hard to take pictures while a baby demands to be fed his third bowl.  So, I don't know if sweet potatoes have made it to banana status yet but I have learned that apparently babies, like their moms, find foods more enjoyable when they are actually, well enjoyable.

It also made me feel genetics is no joke because to be honest, it is only a sense of propriety that keeps me from wailing sometimes when I clean my plate, or more likely, it's because I have mastered the skill of refilling my plate on my own.   My third most infamous childhood story is centered around a reaction to food deprivation wherein I was so incensed I stomped on the floor until the chandelier beneath me was shaken free.   My first and second involve lecturing my nursery school teacher about birth control and drinking out of discarded glasses of beer at a state-fair - both before I was six.  I'm sorry mom and Dad.

Payback's a b. . bowl of potatoes.

Our Very First Commercial - Or How We Sold Out For A Bag Of Licorice

I'm pretty sure that Owen is the cutest baby in the world.  Well, maybe not the world, but at least in New York City.  I fully expect baby model scouts to approach us at all times and ask for Owen to sign up with them.  And not those creepy people who might approach you in the mall and tell you you should be a model and all you need to get started is $1000 which you will most likely get back, well never.  No, I expect the bonafide, "you oughta be in pictures" approach.

To be fair to myself, this is based on cold, hard fact, not just the delusions and hubris of a first-time mother.  People often stop us on the street and tell me that Owen could be the Gerber baby, that he is in fact the ideal, or platonic form of baby. . just saying. . . But so far, no contracts, despite our walking slowly by movie sets and coffee shops where advertising scouts probably hang out scouting for the "Next Little Big Thing."  (FOX please take note, this could be your next great competition show. Little Babies, Big Dreams.)

And then, finally on Tuesday it happened!  We were discovered.  Well, or at least we were there.

I was sitting in Washington Square Park with a friend and her baby, trying to have a play date.  Her baby was only mildly co-operating because he is HALF of Owen's age and this means a lot in baby land.  At some point this does not mean as much.  No one in fact would be shocked because my husband is a whole three months older than me but when three months is your entire life, it seems to matter.  And then, we were approached by a film crew.  I saw them walking towards us with a look of determination in their eyes.  I would like to imagine they were thinking, "We have to run and get to that remarkable baby before anyone else."  More likely they were thinking, "We have to run and get to those women before they see us coming and run away."

"So, you two are mothers right?"  they asked.  Part of me was tempted to say, "Nope, baby thieves," but who knows if CPS has a very elaborate undercover agent system in place to make sure I'm still not shaking my baby, so we just nod.

"Well, you are ideal people to be in our licorice commercial," they say.  "Would you like to be in a commercial?"

"No," my friend interjects.

"Are you sure?" he asks, "You are perfect."

"No," she says. "Seriously, go away."

But, the fact is I would very much like to be in a commercial but about twenty pounds ago when I still had time to actually lint-roll the cat hair of my clothes. "I haven't brushed my hair in two days," I say, noticing that nowhere among the crew is a make-up person. But, I am bored and feel like this is something to fill my day.  At the very least it's more interesting than changing a diaper.

 "You look great," says the liar/director. "All you have to say is, 'Once you get a taste of it, I just can't get enough of my Darrell Lea.' Only catch is you have to do it in an Australian accent. Can you do an Australian accent?"

"I can mimic one if I hear it,"  I say.  "But you know, what you just did, was a pretty awful Australian accent?"

"I know," he says, "but I'm sure you can do better."

"What's our model fee?" I ask as my friend looks like she would rather shoot them, than shoot a commercial.

"You get to keep the licorice," he says, holding up a bag. "It's really good licorice."

"Does it count towards his SAG card?" I ask, just to be annoying because, well motherhood is sometimes boring, and this is amusing me.

"No," he says, not amused.  "We're pretty low-budget here, just trying to pay our mortgages."

"What about my mortgage?" I ask. "I've been un-employed since November."

"It's easy," he says, and feeds me the line again.

"This isn't Candid Camera?"  I ask and they assure me it is not. "Well, how about I just make my baby say the line?" I suggest, apparently willing to exploit Owen.  "Look," I say, holding him up, "this will be much funnier and he is quite photogenic." I hold him in front of my face and deliver the line in a very mediocre Australian accent.

"That's actually wonderful," the director says and the whole crew agrees. They make me do another take and film it.  "He looks great on camera," the director says and the whole crew looks and agrees.  "Now, can you do it one more time but make his mouth move?"   It's at this point that I'm pretty sure that the man has never had a kid.  I think he has been watching too many e-trade baby commercials and thinks it's just magic.  I  want to point out that it's probably done in editing and if not those e-trade babies are at least twice Owen's age and in baby land. . well, you know.

"Probably not," I say but we try another take.  I don't know if his mouth moves because he's facing away from me but they seem overjoyed.  Then then have me sign the model release form for Owen.  Owen keeps grabbing the pen which makes it hard for me to write and they seem to be getting impatient.  I want to point out that we just shot a commercial for free but instead I slow down and read the entire release.  "Just to be clear," I ask, you can only use this for this commercial right?  I'm not granting you a release to use his image for anything else?"  (See I only partially exploit Owen, I am no spring chicken, I know how to protect him from the seedy underworld of media exploitation.)

"No," they say.  "It's just for this commercial.  It will only be on the interwebs."   I want to point out that it's really wrong to pluralize the slang interweb, as the fact that it is all connected makes it a web so really can't be pluralized but I let it go.

They hand us a bag of licorice and two coupons.  "It's really good," director man says.  "You can buy it at Whole Foods."  And as fast as they came into our lives, off they went.

So, who knows if this commercial will ever see the light of day.  Last time some commando camera crew tried to film me I never saw it again.  They said they were from the news and filmed me washing my car in my cut-off shorts and a tank top.  (This was about 30 pounds and fifteen years ago.)  I did find it odd that they were driving a black van and had no identification so I said no.  Also, they didn't even have the decency to offer me candy.

So, look for us on the interwebS.  I'm sure Owen will be genius though I don't know how everyone who sees it will track us down for more work.  I guess I'll have to go about it the hard way and keep stalking movie sets.



Owen with his paycheck.

Owen's First Cat Scan and Our First Encounter With Social Services

I am playing with Owen on the floor when Mitch comes home.  He picks Owen up and says, "What's this bump on his head?"  "What bump?"  I ask, because I did not notice any bump.  To be fair to me, Owen has a very large head with fabulous contours so a bump is not easily noticeable.  He is in fact 97 percentile in head size and 25% in height and weight.  Having a rather large head myself, I'm glad they stop measuring heads at some point in your life.

I take Owen back from Mitch to examine his head.  There is in fact a LARGE bump on his head, that is soft and squishy to the touch, much like it is filled with blood.  I have no idea how this happened.  Turns out Mitch does.  Apparently they were playing while we were on vacation in Palm Springs and Owen wiggled out of his arms and smacked his head on the marble counter top in the bathroom.  He cried for about five minutes and then seemed fine so Mitch forgot about it and moved on.  Part of me wants to zero in on the fact that head injuries really should be mentioned even if they seem to be minor but that's a conversation for later. For now I have other priorities so I do what any mother would do here - freak out.

I call my sister and ask her if she has any advice.  My sister works in a hospital so I assume she knows all things medical though she is in fact not a doctor.  Well, she is a doctor but in bio-medical engineering and medical physics which does not give her the knowledge to tell me if my son is about to die from a bump on his head.  She also has two kids which gives her an edge.  She does her best to help me regain calm. (see how handy it is) though it does not work that well.  I debate with Mitch what I should do.  He thinks Owen seems fine so I might as well wait until Owen's doctor appointment which happens to be tomorrow.  I then do what one should not do - Google.  I go onto Dr. Sears's site because I figure if I am going to go to the internet for research I should at least narrow my fear scope.  I don't want to end up with someone's personal diary about the demise of their child.  Under head injuries, it says that hematomas can develop up to 4 days after an injury which is about what it is now.  It also says a few more things that lead me to call Owen's doctor right away.

Since it is night time, I have to leave a message with the service who then relays it to Owen's doctor who calls me back in about two minutes.  After my explanation she asks where the bump is.  I tell her, an inch above the ear.  "Go to the ER," she says.  "Anywhere else I would say, don't worry about it, but in that area we always send people.  There are some major arteries there and it. . "  Well the rest of it does not really matter because I start to pack a bag while I am still on the phone.  I add extra diapers, a jacket, and our un-eaten take out dinner, Vietnamese sandwiches and two ears of corn covered in coconut-mayo dressing.   Then we go out to catch a cab.  We debate if we should take the car seat and stroller but I can't imagine trying to maneuver in it around a crowded ER.  Also, it is raining and it's easier just to put him in the Ergo carrier and go.

We go out to the street and of course there are no cabs to be found.  I stand staring at St. Vincent's Hospital which is about a block away and stands dark and shuttered in the rain.  It has been empty for over a year and there is no hospital in our neighborhood anymore.  It makes me angry that we could have already been in the ER when I am still trying to flag down a cab.  I watch cab after cab go by until finally one stops.

between the rain, the traffic, and my growing fear, the ride to the hospital takes forever.  When the cab driver drops off off, I think I tip him 50% on the ride.  I am so thankful he stopped and it seems like good karma somehow to tip a lot on your way into the hospital to make sure your baby is okay.

When we go in, we realize we are dropped off at the wrong location.  Right hospital but it is not the ER wing. We ask for the ER and the man near the front desk asks, "Is it for the baby?"  "Yes," I say, and before I can move, he starts whisking us through an elaborate series of corridors, elevators and back ways until we somehow wind up in the ER.  I am thankful enough to kiss him but it also terrifies me somehow, as if there is more urgency than I thought.

Soon enough we get to the ER and my first thought is that if my son does not have a skull fracture that he might still leave with a disease.  All of the seats are taken and no one offers their seat.  I guess this makes sense because no one chooses to be at the ER at 8:00 on a rainy Tuesday evening.  Still, there are a few people who look like they could have waited.  I once gave up my seat in a clinic for a women with a baby when I had cut half my finger off with a cuisinart. . of course she didn't take it.  Probably because I had already bled on it but still.

Good news is we don't actually have to wait that long.  Long enough that we do get a seat and solve a puzzle or two on Wheel of Fortune which is comforting because this is actually what we would be doing at home.  Except at home we would be eating our Bahn-Mi sandwiches but there is something about the thought about pulling out a pork belly sandwich in an ER that makes me want to remain very very very hungry.

At some point, they call our name and we move from one room to another, to another.  People ask us what happened, we tell them.  They take his vitals, which appear to be fine.  They examine his head, which appears to not be fine. Still, the doctor does not think anything is really wrong, or is this the impression I get.  We are moved from a room to a little curtained partition, basically a curtain around a bed.  There is barely room for the three of us in there when two of us are on the bed.  I think how different this looks from all the ER shows.  A camera couldn't even follow someone in the lane in front of us.  Mitch and I are getting hungry but still not desperate enough to eat while the woman in the curtain next door is speaking about bed pans and blood samples.  Finally the doctor comes back in and says after talking to my pediatrician, they think that we need to have a cat scan to make sure there is no fracture and/or internal bleeding.

When they are ready to us, we take Owen over to the cat scan machine.  As we wait in the hallway outside of the cat scan room, I slump against the wall and start to cry. I can not imagine my little baby in that big machine.  I had a cat scan once and had to meditate through the whole process because it was so intimidating,  and now my poor little guy is going to be there all by himself.  I think I mutter something like, "my baby, not my little baby."  Mitch tries to comfort me and I have only one moment where I want to blame him, to say something awful but inside I know that nothing I say will bring me any comfort and it will just always be out there in space so I let him hug Owen and I in a tight little circle.

They won't let me stay in the room.  They wrap Owen in a lead swaddle and drape an apron over Mitch. Mitch holds a pacifier in Owen's mouth who is oddly, not crying.  In fact he seems to be the calmest he has been since he was born. I, on the other hand, am held together by dissolving stitches.  I stand outside of the room and cry again.

It is over in seconds. Then there is more waiting.

Finally the doctor comes back.  The fact that it takes so long gives me a sense of relief.  I assume if there was really something wrong with him that people would come faster.  Dr. H comes back and tells us that Owen does indeed have a skull fracture.  A hairline fracture running horizontally across his skull.  "Their heads are basically like eggshells," he tell us, "these are really very common. It should heal with no problem."

I am still trying to process that he has a skull fracture.  The good news is there is no bleeding inside the brain, nothing requiring surgery.  But before they let us go, they want us to wait for a neuro-surgeon consultation.  I think it is at this point we eat our sandwiches.  We still can't stomach the corn on the cob.

I call my mom and dad.  I update a group of mom friends on line and read with comfort their responses and prayer, wishes for Owen to be okay.  Most of them, I only know from online but they are the only friends I reach out to right now.  Well, them, and two friends in Brooklyn who I ask to say a prayer for us.  I am not really an ask for prayers person but I do it and I know they are the type of people who will actually pray for Owen and it feels good.

I go to the bathroom more to just get away for a moment than for anything else.  I get lost and end up somewhere I shouldn't be but I find a cleaner bathroom.  When I come back, I see a man standing in front of Mitch asking questions.  When I get closer I can see that he has a clipboard that says social services.

I walk up and say hello and he sort of smiles back at me.  And then he asks me why it took me so long to bring my child into the ER.  I ask him what he means and he says, "Why did it take you four days to seek treatment?"  My mind starts racing because the implication seems to be that a good parent would not have taken this long.  I stay calm though and answer that he had no symptoms before then.  I want to sound like a responsible parent without seeming like I am trying to sound like a responsible parent which is what I would be doing if I was not a responsible parent.  It feels like trying to tell someone you are not drunk when you are in fact not drunk but people think you are drunk.  I go for the approach that any Law and Order episode would teach you - give the facts but don't go out of your way to explain why you are innocent.  "As soon as we noticed the swelling, I called my pedicatrician,"  I say, pointing out how I immediately sought a professional opinion.  "We have our 6 month check-up tomorrow," I say, "but I was too worried to wait, so I wanted to ask her if I should go to the ER."  I hope this also points out that we indeed have regular appointments.  I want to say, " I AM A GOOD MOM! I TOOK HIM TO THE ER WITH A COLD LAST WEEK.  I ROCK HIM WHEN HE CRIES AND CRIES AND FEED HIM AND LOVE HIM AND SING TO HIM AND KISS HIM AND BREASTFEED AND CO-SLEEP AND GO TO MOMMY AND ME YOGA AND THE PARK AND EVEN EAT ORGANIC BERRIES SO NOTHING GETS IN MY MILK AND I LOVE MY BABY AND I MAY SING ABOUT SHAKING MY BABY BUT I NEVER EVER EVER HAVE"  but I figure this makes me seem a little crazy.

Social Services man asks more questions.  He asks what we do for work and I say I am out of work and then immediately think I should have just said I am a stay at home mom because out of work people are probably more stressed and . . . breathe, breathe.  He asks what I did before that.  I make my job sound very intellectual and professional.  I am very calm and succinct on the outside.  Inside I am still a lunatic.  He asks if Owen has had any injuries before.  I say, "No," then inside of my head think.  SHIT THAT'S A LIE.  MITCH FELL WITH HIM BEFORE BUT THAT IS TOTALLY NORMAL TOTALLY AN ACCIDENT BUT YOU WOULD THINK TWO TIMES IS NOT AND EVEN MY ANGRY MOMMY SELF KNOWS MITCH IS THE BEST DADDY IN THE WORLD AND WE LOVE OUR BABY AND GO AWAY PEOPLE PLEASE  Finally he does go away.

Finally neuro-surgeon people get out of their surgery, come by and do a few tests on Owen and then say they think he will be fine.  Social Services man is with them and listens as neurosurgeon man asks a lot of the same questions about our jobs, our lives, etc.  I wonders if Social Services man thinks we will confess something else to the doctor that we would not to him.  I do have to say the doctor is pretty slick about it and if I had anything to spill, I might.  Something about the way he asks questions, while examining Owen, as if they were just chit-chat, like, "It's a rainy night huh?  Well, he seems to have equal reactions bi-laterally which is a good sign? What do you do for a living?  So, do you often throw your kid against the wall?"

Finally, he leaves.  Dr. H comes back again, sets us up with a follow-up appointment with the neuro-surgeon to make sure Owen's skull has healed and finally we pack up to go home.   Dr. H is great.  He is calm, he smiles, laughs, assures us that Owen will still be a genius if he would have been a genius in the first place.  Our nurse is wonderful too.

My dad has come to drive us home and it is a blessed relief to climb into his car instead of trying to hail a cab home.  I am exhausted, physically and mentally but so, so happy to be going home with my family all in one piece, even of some of the pieces, mental and physical will take a little time to heal completely.

Why You Don't Take A Baby on Vacation When It is 115

We were headed to Palm Springs for a friend's 40th birthday party and were already having misgivings about going.  When we booked this trip we neglected to look up the weather and a few days ago learned it would be roughly 118 degrees with a low of 104.  Still, the trip was starting out better than our last one where we almost missed our flight.  We were at the airport early enough to buy water and coffee and change a diaper so things were looking good.  I had recently bought Owen a small maraca and while we were waiting to board I was shaking it for him and dancing around singing, "Shake, shake, shake.  Shake, shake, shake, shaker your baby, shake your baby," to the tune of 'shake your booty.'  

"You can't do that," my husband said to me, appalled.  "To Child Protective Services, that's the equivalent of making a bomb threat in the airport."  I wanted to point out that we were in an airport and he had just said bomb threat but I am trying to be nicer.  I did point out that I highly doubted that there were undercover CPS agents casing the waiting area by the gate and I'm also pretty sure that the people who do in fact shake their babies don't sing about before they do it.  They more likely do it in a fit of rage or frustration much like I experienced four months ago.  (For anyone who did not read that post  I DID NOT EVER SHAKE MY BABY.  I just wanted to.)

But stopped shaking the maraca and singing.  Not to be nice but because I am as easily bored by myself as Owen is and it was also time to board.  Owen was actually great on the plane.  Our second leg, a short jaunt from Vegas to Palm Springs was a little anxiety producing. The plane was roughly the size of a Smart Car and our ride felt like we were on the Spin Cycle of a washing machine from 1930.  I was pretty sure that holding Owen in my lap was a bad idea because at every other bump I was pretty sure the man in front of me was going to end up catching him, or dropping him.  I kept watching the flight attendant's face for panic (which is a trick a pilot friend of mine taught me - don't worry until you see fear in their eyes) but she seemed calm so I tried to remain calm.  (As an aside, I am bothered by the fact that usually when people say 'remain calm' that they are no longer calm.  People should really say 'regain calm'.   But that's a different blog.)   So, I regained calm, we landed safely and I thought the worst of the journey was over.

That's when I got off the plane and stepped into an oven - at 11:00 AM.

It was at this moment that I realized that this trip was going to be a challenge.  I don't really enjoy heat - even this it's not really as hot because there is no humidity stop lying to me it's still 119 heat.'  But Owen enjoys heat even less than I do.  Maybe because at 15 pounds and existing entirely on breast milk and the occasional spoon of banana, he can de-hydrate about as fast as a puddle in the Sahara.  And he has skin just slightly paler than the skin of my Albino sister-in-law's 1 year old. That's right - I said paler.

But, after almost having a meltdown while we waited an hour and a half for the hotel to get our room ready, I regained calm once I go into the air conditioning of our room - and there we stayed until the sun went down and it cooled off to a frigid 108.  Then finally we ventured out to meet our friends.

Aside from us, only one other couple had a kid and he was a hearty four year old who could survive without things like naps and an air-conditioned hut.  So for everyone else, the poolside misters, shade, and frozen alcoholic drinks made it easy to hang out for most of the day.  (Okay not easy - a lot of people gave up at 1:00 and headed for the safety of their rooms - but easier)  But for us, our schedule was very different.  We were out by the pool at about 7 AM where we got to go swimming until 9:00 and then we went back to the hotel room where Mitch and I basically took turns watching Owen while the other person went out.   It made for a hard vacation.

One day, we went with a few other folks to ride the aerial tram high above Palm Springs.  It was something that everyone recommended doing but one of the major draws for all of us was it was rumored to be twenty degrees cooler up on the top.  This sounded amazing.  We could be with other people, be out during the day, and have a panoramic view of. . well, the desert.  What I was not told, was that the elevation change was actually so drastic that it would cause Owen's ears to pop so he cried the entire way up on the tram.  I tried to shift him in the carrier to nurse him but in between the awkwardness of the carrier and the fact that the tram floor was constantly moving around in the circle, I had no choice but to let him cry and try to comfort him the best I could.   The good news is it was much cooler on the top and Owen slept happily through the entire visit.

On the way back to the hotel, we also stopped at In-And-Out Burger, my very first time.  Owen was awake for this.  He did cry in the car but magically stopped when I shook the maraca to, " If you like Pina Coladas," when it came on the radio.  That, and ABBA's 'Fernando'were the only things that seemed to calm him.  (Look, I am not responsible for his taste in music.)

Evenings were a challenge.  In between our perpetual exhaustion, Owen's early bed-time/waking time, and my breastfeeding, gone are the days of drinking until 1:00 and rising at 10:00.  Even on the night that Mitch offered to stay with Owen so I could go out, I was so tired, that I came back after ninety minutes. One night while Mitch stayed out, he ate by the pool while I ate a black bean burger in the dark, afraid to make noise or turn on a light that would wake Owen, feeling around for morsels of food on my plate as if I were blind, but without the finesse of someone who is actually blind.

Overall, we still had a good time.  We got to see fabulous friends, share some good meals (even a few together with those friends) but nothing was easy. And what is the scariest part is that people say that travelling with babies is the easiest travel you will ever have with kids.  But maybe, this doesn't count when you are trying to take your baby to a Bacchanal Feast in the desert.  Maybe that's easier when they are older, like twenty-one.

Owen's First Papparazzi - Or How We Crashed A Girl Scout Party

Saturday was supposed to be a small party for my mom and step-father's twentieth anniversary, though my mom claims it was not a party since they were just having all the kids over.  I say since "all the kids" plus partners and offspring totals roughly twenty-one people, it was a party, or should have been.  Hurricane Irene had other plans.  Sometime on Friday, they called it off.  I think they were less scared of the storm than the possibility of having to keep that party rolling for five-ten days.  But Owen and I decided to head out on Friday anyway.  We had a car, and the day off so figured we could head back in on Saturday and weather the storm at home but we might as well go visit first.

We got out to Long Island fine and after a quick pit stop in the house, we went down to their community pool.  My mom and step-father live in  a community of about twenty houses that share a pool so it's pretty private, especially during the week.  Friday, though, there was a girl scout party down at the pool.  It was pretty small, about seven girls and one boy.  I don't know if he was an honorary girl scout or just happened to be there and figured why not join the party.  They were all about ten years old.  

Owen and I got into the water with my mom and proceeded to swim around.  Now, I may be biased but Owen is really  cute baby.  And he was particularly cute in the pool because he was having so much fun.  He was trying his best to swim, kicking his arms and legs and even once putting his face in the water to blow a bubble.  Okay the last part is a lie.  I put his face in the water by accident and he didn't really blow a bubble, but he did sputter a little bit and did not cry.  Then we played a game where I would go under the water and pop out and say hello.  (don't worry grandma was holding him) He adored this and laughed and laughed.  

It is at this point that the mob circled us, floating closer with their inflatable rubber duckies, and alligators.  The   first one to make friends was the boy asked his name, then said "that is one cute baby."  "Thanks," I said. "Does he fart a lot," he asked. "A lot of babies fart a lot."  "I guess so, " I said. "Depending on what you consider a lot."  I thought about telling him that my husband farted more but figured that wasn't appropriate.

Then came the girls who were as loud as they were friendly.  They peppered us with questions like reporters making Anthony Weiner jokes. How old is he? Is this his first time swimming?  What color are his eyes?  He is a cute baby? Does he like the water?  Does he fart a lot. (Yes, that was a different person.)  I have a baby at home.  All she does is sleep.  Me too.  Mine farts a lot.  Hey, Owen, look at me!  Hey, Owen, want to borrow my duck? Owen, I like your eyes.  He can use the duck while I'm in the pool but he can't keep it.  If he could really swim he could keep it. HI OWEN! HI OWEN! OWEN OWEN OWEN!

They really could not get enough of him.  Everywhere we went in the pool, they followed as if Owen was Justin Beiber.  Eventually we got out of the pool and their screams for Owen reached fever pitch.  They swam to the side of the pool, calling his name.  It gave me a glimpse of what celebrities must feel like.  We could not get away.  We had left the pool and still they hounded us.  I saw one climbing out of the pool, still attached to an inflatable crocodile and thought to myself that they would stop at nothing.

"Is that is towel? Is he getting back in?  Does he like to suntan? OWEN OWEN OWEN.  Hey Owen, bye Owen! Look at the duck Owen? Can you see the duck? Look at the crocodile Owen! OH HE'S SMILING!!"

I retreated as far into the shade as I could.  I changed him and wondered if I could nurse with a hoard of children watching me, well watching Owen but I came as an uninteresting part of the package.  Luckily, I did not have to go into hiding because it was at this moment that Pizza arrived and as interesting as Owen was, apparently pizza was even better.

GOODBYE OWEN!  WE WILL SEE YOU LATER! BYE. OOOOOOOWEN.  The screams trailed off as the pizza went in.

Suddenly, it was quiet again and we went back to our relative obscurity, much like many a reality TV contestant after a few seasons.   That was probably the most exhilarating and frightening moment of the whole weekend.

Heavens To Miss Betsy - Why Gymboree May Not Be For Me

The other day we took a free preview class at Gymboree.  We used fake ID to get Owen into the 6-10 month class because he is only five months, well five months and three days to be fair.  But one of our mom/baby friends was going and the people at Gymboree said as long as Owen could reach for things we were okay.

We almost didn't make it.  Fifteen minutes before class Owen was still sleeping and at this stage of the game I wouldn't wake Owen if Oprah was giving out free cars on the corner. . well, maybe.  But at the last minute he woke up and after a quick compromise feed we ran off to Gymboree!!!  We made it exactly on time and ran into our friends at the door.

When we walked, we were greeted by a cheery voice across the room that brightly said, "Oh good, you're here.  I was worried you weren't coming! I was wondering where you where!!! " This was news to me as up to a ten minutes ago, I didn't even know that I was coming.  Word must travel fast. in Gymboree land.   When we went to sign the woman entered Owen's name wrong before correcting it.  "Oh, rats,"  I said, "Now our plan to come back and take a free class under a false name won't work."

"Aw, you wouldn't want to do that, would you?"  the woman said.  "That would be like taking money from us! And we need our money."  I am tempted to point out that the use of the word "we" here is a bit creepy and that if I actually wanted to do that, I probably wouldn't have warned her and while I may have been unemployed since November I hope I am never actually reduced to the point of moving around the city having Owen take free trials of Gymboree classes under pseudonyms.  "Well,"  I say back, " I have been unemployed since November so I just might."  And then I laugh to let her know that I'm not serious.  And then she offers advice on finding a job.  Okay, so aside from the use of "we" she is really, really nice.

I should have just stayed at the front desk chatting with A________ but our fearless class leader is still waving us over and jumping up and down with excitement so we move over to the mat where we join a few other baby/caregiver pairs.  Our class leader is young, blond, and exceedingly cheerful.  "Good morning boys and girls," she exclaims. "My name is Miss Betsy and welcome to Gymboree!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I am not sure if it is the use of the label 'Miss' or the effervescent tone of voice that makes me think of the Mickey Mouse Club if it took place at a Scientology seminar.   "Are you ready to play?" she asks.  "Gymbo the clown wants to say hello to everyone!"   Okay, as an aside, I regularly talk to Owen in a tone of voice I thought would never come out of my mouth and use improper words such as "milks"  in the context of "Does Owen want some milks?"  or worse "milkies" but this voice is SO cheerful it makes me want to grab Gymbo from her and beat her over the head.  But I think, she can't keep this up for an hour.

But she does.

To be fair to both Gymboree and Miss Betsy, the class itself was pretty good.  There are tons of toys and things to play with, brightly colored materials, songs, movement, interaction but I just CAN'T get passed two things - the creepy cheer and the way that Gymbo (Jimbo?) pops up everywhere.  There is Gymbo on a stick, three foot Gymbo, Gymbo on the wall.  It is creepy, pervasive branding that really whispers, "Drink the Kool-Aid, Drink the Kool-Aid."   I start to think, maybe it's just me when I turn to my friend who mouths, "I can't take it! Help!"  

Ten minutes before the end, Owen and I slip into a quiet corner to nurse, partially because he seems to be hungry and partially because Gymbo on a stick is giving kisses to all the kids and I'm not sure I want Owen's first non-familial kiss to be a clown on a stick, especially as Miss Betsy just told everyone that Gymbo was over thirty years old.

I want to like Gymboree, I do but I don't.  Maybe when Owen is a little bit older (and I don't just mean a month) and he can really get something out of the activities but I really think that I need just a slightly more cynical play class.  And, as my cousin pointed out, I DO realize that what seems over the top for adults can be perfect for babies' development, something here was just too much.  I have pretended I was a tree and a cobra in mommy and me yoga classes, I have stomped and swung in mommy and me movement classes but here I draw the line.   It's hard because while for me, Miss Betsy just seemed like a Southern, failed musical theater major turned cult leader, I suspect she is really good at her job.  She was enthusiastic and kind and could really carry a tune but in the end, Gymboree is not for me.

Since taking the class I have actually talked to several parents who had the same experience, and say their friends have told them the same thing which made me feel moderately less judgmental.  I'll never say that I won't go back to Gymboree, after all some days alone get very, very long but I might try a lot of other places first.  Also, at $179.00 a month for a weekly class AND a $50 enrollment fee (which they would have waived if I signed up on the spot of course) it's a little pricey for settling.  For that, I could probably buy a few more things for my living room and recruit a few baby friends and have my own version.  The only thing I would have to do is design my own doll. . What would I call it?  Perhaps, "Heather-O!"

Obama Stole My Parking Spot - Or Why Not To Have A Car in the City

We don't usually keep our car in the city because we can't afford a garage and we don't use it enough that it makes sense to fight the alternate side parking.  Alternate side of the street parking is painful to the average person but with a baby trying to move a car into a new spot without a meltdown is like trying to run through a casino without breathing in smoke. But the last few weeks we have been using it on a regular basis and have not had a chance to return it to my father's home in Connecticut where it lives rent free when not in use.

Usually, when we are unable to move the car to the 'right side of the street' the night before, my husband will take the car to a garage in the morning for the early bird special.  If you are in before ten and out by six you have to fork over a mere fourteen dollars, a veritable bargain in Manhattan.  But yesterday, I thought to myself, why waste money on a garage when I am in fact free all day.  And, why not take advantage of the car in the city and drive over to my chiropractor on the Upper West Side, get a much needed adjustment, drive back, slip into a spot, and move on with my day?  It sounded like a plan.  Well, as you know even the best laid plans.. .. and this one did not come close to making the top ten list.

It started off remarkably, Owen was a delight in the car, there was virtually no traffic, and I found a spot outside of my chiropractor's office.  I was adjusted and even took time to sit in the massage chair as I nursed Owen who seemed to appreciate the second hand vibration aside from a brief choking moment as he tried to swallow as the rollers moved under my chest.  Apparently I was the first ever to breast feed in their massage chair which pleased me.  Next, we got back in the car, zipped home (what again, no traffic?) and arrived back at my street with a happily sleeping baby.  Perfect! So even if it took me thirty minutes to find a spot, Owen could have a nap.  In fact, it might be ideal if it took me a while.  What a perfect chance to practice looking at a bad thing in a good light.  An chiropractic adjustment and a chance to improve my spiritual awareness all in one day.  What a bonanza of blessings life can bring when you open to the universe!

And then I started to notice that many of the streets around my house were blocked off with huge blue signs stating, "NO PARKING THURSDAY - NYPD!"  From somewhere in the back of my sleep deprived mind, I remembered hearing that Obama was coming to the city today and people should avoid driving.  Could that be why so many blocks were closed?  I never thought he would be coming to the West Village.  Rumor has it that there are some folks around here who are pretty pissed about DOMA among other failed campaign promises so I thought he might stick to the Upper East Side.

Either way, this was not good news.  I drove around for about fifteen minutes and saw nothing, not even one of those 'this could have been a spot if those a-holes had parked better spot.' And then I turned on to my block and saw A SPOT!  "Hurrah", I whispered to myself because Owen was still sleeping.  Parking Karma is in effect.  And then I saw a man standing in the spot.  Damn - a spot saver! I thought briefly about pretending I did not see him and running him over but he was about 6' 2" and was making direct eye contact with me.  I rolled down my window and asked if I could park and he said, no, his friend down the block in front of the hydrant was backing up.  I fluttered my eyes and said, "Oh, I was hoping to park before my little baby woke up and starts to scream."  He did not bite. "I've been driving around for about thirty minutes and when he wakes up, I'm dead."  He did not bite.  I sighed and pulled out.

I drove for another twenty minutes in an ever-widening journey around the neighborhood.  And then - Owen woke up.

Some babies wake up from naps happy and smiling, well rested and ready to play.  Owen wakes up like he is being dragged out of the womb again with electrical forceps.  I tried to reassure him from the front seat that I was doing my best to find a spot but he didn't seem to believe me.  I drove around for another ten minutes as his screams intensified. I drove down my block a few times and watched the man who took my spot move from sitting in his car, to sitting on a stoop near his car, to eating a donut while sitting on a stoop near his car.  For some reason this infuriated me.  Finally, desperate, I pull over in front of the hydrant to take Owen out for a bit.  When I free him from the car, he sobs and gasps and he calms himself down, draping his arms around my neck and sighing.  It's like he took a course from a Jewish mother.  I know this is just an exercise in torture because we can't stay like this.  Eventually I will have to put him back in the car and by eventually I mean in the next five minutes.  I am supposed to meet a contractor in my apartment at that time and I can see that he is already standing across the street. Luckily he has two kids of his own and is more than sympathetic.  I put Owen back in, drive past my building and offer him my keys.  He sees Owen screaming and says he will stop by after his other meeting.  Thank you.  Thank you.

I drive around again and after a few more futile minutes I notice a man sitting in his car.  I roll my window down to ask him if he's leaving.  He says no.  I sigh and say, "Can I pay you to leave?" He laughs.  I pull a twenty out of my pocket and say, "No, I'm serious."  He doesn't even bat an eye.  I do realize at this point that I was willing to pay more for a street spot than I would have for the original garage but I am desperate.  Also, I only had a dollar aside from the twenty and even my desperately cheapskate self can tell you you can't bribe anyone with a dollar anymore.

At this point, I decide I have no choice but to park in a metered spot.  This will of course just mean that I have to feed it every hour on the hour, or long enough to get back in the car and start this whole process over again but I am out of options.  I am done, Owen is done, and I still have this meeting to get to.  So, I pull around the block again and MIRACULOUSLY there is a spot, right behind the spot that that man stole from me over an hour ago.   I pull in faster than the winner of the Indy 500 and have Owen out of the car in under two minutes.

He is still screaming.  As, I rock him in my arms, the man who originally held the spot for his friend walks by.  He sees me and stops.  He is clearly finishing up a workout (yes it was really that long.)

"Did you just park?" he asks.  "Did it take you that whole time."  I want to ask him if he really can't tell from the haggard look on my face and Owen's screams but I just say, "Yes. It really took me that long."

"I felt bad after you left," he says. " I was saving it for that guy who works for me and after you drove away I thought maybe I should have given it to you."  I want to point out that as far as I can tell that guy who works for him has had two cigarettes, finished a pot of coffee, eaten a donut and a sandwich but has yet to actually work but I restrain myself.  I also want to point out that he was supposed to feel bad for me, but before  I left but who knows, he might come in handy another day.

So, what I would like tell the City of New York is that if the city can suspend Alternate Side of the Street Parking for the feast of Saint Catherine of Yonkers then they really should suspend it when they close down twenty blocks so Obama can eat dinner at the Waverly Inn at a $72,000 a head dinner.

We did try to go see Obama later that evening. I don't actually hold him personally responsible and think it would have been great to see him in person.  Also, I was hoping Owen might get a hug or a photo op.  Secretly, I was hoping that in said photo-op Owen might poo on Obama. It's not because I don't like him.  I voted for him and will do so again because despite a few failed campaign promises, he's doing a pretty good job, and well being President is probably almost as hard as being a stay at home mom. But it really would be a great party line for Owen to be able to say that when he was a baby he pooed on the President.  Probably only Sasha and Malia can say that and well, he wasn't the President when they were babies. Sad to say, we didn't even get close.  And we were all asleep before they opened up the streets and we could move the car to a new spot.

So this morning, we put the car in the garage.

First In Flight - The End of An Era

The year before I gave birth to Owen I flew 70,000 miles for work. Well, I actually flew a lot more than that, but that was my number on my airline of choice.  I lost my job in November and beyond the regular devastation was the crushing fact that after my last work trip I was a mere 4,000 miles short of achieving platinum status.  I have been gold for years but due to the fact I fly on several airlines I always seem to fall just short of platinum.  I actually considered taking a final trip on my own to reach my lofty goal before realizing that my status wouldn't really reap me as many benefits in my living room or on the playground at Washington Square Park as it does when you fly every week.  Sadly, there are no upgrades on the subway.

I had a love/hate relationship with travelling for work.  I often missed activities with friends but really loved going to so many places I would never have gone before.  True, many of those places I would never choose to go again but something can be said for getting to travel to Huron, South Dakota where I met a student named "Super White"  who was in fact not anything close to super white, or Garden City Kansas, where we stopped a training to walk outside and watch a just-born baby giraffe learn to walk.  And I crowed with joy as I reached high status at hotels, car rental places, and more.  I am the woman who watched the movie "Up In the Air" and as George Clooney's character broke into the high school gym nudged by husband and triumphantly whispered, "He's using a Hilton Honors Gold Card."   It was indeed a badge of honor to pick the fastest line at the airport and being able to get my suitcase, computer, LCD projector, and carry-on through security faster than the average person with just a purse.  I could take off my shoes with one hand, unzip a case with another and finish my water with the third.  .well, you get the point.

So I realize that the first travelling with a baby would be a test of sorts.  I know that it would have to be a little more difficult but really, I'm a bit of a pro, it's really no more challenging that negotiating an extra bag.    I still have access to the Elite Access line and spent the week before preparing some zingy come-back lines for any business travelers who questioned my right to be there.  And  I do realize there is something wrong with the fact that I prepare come-backs ahead of time but that is another blog. How much harder could it be? What extra stuff do I have?  A car seat? A stroller?  A diaper bag?  Some breast milk? And yes, I deliberately put five ounces in that bottle just to be cantankerous.  It's my right. And, I'm prepared to drink it if I have to prove it's not a liquid explosive, though I have come to realize that non-mothers are oddly terrified of breast milk so it's not a likely scenario.

I come to the line with a plan and I execute it fairly flawlessly, tossing bags onto the belt with the alacrity and grace of a Platinum Traveler but then I get to the stoller/car seat combo.  I once saw a man break down and cry from trying to break down a stroller through security.  After trying unsuccessfully to collapse it for close to five minutes, he started banging it against the belt while begging the TSA to just let him walk it through with the stroller opened while his two children ran back and forth through the metal detector shrieking.  I would have helped but at this point I was pre-baby and had as little chance of success as I do at those damn spatial relations tests where I have to figure out what this drawing would look like when folded.  Finally an obvious mother swooped down and helped him and he actually hugged her whimpering, " I kept trying to figure out how I would explain to my wife that I left the stroller at the airport."

So, I am prepared for the stroller fight but all in all, it is pretty anti-climactic. Granted, I did spend a few hours opening and closing the stroller the night before, lifting it from floor to table, as if it were the security belt. (Hum the Rocky theme here if you will.)  I hand Owen to my husband, zip out the car seat, fold up the frame, and done.  I am not quite as fast as normal but all in all, people should be impressed.  I really think that I have earned at least a small round of applause but nothing comes.  I want to shout, "Come-on people, I did that faster than the average mid-western tourist, can I get some love? "

I take Owen back and walk through security.  We don't beep as I was extra careful to take all of the change, cell phones, and keys out of Owen's diaper and sigh a big sigh of relief.   In fact that I am so proud and relieved that I forget there is another side to this security thing and this side I do all wrong.

When the car seat comes through, I put Owen in (safety first) and then place the car seat on the belt.  I notice my stuff still in the machine but don't reach for it because I know not to put my hand in the machine because after all, this is not my first rodeo.  So, I try to put on my shoes while keeping one hand on the car seat, and packing up my diaper bag with the other.  I am mildly disappointed there was no breast milk confrontation but I'm willing to cut my losses and run for the gate.  And then I grow impatient - what is the hold up on this line?  The belt is not moving so I can't get the rest of my bags.  Isn't this supposed to be the frequent traveler line? And why does everyone seem to be looking at me?  If they want to praise me, they should not be shy.  If they want to apologize for questioning why I was in the Elite Access line because it is so apparent that I must be someone who was JUST shy of platinum status, why, they should feel free to go ahead and do so.

And then I realize, the belt is not moving because my baby is on the belt.  And if the belt did move, well, probably the baby would have fallen off.  Suddenly, I don't feel so frequent traveler cool.  I take the car seat off the belt, and magically it starts to move again.  I slink to the end, where my husband and I re-assemble everything and head towards our gate where they are already boarding.  On the way, we pass Starbucks, and my husbands mouths, "Please!"  but I know there is no way we are going to handle the next hurdle with coffee in our hands.  And now we are going to have to navigate gate checking the stroller, over-head compartments, plane aisles and I have to be on my game and hot liquids are not a part of this plan.


(to be continued)

Things That Go Bump - Or Getting Over The First Big Ouch

I am an exemplary disasterist. Yes, I know that's not a real word but it should be.  I can, and regularly do, imagine in vivid detail both realistic and preposterous disastrous ends to any scenario.  I am not a pessimist. I don't actually believe that these calamities will happen but my mind creates such vivid scenarios that I viscerally feel the sorrow or terror in my body.  From plane crashes to cars running out of gas on desolate highways, being trapped in the desert without water to a bus jumping the curb and plowing into me, to the group of rowdy kids at the end of subway platform responding to my imaginary scolding with violence, there is no end to the ends.  Since, I have had Owen these disaster daydreams have horrifically shifted to all the ways that harm could befall him.

For example, I am walking him in his stroller and I have not buckled him in (okay that part is often real) when a car plows into the stroller sending the car seat skyward and Owen flying out of it, landing on the pavement and. . well enough said.  I hate myself for being so stupid to not to strap him in where the car seat might have saved him.  Or. . I am with a bunch of friends driving down to the shore (this part is grounded in reality) when we stop at a rest stop to get some food and use the bathroom.  Owen needs to nurse so I stay in the car by myself.  (Have I mentioned it is night and the rest stop is rather desolate?)  A man comes up to the open window and puts a gun against my head and tells me he wants the car.  My mind races as to how I can make sure he takes the car and lets us go . . or at least Owen.  Yeah,  I know.

 I prefer to ascribe this to being a writer and not to the fact that I might be mildly insane. They all start off rationally.  Yet, somehow how will I drive several hours with a group of people and deal with nursing Owen ends up with a carjacking gunman outside of a rest stop McDonald's.  But for all of these situations I can see everything so clearly - the blood on the pavement spilling from an open skull or Owen looking up at me innocently as he nurses as the metal of the gun hovers inches from my forehead, that they physically bring to me a halt.

But up until Saturday, the worst thing that has happened to Owen was my husband dropping Thai food on top of his head once while we were out eating which caused a fit of hysteria on Owen's part either because he realized what a crap deal he has been getting on breast milk or because it woke him from a nap and on mine for a myriad of reasons from wondering if he would ingest chilies and burn his throat to, well. . . write your own disaster ending.

At some point, I told Mitch that if he was ever responsible for Owen's death that I did not know if I could forgive him.  He told me that made sense and that he probably would not be able to forgive me if the situations were reverses.  I guess that's pretty normal, at least the reaction, if not the fact that we were discussing this ahead of time.

Which brings us to Saturday.  Don't worry, there is no death in this story.  If there was, I would not be blogging, I would be in a loony bin.

We were out at my mom's house on Long Island and I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast.  My mom and step-father had just gotten home from church and my husband had Owen in the backyard.  Later he told me he had been showing Owen how beautiful the world was after a rain.  I can imagine this as well.  Mitch is so excited about showing his son the world.  I picture him almost whispering into Owen's ear as if he was letting him in on a secret, describing the vibrant green of trees and grass, the smell of moist earth, and the sounds of birds announcing where the best worms were wiggling up from the ground.  But at the time, I don't know any of this.  I am focused on putting the finishing touches on some eggs, enjoying the contrast of the yellow mixed with the red and green of the vegetables when I hear Owen screaming.  This is really no cause for alarm as this is something that Owen often does. In fact aside from peeing, it is the thing he is currently best at.  My mom calls out my name a few times in a manner that seems more urgent than normal so I turn towards the sound.  And it is then I see her come around the corner carrying a wailing Owen in her arms.  Owen's head is covered in what looks like soot but even through that I spot what looks like a huge cut on his head.  I honestly can not remember what happened next.  I know adrenaline surged through my body as if the house was on fire and I started crying as I took Owen into my arms.  I somehow piece together from my mom that Mitch fell while holding Owen and that Owen fell to the ground.  She tells me that he fell on Mitch first before he hit the pavement.  All I can hear is that he hit the ground.  All I can see is the cut on his head and his face twisted in pain.  And yes, the twisted in pain looks pretty much like the "I can't poop face" or the "I'm super exhausted face," but right now it's clearly a face filled with pain and the look of, 'but you are supposed to take care of me, how could you not take care of me?'   I think my mom must have cleaned his head off while I am holding him because by the time I'm cuddling him to my chest and nursing him to a calm him the dirt is gone, Bacitracin is on his cut, and it should be clear that he will live.

He wails for a while while nursing, his choking cry escaping from the sides of his mouth but quiets down quickly and starts to succumb to drowsiness. Usually I am thrilled at any indication of sleep but I panic and pull him off because we aren't sure if he has a concussion yet and don't want him to sleep.  We examine his pupils, we gently palpitate his scalp, check the reflexes in this toes, try to coax a smile.  Everything indicates he is fine. Bruised but fine. Wanting to be cuddled but fine.

But I can not believe he is fine.  I ask my mother again and again how hard he fell and she tells me but it doesn't matter.  I don't even realize until later that I did not even ask if Mitch was okay.  I'd like to think I assumed that someone would have done something if he wasn't and also he was standing there, glaringly alive.  I'm angry at him even while I am telling him not to worry, that accidents happen.  Of course, at the time, I think that it wouldn't have happened to me.  How could he have been so careless as to fall? I walked up and down those steps the day before so slowly and carefully that there could have been an earthquake and I would not have fallen.  But of course, even if this was true, I could have as easily been responsible for something else. It was just an accident and objectively I know Mitch would lay down his life for Owen or I.

 It's not the actual accident that upsets me though both Mitch and I are terrified all day to let Owen nap without watching him.  Mitch spends a good ninety minutes watching Owen's chest rise and fall through his afternoon nap.  It's not the actual accident that keeps stopping me still in the middle of the rest of the day's activities, it's the accident that could have been.  Mitch falling forward instead of backwards or not being able to hold onto Owen.  It is Owen's head split wide open, it is a million things that do not heal in a day, if ever.  It is the things I write in my head, it is the hypothetical conversation that is suddenly not as hypothetical, it is the clear, strong rush of love in my body that wants to hold my baby flush against my skin, tucking him inside my rib-cage to protect him.

By night it is clear that Owen will be fine.  It's also clear that Mitch and I will both take a little longer.  "I feel like I won't forget this for a long time," I tell my mom.  "You won't forget it ever," she says.  "I still remember vividly every accident that I had with you."

I would not mind remembering this accident vividly.  That would be easy.  But it's not the picture of this accident that continues to stop me cold - it is the one that did not happen.  But I know that that will fade a bit, in fact four days later it already has as I watch Owen laugh as he rolls over from left to right and back again, delighted in his new found power.  I call Mitch on the phone to tell him how amazing it is and I know that we are all fine . . . for now.  Knock wood.

Breakdown On The C Train - Or Why I Don't Want Strangers To Think I'm An Awful Mommy

I have been wanting to go back to my chiropractor since Owen was born but the sixty some odd blocks between my house and his office seem insurmountable.  For one, there are no elevators on the subway stop on my end which means that taking a stroller is a no-go and their hours never seemed to coincide with with Owen's happy awake time.  But yesterday, Owen had an early nap and it seemed like there was a perfect window to head up there.  So I strapped him in the ergo and headed out the door.  After a block when it seemed like he shifted from his initial, "Oh God, what are you doing to me!!!" caterwauling, into the comfortable rhythm of our walk I called and said, "Do you happen to have an appointment in half an hour for someone who may or may not make it there?"  When you have a cantankerous infant, making it out the door is really no guarantee that you will actually make it to your destination.

I did indeed make it. So big deal, it only took me three months to get there.  My body was in desperate need of adjustment.  After pretty much every part of my body was moved back into place, Owen was in urgent need of feeding again.  So I fed him, in a chair with excellent lumbar support, promised to return again sometime in the next year, and headed for home.

As I stepped out the door, I was greeted by a deliciously pleasant breeze, a treat after several days of excessive humidity and heat.  I hate heat.  My body is made for Spring and Fall.  It resists extremes.  And apparently my little guy has inherited a hate for heat because if I take him out when it is too hot, he inevitably turns into a ball of tortured rage, reacting to the sun much like a Gremlin when you sprinkle water on them.  One moment he he is cute and cuddly and the next. . well you saw the film. (Well, if you are old like me you saw it.) But the day was beautiful, so I decided to walk.  I figured even conservatively I had at least an hour. So I could stroll for about thirty minutes, get on the subway wherever I was, and have AMPLE time to get home to feed the succubus again.

I was wrong.

After about thirty minutes Owen woke up screaming bloody murder.  He was not fooled by the breeze. He was hot, and annoyed.  If you do not know the mechanics of the Ergo, it is one of the many carriers wherein your baby is cuddled up against your chest, held there by fabric.  They are supposed to love this: being close to you, hearing your heart-beat like they did in the womb, smelling your wonderful mommy smell. But the downside is there is basically zero air circulation between you and them, and when it's summer what this means is overheating and sweat.  And let's face it, in the womb, there is a pool, and in Manhattan, there is concrete, metal, and steam grating.

So Owen starts screaming.  I figure if I get him in the subway he will cool down, calm down, and we will get home where our air conditioned apartment awaits. It won't be that bad.

I was wrong.

We get into the subway, he continues to scream.  Actually at this point he is screaming so hard he is choking and shaking and looks for all purposes like he is one step away from death.  I try to undo the Ergo and give him a little air, while trying not to drop him on the subway platform where if the fall to the hard concrete does not kill him, surely the warm germ cesspool will, attacking his not yet three month immune system.

The air does not calm him.  I try to see if I can manage to nurse him, while clutching onto my unbuckled Ergo, and hiding behind a pole at the end of the platform. I finally maneuver his mouth somewhere near my nipple by hunching over and hauling him up.  This is clearly not what he wants.  The train comes and I get on it, not realizing I have left both of the hooks to my nursing tank undone. .whatever. I get on the subway and stand for a minute until someone finally offers my their seat.  And all the while I am offering a running commentary to Owen.  And I realize part of the commentary is for Owen and part of the commentary is for my circumstantial audience.  It is for all the people out there who are undoubtedly judging me for having this screaming baby who I must be abusing or something because why else would he sound like I am forcing him to watch Sarah Palin's " Wild Alaska" on repeat?  So I say things like, "Oh honey, we'll be home soon.  Oh, you're having a hard day.  Oh, I love you."  And it's not like I don't mean this (though there are moments I have loved him more), or that I would not be talking to him if I was at home on my own, but I acutely aware of my audience.  It is the same thing when I'm speed-walking down the street with him in his stroller as he screams from is assuredly horrible gnawing hunger because I'm just not up to nursing him standing up outside of some Duane Reade.  So I tell him, and everyone else within earshot, "We'll be home soon honey. You'll get milkies in a minute my love."  (yes, I sometimes say milkies, what of it?)

I know that everyone knows that babies cry but there is something about the continual publicness of it in New York City that makes you feel like you are always' mommy on stage' if you are being judged for a reality show.  But I am the clip that makes people revel in a stage of Schadenfreude instead of hope and elation.  Thus, the running commentary is my way of making everyone realize that I am a contestant with talent who is just having a bad day rather than the one who really just should have realized that, "so you think you can dance?" wasn't an off-hand rhetorical question.  

And several of my new mom friends admitted they do the same thing, that they feel they have to offer color commentary or their children's breakdowns.  And I wonder why we do this.  I don't really care so much about the outside world.  It's not like I have him at the opera or something where the whole environment really contraindicates a crying baby.. it's the subway for crying out loud - a place of general rudeness, noise, stench etc.  People have sex on the subway without apologizing, people go to the bathroom, eat buckets of chicken, clip their fingernails, listen to really loud music, preach about the evils of almost anything.  I once had a man tell me I looked like a Jew and he was sorry I was going to hell, and another man preach about the evils of miscegenation (yes in 2011) while swaying over my my group of friends, two couples of which were inter-racial.  So do I really have to apologize just because my baby is over-heated and over-tired and happens to be screaming at the top of his lungs? And the answer is of course not. What I need to do is get over being worried about other people judging if I am a good mom or not.

And I'm sure, a therapist would tell me that it's really me judging me but luckily I'm too busy to make it there on the subway so I don't need to self-reflect too much.  Maybe in another three months .

Mommy Cam/Nanny Cam - Or How To Fire Yourself

A few days ago there was an segment on the news about the many ways to spy on your nanny.  From nanny-cams ton an online site in NYC where people take pictures of nannies doing "inapropriate things" and post them so parents can scan them in case their nanny was caught in the act of doing egregious things to the children in their care.

Now, having gone to a liberal arts college in the 90's I am programmed to be "fight for the rights" of the worker/nanny and yet I also completely empathize with the mother who wants to make sure her child is in the right hands. When I went to that developmental movement class from the last post there were two care-givers there with children.  One of them was basically the Mary Poppins of nannies, well possibly Mary Poppins meets Piaget.  She was engaged, asked questions, practiced on her child, shared in detail the developmental milestones of the kid.  Basically she was like a very involved mother, well in some ways better than most of the other new mothers there because she evidently knew what she was doing and let's be honest, the rest of us are still kind of in the trial and error stage.  She was the "Top Chef Master" equivalent to my "Let's turn whatever is in the refrigerator into a one-pot wonder."  Not that those one-pot wonders aren't delicious and filled with heart but they sometimes lack some technical knife skills or a recipe/plan.

And then there was the other nanny.  I don't know if she was tired, having a bad day, or really just mediocre, but she spent the entire class texting, even when her ward army-crawled over to my immobile babe and tried to claw his eyeballs out with saliva-drenched fingers and then promptly spit-up up on our swaddle.  And for those of you not schooled in the mommy and baby events, laying down the swaddle in front of you pretty much creates a territorial spot of sanctity.  It is the baby equivalent of pissing on your section of the rug.  It is the layer of germ protection, sleep inducer, baby comforter. . well you get the picture.   And even then, bad nanny didn't move, so, I did carting my baby and swaddle to the other side of the circle as the kid went after his next target.

And this is when I had the us vs them moment.  I thought - my god I wonder if her the mother knows how bad her nanny is.  And furthermore I understood that if I knew who that mother was, I would tell her.  GASP!  I recognized within myself the potential to be a nanny-tattler.

The aforementioned news segment said that nearly 100% of people who install nanny cams fire their nannies within 24 hours because they are so horrified. Now I do realize that these numbers are probably fairly unscientific.  In the first place, probably few people who have Mary Piaget Poppins who bother to install a nanny cam and second I'm pretty sure anyone responsible for watching a colicky infant for 14 hours straight would have at least one "fire-worthy" moment a day.

And today - if someone was "nanny-camming" me, I'm pretty sure I would have been canned.  This is roughly what they would have seen.

7-7:30 breast feeds baby while watching Sister Wives on-demand. (okay ignore the fact that it would be weird if your nanny was actually breast feeding your child since the whole wet-nurse thing went out a few decades ago not to mention the fact that no one should be watching Sister Wives at 7 AM  -we'll let these go)

7:30-8:30 plays with baby, does some great yoga exercises, encouraging tummy time with the techniques learned in developmental movement class while watching Good Morning America.  Now potentially there is room for nanny failure since one should focus completely on the baby and not divide one's attention between the baby and the screen but to be fair Lady Gaga was on GMA and any employer should be sympathetic to that.

8:30-9:15 baby naps. . none of your business what I was doing here. .oh wait, it would have been caught on nanny cam. . fine.  I ate breakfast and checked facebook

9:15-10:00. . baby nursing .. . (blah blah - nothing interesting here fast forward the tape)

9:45-10:45.  we play, dance around the room, go look at ourselves in the mirror

10:45 - 2:00 I'm not going to break-down this timeline further because it is all a part of the hysteria section and the minutes become a blur. . a very, very slow blur, but a blur nonetheless.

Baby goes into the swing for a nap, I vacuum to lull him to sleep (look a nanny who cleans bonus!) He does not fall asleep but is calm so I go to the bathroom.  While there, I get mesmerized by the mirror, examining all the baby weight I have not managed to slough off through the "miracle of breast-feeding" (I'm pretty sure this would be considered 'ignoring a child' in nanny-cam world but probably still not fire-worthy.)  The baby starts to cry.  I leave my reflection in the mirror, pick him up, rock him, dance him around, re-swaddle him, burp him, change his diaper. He is having none of it and is now screaming so loud he's choking and turning red.  I put the vacuum back on with one toe so I don't put him down.  He screams more.  I feed him again, he starts to spasm and grunt and cry WHILE his mouth is attached to my breast.  I decide to go for a walk.  Now the nanny cam could not follow me here but if it could it would see him momentarily calm down and then start to scream again.  I pick up my phone to text my friend to not to meet me at the park because our mission is being aborted (yes while the baby is crying) and I'm sure someone would be taking a picture of me to post on 'nannywatch' if I didn't look so, well, white. I pick him out of the stroller, put him in his carrier and walk the stroller back with one hand while jiggling him up and down and patting his back. We get home, he eats again, and he is STILL crying.  It is at this point that I kind-of-sort-of scream at the baby.  It wasn't a full scream but it was surely a "fire-worthy" scream that went something like "PLEASE BABY, PLEASE STOP CRYING. . OH GOD I JUST NEED A MOMENT!!! PLEASE STOP!!!"  Okay, so it was a scream.  Not a 'god what a worthless piece of cr*p baby you are (shake-shake) moment'  but a 'God I sure am glad my bad mommy/nanny moment was not caught on tape moment.  Note to my husband: If you ever put a nanny cam in our apartment I will divorce you.  I promise for the most part I am a wonderful, loving, giggle inducing, creative mom.

So I am torn between having sympathy/empathy for nannies and also understanding that when you leave your kid with someone it is hard not to want hold them to higher standards than yourself, meaning I would probably fire her if she was me.  And this is not self-judging, As indicated, I think that I am doing a bang-up job.  But looking at a tape of anyone doing their job over the course of sixty hours would probably lead them to being fired.  So we'll see. For now there will be no nanny-cam because of course there is no nanny, and probably unless I win the lotto, never will be one.  But if I do have a nanny, well, I guess I'll have to wait and see.

Please Eat My Tummy - And Other Ways To Scar Your Children

I love to eat Owen's tummy.  Not actually bite, digest, etc., but I love to take little nibbles off of his tummy several times a day.  It is one of our favorite ways to play.  I say, "Oh no, I have to eat the tummy.  I'm going to eat the tummy, I love to eat the belly," and then I make little growling noises as I "bite" his belly.  And then the payoff- he giggles and smiles, and on occasion laughs.  

Now, I don't think there is anything wrong with this.  Most of my friends with babies seem to have a predilection for some part of their baby's body. Some swear by cheeks, others by toes, but for me it's the belly.  The other day as I was talking to a friend on the phone she asked how Owen was and I said, "He's so cute, I can't stop eating his belly."  Then after a pause I added, "Now of course, I'm probably scarring him for life and when he grows he's going to develop some bizarre fetish during sex and not understand why he has to beg people to 'please eat my belly, oh I love it when you eat my belly.' "

Of course, I am 95%  sure this is not how sexual fetishes are created, but who knows?  Did our friends the furries have mothers who innocently tickled them one too many times with their plush stuffed animals? Did our foot fetishists have moms who went after those cute little toes one too may times?  Highly doubtful.  I'm pretty sure that it's more likely that too much exposure to Sesame Street is the root of making one want to dress up as a mascot in in bed than it is that one's parents caused it.  Still, as parents it is overwhelming how much we have the ability to scar or help our children.

I went to a developmental movement class the other day where I learned that apparently everything I have been doing with Owen is delaying his "development."  From the way I pick him up (under his armpits) to the way we move into tummy time (I flip him over and place him on his belly)  to the coup-de-wrong (holding him under those same armpits to let him 'stand' on his feet.) And oh yes, I know these sound innocent, in fact I see evidence of these parental failures everywhere I look.   These actions are obviously from lack of knowledge rather than any pernicious intentions- how was I to know that letting a baby stand before his time would prevent him from crawling? Yet, now I am illuminated with the fact that everything I do has a potentially instructive or destructive effect on my child. The instructor actually said at one point that while these 'failures' as a parent (she of course did not say failures) could not be traced forward to developmental delays such as.. wait for it, wait for it. . cognitive impairment, learning delays, physical delays, that all of those developmental failures (no she did not say failures here either) COULD be traced backwards to babies missing these developmental milestones.  In other words, their failures later in life could be traced back to the parent, or in this case my husband. (just kidding honey)

So here I am with Owen only eleven weeks old and but for the grace of this class, I could have been taking the first steps in ensuring my son would be forever grounded in mediocrity. I in no ways mean to say that the class was the instigator of my anxiety, or that it was alarmist in nature. As a life-long educator I was actually fascinated and intrigued by the class.  The instructor was informed, intelligent, and compassionate.  And what she said made sense and I do want to try the things she was teaching.  I just need to find the balance between learning things that will help my son develop into the most fabulous human being that he can and also just letting myself be an occasionally, if unintentionally, mediocre parent.  Also, holding him under his armpits and letting him 'stand' is kind of fun and it makes him happy, even if he crawls a little bit later.

Are You My Mother? (a picture book for the modern age)

The other night my husband and I were sitting on the couch playing with our son.  I was doing something intensely fascinating like saying, "Who is the best baby in the world?  Is Owen the best baby in the world? Yes, he is!  Does Mommy love Owen?  Of course she does!" etc., etc., when Owen actually laughed out loud for the first time, cackled in fact.  Now, Owen has smiled before but this was his first official laugh, around seven o'clock, smack dab in the middle of week ten and eleven of life.  I responded in the way any normal new twenty-first century parent would, I squealed, I cried - and then I tried to videotape it with my phone.  I should have just stuck with the first response, the pure enjoyment part of it.  Not only because I in fact failed at videotaping this, or should I say digitally recording a mini-movie, but because I left the moment of it.

Now, I don't feel that this separation happened in any dramatic way.  I did not feel disconnected when it happened and in retrospect I can't even pinpoint a real "lack of being in the moment" feeling.  But without a doubt the most pure moment was the first few laughs, not only for the sheer miracle of watching him verbally express joy for the first time but for the heart-wrenching, if narcissistic knowledge that it was my connecting with him eyeball to eyeball that made him laugh in the first place.  The camera/cell phone does not make him laugh.  The proof is that whenever I take it out to capture the moment of a smile, a particularly happy, funny, or expressive moment, he pretty much stops what he's doing.  I try to encourage the moment back by peering around the camera to re-inspire him but the moment never comes back, he's a little too fickle for that.

One of my favorite childhood books was, "Are You My Mother?" where the baby bird wakes up alone in his nest without his mother and starts walking around trying to find her.  He encounters many things, including several different animals and even a bulldozer, asking each of them, "Are you my mother?" until at the end he finally finds his real mom.  I picture the babies of our generation are moving through their own disturbing version of this book, asking video cameras and cell phones, and web cams the same insistent question.  I'm pretty sure that if the first time Owen says 'mama' he is looking at our digital camera it will break my heart.

Obviously, I know this is not going to happen, that Owen and I spend hours of time together, and I do mean HOURS AND HOURS, where cameras are not present.  And I also recognize that there is a magic of catching these moments on 'film' even if film really doesn't exist anymore.  But I want to be a little more aware that it's actually I that made Owen laugh, not our Sony Digital, and I wonder if the laugh would have lasted a little bit longer if I had not bothered to pick up the camera.

You Can Never Shake A Baby but Sometimes You Have to Kick a Cat

One of my favorite party tricks while pregnant was to put my hands on either side of my stomach and shake my stomach while saying "Never shake a baby".  (Okay I swear it played better in real life than in writing.)  Occasionally someone would be horrified but for the most part everyone knew that I was not "the type of person" who would shake a baby. The people who did this were one step away from the people who left their babies in trash cans on prom nights, or left them alone for hours while they drank beers with their friends and watched marathons of Jerry Springer. But on the other side of pregnancy, six hours into an intense, and as far as I could tell "causeless" crying jag, I realized that I was one breath away from being that person.

Now I like to consider my self a fairly self-possessed and restrained person.  I admit I have a red-headed Scorpio type temper that was first evident when as a seven year old I apparently stomped a chandelier off the ceiling in a fit because I was not allowed to eat French Toast while recovering from a tonsilectomy.  But I felt that as an adult who has developed both self-awareness and self-restraint through years of yoga, mediation, and my fair share of therapy, that when I became a new parent I would have so many coping mechanisms I would fly through parenting 101.  This is not the case.

The first time Owen cried for six hours in a row I was home by myself.  I started out capable:  I sang, I burped, I rocked, I nursed, I walked around the block, I nursed, I put him in the carrier, I nursed, we watched Chuggington, I nursed, gave him a pacifier, I nursed and he did nothing but scream.  He cried until he was choking.  I cried until I was choking and sometime in the middle I found myself screaming at him, "There is nothing wrong with you!!  What is wrong with you?"  His answer was of course to cry louder. And then came the moment where I felt my hands twitching and wanting, more than I could ever have imagined, to shake the baby.   I might even have begun to do it, just the first arc of the shake, not the actual shake, because right before it happened I was able to stop myself.  I'm not sure if it was due to all the videos I had to watch in high school, a deep sense of self-awareness, or just luck but I did not shake him.  Instead I put him down in the stroller, both of us still crying and turned away.

It was at this moment one of our two cats had the misfortune of adding his wail to the mix, and running between my feet almost tripping me.  And it was also in that moment that I kicked the cat.

I am not proud of the fact that I kicked the cat.  I realize that some pet activists or well anyone who has not futilely tried to calm a screaming baby for six hours in a row might argue that kicking a cat is almost as bad as shaking a baby but let's get real - it's not.  It was a one-off.  The cat was not injured and has apparently retained no ill feelings from the mild kick. It didn't make me feel better, that is not the point.  The point is that being a parent is hard and too often it's so easy to draw a huge divide in our minds about they type of people who would hurt their babies, intentionally or not, and those of us proud, together parents who would never, ever, ever do that.  But the truth is, much of what parenting a newborn, particularly a fussy, cranky, colicky newborn is like is akin to how governments torture prisoners: sleep deprivation, lack of ability to control your environment, loud high stress noises, and ISOLATION!  And none of this facilitates your ability to always respond carefully and calmly.

So when a friend of mine asked me what it was like to be a new parent I very honestly said.  "Part of the day is filled with the greatest joy I have ever felt and the other part is filled with moments where you tell yourself that you can never ever shake a baby but sometimes it's okay to kick the cat."