In general, my goal for these posts is to chronicle my life with Owen in a funny way, talking honestly about the rough patches of parenting but the murder of Trayvon Martin has made me think more seriously about what it means to raise a son. I have some friends who were recently joking about how the hard part about having sons was that you ended up losing them to a future daughter in law. I'm pretty sure that I will be an awesome enough mother and mother in-law that this will not be the case but I guess there's always a danger. I told them I was banking on my son being gay so I just get another son, though I guess their would always be mother to contend with. (Assuming he had one, he could have two dads too. . oops I digress.)
My husband's worry for our son is that he will be so sensitive that the world will be hard on him. I'm not sure where this fear comes from, perhaps the fact that Owen kisses his stuffed animals on the mouth or blows kisses at people on the television if they are crying, or seems to stop people on the street who look lonely and wave until they smile. I am not entirely convinced my husband's fear won't disappear entirely when the terrible twos arrives.
I do worry about raising a son in New York City. From my experience boys can sometimes be the target of other boys just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes, girls fight too but it generally seems to be personal. But in the light of both Trayvon's death among other recent incidents I have thinking about how grateful I feel to not have the added burden of having to worry about the effect the race of my child has on his likelihood of being the victim of a crime. Yes, I still worry about cars and deadly animals and freak storms. I will probably worry about SIDS until Owen is out of high school. I worry about traffic accidents and poisoned Halloween candy even though we mostly walk in the city and have yet to go trick-or-treating and even when people thought old men were poisoning Halloween candy it wasn't really happening. But in general the only time I worry about the color of Owen's skin is when we are outside and he rips he hat off and I have to worry about his super pale baldie head burning in even the modest March sun. And while that IS a considerable worry as we come from a long line of skin cancer sufferers, to say that that is my "white woman's burden" is somewhat ridiculous.
What happened with Trayvon Martin is devastating but sadly not an isolated case. While our country has come a long way in regards to race, we still have a long way to go. As white parents, especially those who identify as being forward thinking, who regularly expose their children to different cultures, who talk about politics and morals, it is easy to think that our kids either do not need to be taught about race or that talking about race does not need to be explicit. But as books like "Nurture Shock" (Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman; Twelve, Hatchett Book Group, 2009) show, white parents are not talking about race, or at least not in a way that changes attitude or behaviors. (Read the chapter "Why White Parents Don't Talk About Race.") White children still tend towards associating positive traits with people who look like them and negative traits with people who don't. This is a problem. Sure, eventually this problem will be solved when white people don't exist anymore, and yes this day is coming even if it won't happen in our lifetime. But that seems like a lazy, irresponsible solution.
The most powerful thing we can do as parents is to make sure that we don't create the George Zimmerman's of the world. Or even if are to give him the deepest benefit of doubt and take a step further back, that we don't create the world that gave space for his fear to feel so real. This is our moral obligation.
I don't purport to be saying anything particularly new or daring. I don't claim to be above or beyond racism in any way. I am most decidedly not naive enough or egotistical enough to think that my talking about race will magically make it disappear for my son's generation. But I do think that sometimes as parents, especially white parents who consider themselves 'aware of race' that we do not address it directly enough. We do not talk about it in a real meaningful way. In general, parents offer vague comments like, 'race doesn't matter' or 'anyone can succeed.' This does little to change children's perceptions. One study in the Journal of Marriage and Family 2007 shows that our of 17,000 families with kindergarten students 45% do not talk about race at all and if you look just at the white families that jumps to 75% (Bronson & Merryman 2007).
75% is not acceptable.
So while you might not be able to change the mindset of a neighborhood watch person miles away or change the mentality of police who still racially profile, or individuals who do the same, what we can do is teach our children about race. Use this incident and others to make a difference in some way. Telling kids that skin color does not make a difference does not make a difference. We need to be explicit and real. Kids do respond. And start talking now. Kids are never too young.
Now to be clear, I don't think I can have a completely meaningful conversation with Owen today. As advanced as I think he is, he's still mastering words like "water" and "milkies" so I don't know if it makes sense yet, though my mom claims she gave me a very meaningful lecture about the birds and the bees when I was four. She said she wanted to get it out of the way. And while I think perhaps her approach was a little off (sorry Mom) I also think that maybe she is on to something. If we start talking about it freely before kids can really understand, it will not be as hard later because we will be so used to it.
So when the story came on the news again last night, I told Owen what had happened and why I thought it was wrong. And because I'm still hormonal (yes, I know it has been a year) I explained to him why I was crying and how I hope so much he would be safe always and how I felt so much sadness for Trayvon's mother. I'm not sure he got it but it does not matter. He will some day.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Once There Was A Little Boy Named Owen - Or How Owen Found His Parents
Once there was a little boy named Owen. Well he wasn’t named Owen yet and he wasn’t really a little boy either. He was just a little soul floating around in the universe waiting to find the right home. He had been looking for quite a while but finding a family was important business and he wanted to do it right.
Each day Owen would visit different places and people to look for his home. First, Owen went to visit a farm in Idaho. There he saw a big family with lot of kids. And there were all sorts of animals. Everyone looked like they were having a lot of fun and Owen thought it sure would be neat to get to live near all those cows. But as Owen counted up the kids one, two, three, four, five, he started to think maybe it wasn’t the best for him. “I don’t think I want to be number six,” Owen thought. “In fact, I’d really like to be the number one, so I better keep looking.” So off Owen went, after one last look at the cows.
Next, Owen went to Dallas Texas. He heard someone say that everything was better in Texas, or was it bigger? He wasn’t sure but he decided he might as well check it out. He swooped down into one yard where he saw a couple living in a BIG BIG house, with a BIG BIG pool, and three BIG BIG cars. Boy, they weren’t kidding when they said things were big. Even the lady’s hair was BIG BIG BIG. Owen smelled some delicious things, like BBQ and queso. The couple looked like they were having fun too, which might have had something to do with those BIG BIG drinks they were drinking. But all this big, big, bigness made Owen feel a little anxious. “ I’m just a little, little boy”, he thought. “All this bigness is just not for me, I better keep looking.” So off he went.
After that, Owen went to California where he saw a nice young couple living right near the beach. Owen was pretty hopeful about this. He had a feeling he was REALLY going to like the water. He liked the sound of the ocean and he thought it would be fun to run his fingers through the sand. Owen watched the couple for a while and they seemed to be having a lot of fun. They had a garden in back where they grew lots of vegetables and fruit which they used to make a big dinner. Then Owen heard them talking about their plan. They planned to move from country to country each year, surfing the big waves and living off the land. Owen thought it would be nice to travel but changing homes every year seemed like a little much. “I think I might like to stay in a place a little bit longer than that,” Owen said, “I better keep looking.” And away he went.
Next Owen went to Alaska. He had heard that Alaska really was beautiful and boy it was true. The air was clean and the glaciers glittered in the sun. He saw a nice couple there who lived in a nice little house right at the foot of a mountain. There was a head of an animal hanging on the wall which didn’t seem as nice as having a live animal in the yard. He watched the couple sit down for dinner and boy did the food look good. The table was piled high with fresh fish and bread and a huge salad. But as dinner went on, Owen noticed the couple did not talk at all except to say, “Pass the fish please.” They seemed to enjoy being quiet. Owen guessed that was okay but he thought, “That’s not for me. I think I need a little more noise. I better keep looking.” So off he went.
Owen went from place to place to place and saw so many different people and things. And so many times he was tempted but something in him wanted to keep looking. Finally he went to New York City and right away he loved it, with all the different people and sounds, and things to see. And he was floating around and he saw this man and this woman walking down the street holding hands and talking to each other. There was something about them that just seemed nice. Owen moved in a little closer to hear what they were saying. The woman was talking. She said, “Hi baby, if you’re out there, we would really like you to come live with us. We have some really great things to offer. True, we have a few things that could use a little work but overall we’re a pretty good deal.” Owen looked around to see who she was talking to but he didn’t see anyone else. “Maybe she’s talking to me,” he thought.
“So, baby if you come live with us, we promise that we will have a lot of fun,” she said. “We are creative and a little silly and we love to play. We’ll sing songs and read books and make art. We have good imaginations and will try to make magic wherever we can. Sometimes I have too much of a temper and I’m not so good at organizing things but I can write you stories and sing you too sleep. Also, I’m a really good cook and I sure know what to do with a banana. We don’t exactly have perfect jobs and we only have a little apartment and we may not be your most traditional family but we love each other so much and love you too. We promise to let you be whoever you want to be though we sure hope you’re not a Republican and you don’t join a cult. Please baby if you’re out there, we would love for you to come to us.” They went on talking a little more about what they had and what they didn’t but Owen didn’t need to listen anymore. He knew that this was his family. He liked how they were so busy looking for him and how they talked about what they had and what they didn’t. But most of all, he just felt like he was supposed to be their little boy. For him, there was nowhere else he would rather be. And he decided to stop looking. He painted a little splash of his soul across their hearts so when he went back up into the universe to wait for the right moment to return, he would be able to make it back to them.
And that is the story of how Owen found his mommy and daddy.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Reshaping Shower Games - Or Why Tossing Water Balloons Does Not Prepare You For War
I have played quite a few games at baby showers and heard of many more that I have not had the good fortune to play. What I have come to realize in my first year of motherhood is that all of these games have one thing in common, they were completely designed to put a rose-colored glow on the dirty part of parenting. They are roughly the equivalent of training future soldiers by tossing water balloons for grenade practice or playing paintball to practice face-to-face combat. So I propose that we revise these games to retain the fun while incorporating a hard dose of reality as well as some necessary skill building.
Game #1 - Diapering a stuffed animal. In this game the participants have to diaper a stuffed animal and whoever does it the quickest wins. Once I saw someone diaper a watermelon. I can tell you that diapering a stuffed animal does not compare at all to diapering a child. Even the blindfolded variety does little to help you.
Alternatives:
a. Diaper a cat. I have a cat and I can tell you that he enjoys many things, tuna water, corn chips, baked goods, being scratched under the chin, even broccoli and occasionally being put in a paper bad and swung around in circle but he does not enjoy being diapered. But then again neither do babies. If you try to diaper a cat you face rapid movement and squirming and have to avoid being scratched and/or bitten. This is what it is like to diaper a baby after they learn how to roll.
b. Diaper a rotating sprinkler before it gets back around to you. This is where speed comes in handy. You have about 30 seconds to get the diaper on before the water comes back around and hits you in the face. If you are up for it, and are throwing your shower somewhere you don't have to clean up or ever see the host again, go ahead and fill that sprinkler with pee, or if that's a little too much, just die the water to freak people out a little.
c. Diaper a cat while playing whack-a-mole. The goal of this challenge was inspired when Owen found his penis. Now, I don't care if Owen plays with his penis, pretty much every child will find and be in awe of their genitals at some point and more power to them. In fact, it makes diaper changing a lot easier when Owen does find and enjoy his mini-manhood because it keeps him occupied. (And of course by 'min-manhood' I mean baby-sized, not small. In case this blog comes to light in his teenage years I want to make it clear that Owen is exceptionally well endowed.) But the problem with the penis play is that the penis is often covered in poo when I first take the diaper off and playing with a poo-covered penis is where I draw the line. But it is VERY hard to get in there and wipe before he gets to it. So, hence whack-a-mole. . change a diaper while completing other high speed tasks at the same time, such as wiping the penis down, catching tubes of butt=paste as they sail from the table, trying to get him not to eat the clean diaper before it is on him, or quickly wiping his hand that has just been plunged into the tub of A&D ointment before he plunges that same hand into his mouth. And that is just the beginning.
Game #2 - Trying to identify the taste of baby food blindfolded. Here you taste jars of baby food and try to figure out what's in them. In the first place, baby food is disgusting. What you will realize when you have a baby is most babies will refuse to eat jarred baby food if they ever get the chance to taste something else because 80% of them are inedible. So unless this game is a teaching moment to allow you to empathize with your future bundle of joy, skip it.
Alternatives:
1. Try to feed baby food to a cat strapped in a high chair. Here you will find that most cats also don't like baby food. Even mine who will eat wonder bread off the street won't eat jarred baby food. Cat's also don't like to be in high chairs and yes I know this for a fact.
2. Make recipe combinations that make anything taste like either a pear or a banana. In this game, you try to make foods that are not a pear or a banana blend well with a pear or a banana which seem to be like beer goggles for babies, making food they will not eat, look and taste delicious. To make this challenging include foods like fish, lima beans and brussel sprouts. And if it is truly successful you will be able to feed it to your husband or partner and they will not realize it is baby food. Now Owen eats what we eat and has a quite varied palate but I'm not going to lie, in the beginning the only home cooked food was his so we often ate that.
2. Try to catch finger foods flung off a balcony while eating a sandwich and feeding another sandwich to your friend. For this game you need a partner, or a cat. In this game, you try to eat some food, it does not have to be a sandwich, whatever you are serving at the shower will do, the sandwich is just best for beginners because you can eat it with one hand. With the other, you should try to feed your partner, or a cat if you feel like it. Then someone will start flinging food, good options are: cheerios, blueberries, pieces of cut up chicken, peeled and halved grapes. Your job is to catch as many food items as you can.
Game # 3 - Trying to identify what type of candy bar has been melted into each diaper. Okay, this game is pretty close to being perfect already. It is pretty gross and has you doing things you think you won't actually do, like examine the contents in a diaper trying to identify its origin. But the problem is, it's just not gross enough. There is a big difference between sniffing a melted Reese's Peanut Butter Cup or a Twix and peering at actual poo to try to see if those remnants are peas or corn or cat food. (as an aside, while cats do not necessarily like baby food, babies do like cat food.) You might ask, "Why would you want to know what was in there poo?" There are so many reasons, you are trying to see if they digested in properly, they had a bad reaction and you are not sure what it was so you are trying to figure out, or you are just falling into the examining poo as pride trap that many people do to this day, as if getting out a good poo was something your child should be proud of. I don't really have a game alternative here because it's kind of like that show Dirty Jobs, you might want to watch someone else do something but you don't want to do it unless you have to or you're getting paid for it.
Game #4 - Guess Mommy's Tummy Size - In this one guests try to guess how big mom to be's stomach is. Now in my opinion this is pretty much no fun from the get go because even though I LOVED my baby bump, I can pretty much tell you at 8.5 months I would have hit anyone who guessed that I was three feet around. Also, even if the guest of honor is the 1 in 100 women who is happily immune to feelings of body image towards the end of pregnancy, there's just no real learning here.
Alternative:
a. Guess how many months post-pregnancy this woman is. Here, you show pictures of women post-birth both from vaginal births and c-sections and guests have to try to guess how long it has been since the woman has given birth. Fact is, I left the hospital after my c-section weighing 3 more pounds than I went in, wearing my husbands shoes because my feet were still swollen and my maternity yoga pants and even larger granny underwear to fit over my still enormous belly plus scar.
Okay, I could do lots more like 'try to keep a cat lying down in a crib, try to punch 'gently', how to make a diaper MacGyver style when you have run out, how to play chess while someone screams in your ear, how to walk on a balance beam after you haven't slept for a month, but those all require too many props and preparation. Please enjoy these, and let me know if you try them!
Game #1 - Diapering a stuffed animal. In this game the participants have to diaper a stuffed animal and whoever does it the quickest wins. Once I saw someone diaper a watermelon. I can tell you that diapering a stuffed animal does not compare at all to diapering a child. Even the blindfolded variety does little to help you.
Alternatives:
a. Diaper a cat. I have a cat and I can tell you that he enjoys many things, tuna water, corn chips, baked goods, being scratched under the chin, even broccoli and occasionally being put in a paper bad and swung around in circle but he does not enjoy being diapered. But then again neither do babies. If you try to diaper a cat you face rapid movement and squirming and have to avoid being scratched and/or bitten. This is what it is like to diaper a baby after they learn how to roll.
b. Diaper a rotating sprinkler before it gets back around to you. This is where speed comes in handy. You have about 30 seconds to get the diaper on before the water comes back around and hits you in the face. If you are up for it, and are throwing your shower somewhere you don't have to clean up or ever see the host again, go ahead and fill that sprinkler with pee, or if that's a little too much, just die the water to freak people out a little.
c. Diaper a cat while playing whack-a-mole. The goal of this challenge was inspired when Owen found his penis. Now, I don't care if Owen plays with his penis, pretty much every child will find and be in awe of their genitals at some point and more power to them. In fact, it makes diaper changing a lot easier when Owen does find and enjoy his mini-manhood because it keeps him occupied. (And of course by 'min-manhood' I mean baby-sized, not small. In case this blog comes to light in his teenage years I want to make it clear that Owen is exceptionally well endowed.) But the problem with the penis play is that the penis is often covered in poo when I first take the diaper off and playing with a poo-covered penis is where I draw the line. But it is VERY hard to get in there and wipe before he gets to it. So, hence whack-a-mole. . change a diaper while completing other high speed tasks at the same time, such as wiping the penis down, catching tubes of butt=paste as they sail from the table, trying to get him not to eat the clean diaper before it is on him, or quickly wiping his hand that has just been plunged into the tub of A&D ointment before he plunges that same hand into his mouth. And that is just the beginning.
Game #2 - Trying to identify the taste of baby food blindfolded. Here you taste jars of baby food and try to figure out what's in them. In the first place, baby food is disgusting. What you will realize when you have a baby is most babies will refuse to eat jarred baby food if they ever get the chance to taste something else because 80% of them are inedible. So unless this game is a teaching moment to allow you to empathize with your future bundle of joy, skip it.
Alternatives:
1. Try to feed baby food to a cat strapped in a high chair. Here you will find that most cats also don't like baby food. Even mine who will eat wonder bread off the street won't eat jarred baby food. Cat's also don't like to be in high chairs and yes I know this for a fact.
2. Make recipe combinations that make anything taste like either a pear or a banana. In this game, you try to make foods that are not a pear or a banana blend well with a pear or a banana which seem to be like beer goggles for babies, making food they will not eat, look and taste delicious. To make this challenging include foods like fish, lima beans and brussel sprouts. And if it is truly successful you will be able to feed it to your husband or partner and they will not realize it is baby food. Now Owen eats what we eat and has a quite varied palate but I'm not going to lie, in the beginning the only home cooked food was his so we often ate that.
2. Try to catch finger foods flung off a balcony while eating a sandwich and feeding another sandwich to your friend. For this game you need a partner, or a cat. In this game, you try to eat some food, it does not have to be a sandwich, whatever you are serving at the shower will do, the sandwich is just best for beginners because you can eat it with one hand. With the other, you should try to feed your partner, or a cat if you feel like it. Then someone will start flinging food, good options are: cheerios, blueberries, pieces of cut up chicken, peeled and halved grapes. Your job is to catch as many food items as you can.
Game # 3 - Trying to identify what type of candy bar has been melted into each diaper. Okay, this game is pretty close to being perfect already. It is pretty gross and has you doing things you think you won't actually do, like examine the contents in a diaper trying to identify its origin. But the problem is, it's just not gross enough. There is a big difference between sniffing a melted Reese's Peanut Butter Cup or a Twix and peering at actual poo to try to see if those remnants are peas or corn or cat food. (as an aside, while cats do not necessarily like baby food, babies do like cat food.) You might ask, "Why would you want to know what was in there poo?" There are so many reasons, you are trying to see if they digested in properly, they had a bad reaction and you are not sure what it was so you are trying to figure out, or you are just falling into the examining poo as pride trap that many people do to this day, as if getting out a good poo was something your child should be proud of. I don't really have a game alternative here because it's kind of like that show Dirty Jobs, you might want to watch someone else do something but you don't want to do it unless you have to or you're getting paid for it.
Game #4 - Guess Mommy's Tummy Size - In this one guests try to guess how big mom to be's stomach is. Now in my opinion this is pretty much no fun from the get go because even though I LOVED my baby bump, I can pretty much tell you at 8.5 months I would have hit anyone who guessed that I was three feet around. Also, even if the guest of honor is the 1 in 100 women who is happily immune to feelings of body image towards the end of pregnancy, there's just no real learning here.
Alternative:
a. Guess how many months post-pregnancy this woman is. Here, you show pictures of women post-birth both from vaginal births and c-sections and guests have to try to guess how long it has been since the woman has given birth. Fact is, I left the hospital after my c-section weighing 3 more pounds than I went in, wearing my husbands shoes because my feet were still swollen and my maternity yoga pants and even larger granny underwear to fit over my still enormous belly plus scar.
Okay, I could do lots more like 'try to keep a cat lying down in a crib, try to punch 'gently', how to make a diaper MacGyver style when you have run out, how to play chess while someone screams in your ear, how to walk on a balance beam after you haven't slept for a month, but those all require too many props and preparation. Please enjoy these, and let me know if you try them!
Monday, February 6, 2012
There Are Starving Kids In Africa - Or My Sophomoric Moment
The fact of the matter is, I work through things better with sarcasm and self-deprecating humor than with sappy introspection and for the most part those posts are a better read. So I apologize in advance for the shear indulgence and perhaps banality of this post but I can still blame it on the hormones for at least another month.
My husband and I have spent a lot of time recently talking about the future, if we want to have more kids, if we are in a financial position to do so, if we can even currently provide for Owen the way we would like to, etc. The only answer where there is a "yes" is the first one, well for me it's a yes, for my husband it's more of a "maybe." The other two are pretty solid nos, or at least for Mitch. I pretty much live in the world of, "hey, it will work out," and he lives in the, "things do not work out unless there is a plan," camp. And sometimes these camps blend nicely, like a well shaken salad dressing and sometimes they don't blend at all.
This week a lot of this came to a head as we heatedly discussed each of our future earnings, a timeline for having another child, Mitch's income goals prior to having another child, my returning to work or not returning to work. For me the discussion has the loud background music of a very loud biological clock sounding much like the tell-tale heart beating under the floor boards from Poe's horror story, louder and louder until it practically drowns out Mitch's words. And on top of all of this, Owen got sick again.
As Owen moved into day two of 102.458 fever, I broke down and took him to the doctor. I know that that seems like a very specific fever but for some odd reason my thermometer is stuck in Celsius and as I am an American I have a pathetic understanding of most measurement systems. Each temperature reading was displayed along side either a frown or a smiley face, tokens to my illiteracy. All of his readings displayed frowns. But there were no ranges of facial expressions like the ones used on doctor's charts to show pain on a range from "everything is okay" to "my genitals have been lit on fire." So, I was not sure if it was a, "Hey, he has a little fever but you might as well go to the grocery story and get a bottle of wine," or an, "Immerse him in an ice bath STAT and call 911 type of fever." So, I ended up doing an internet search after each reading to calculate for me.
But I could tell without knowing an exact temperature that he was not well. His skin burned beneath my fingers, even his hands which are habitually cold and he was listless, clingy and sad. He whined, cried, and clung to me and was generally miserable which made me alternate in waves of sympathy, love, and frustration. The doctor basically said he probably has a virus, keep watching the temperature and let me know in four days.
I went home, bitter about my $30.00 co-pay and not feeling any relief. That night, Owen started screaming in his crib, this high-pitched whine that I had never heard before, and frankly, scared me. We went and got him from his crib and he was burning up. We took him temperature, and after a quick search on my IPad, saw that is was 104.256. We stripped him of his pajamas, and tried to cool him down with a washcloth as he nursed and whimpered. I put him against me skin to skin because I had a vague memory that this helped regulate body temperature though I had no idea if this worked with a fever. When we picked his arm or leg up, they were completely limp. After an hour or so, he felt a little bit cooler. And after another one, we all drifted back to sleep.
In the morning, the fever was back below 101.789 and it continued to drop from there. I know that these sicknesses will be less scary as time goes on but there is something so helpless about the feeling of having your child be sick and not being able to do so much to change it and being a new enough parent that even what you can do, you second guess at each step. Am I stupid to take him to the doctor with a cold? Am I stupid to not take him to the ER with a high fever? Do I warm him up? Cool him down? Use the nasal aspiration? Not use it?
By that weekend he seemed to be recovered and I took a much needed trip to the gym where I planned to work out and take a long steam. I took the book I was reading to the gym and as I pretended to go somewhere read it with the enjoyment of a gourmand who now subsists mainly on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches getting a once a week taste of truffle oil or farmer's market greens. The novel took place in Africa, a fictionalized portrayal of the dubious morals of big Pharmaceutical companies in third world countries. I read the following line, " . . and the women holding babies to sick to cry." And right there, on my elliptical machine, in the middle of my fancy gym, I lost it as tears leaked down my face. As helpless as I felt, I can not imagine what it must be like to be a mother who can not feed your baby, who can not do anything to prevent what probably should be a very preventable death. To not be able to breastfeed because you are starving, and to have no alternatives.
I came home and hugged my husband and told him this. I was thinking about our discussion about potentially not having a second child because we could not afford to give them what we wanted, and of course by this we meant summer camp, piano lessons, trips to Europe, etc. And the fact is, we are so lucky. I am lucky to be able to take Owen to the doctor when he as a 102.347 fever. And if this life is really it, then really we are just so damn lucky. And yes, I know this is very prosaic and pedantic in a way, a sophomoric realization of your order in the order of things but hey, you can not process things as a mother until you are one, or not in the same way, so I guess being sophomoric is okay.
My husband and I have spent a lot of time recently talking about the future, if we want to have more kids, if we are in a financial position to do so, if we can even currently provide for Owen the way we would like to, etc. The only answer where there is a "yes" is the first one, well for me it's a yes, for my husband it's more of a "maybe." The other two are pretty solid nos, or at least for Mitch. I pretty much live in the world of, "hey, it will work out," and he lives in the, "things do not work out unless there is a plan," camp. And sometimes these camps blend nicely, like a well shaken salad dressing and sometimes they don't blend at all.
This week a lot of this came to a head as we heatedly discussed each of our future earnings, a timeline for having another child, Mitch's income goals prior to having another child, my returning to work or not returning to work. For me the discussion has the loud background music of a very loud biological clock sounding much like the tell-tale heart beating under the floor boards from Poe's horror story, louder and louder until it practically drowns out Mitch's words. And on top of all of this, Owen got sick again.
As Owen moved into day two of 102.458 fever, I broke down and took him to the doctor. I know that that seems like a very specific fever but for some odd reason my thermometer is stuck in Celsius and as I am an American I have a pathetic understanding of most measurement systems. Each temperature reading was displayed along side either a frown or a smiley face, tokens to my illiteracy. All of his readings displayed frowns. But there were no ranges of facial expressions like the ones used on doctor's charts to show pain on a range from "everything is okay" to "my genitals have been lit on fire." So, I was not sure if it was a, "Hey, he has a little fever but you might as well go to the grocery story and get a bottle of wine," or an, "Immerse him in an ice bath STAT and call 911 type of fever." So, I ended up doing an internet search after each reading to calculate for me.
But I could tell without knowing an exact temperature that he was not well. His skin burned beneath my fingers, even his hands which are habitually cold and he was listless, clingy and sad. He whined, cried, and clung to me and was generally miserable which made me alternate in waves of sympathy, love, and frustration. The doctor basically said he probably has a virus, keep watching the temperature and let me know in four days.
I went home, bitter about my $30.00 co-pay and not feeling any relief. That night, Owen started screaming in his crib, this high-pitched whine that I had never heard before, and frankly, scared me. We went and got him from his crib and he was burning up. We took him temperature, and after a quick search on my IPad, saw that is was 104.256. We stripped him of his pajamas, and tried to cool him down with a washcloth as he nursed and whimpered. I put him against me skin to skin because I had a vague memory that this helped regulate body temperature though I had no idea if this worked with a fever. When we picked his arm or leg up, they were completely limp. After an hour or so, he felt a little bit cooler. And after another one, we all drifted back to sleep.
In the morning, the fever was back below 101.789 and it continued to drop from there. I know that these sicknesses will be less scary as time goes on but there is something so helpless about the feeling of having your child be sick and not being able to do so much to change it and being a new enough parent that even what you can do, you second guess at each step. Am I stupid to take him to the doctor with a cold? Am I stupid to not take him to the ER with a high fever? Do I warm him up? Cool him down? Use the nasal aspiration? Not use it?
By that weekend he seemed to be recovered and I took a much needed trip to the gym where I planned to work out and take a long steam. I took the book I was reading to the gym and as I pretended to go somewhere read it with the enjoyment of a gourmand who now subsists mainly on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches getting a once a week taste of truffle oil or farmer's market greens. The novel took place in Africa, a fictionalized portrayal of the dubious morals of big Pharmaceutical companies in third world countries. I read the following line, " . . and the women holding babies to sick to cry." And right there, on my elliptical machine, in the middle of my fancy gym, I lost it as tears leaked down my face. As helpless as I felt, I can not imagine what it must be like to be a mother who can not feed your baby, who can not do anything to prevent what probably should be a very preventable death. To not be able to breastfeed because you are starving, and to have no alternatives.
I came home and hugged my husband and told him this. I was thinking about our discussion about potentially not having a second child because we could not afford to give them what we wanted, and of course by this we meant summer camp, piano lessons, trips to Europe, etc. And the fact is, we are so lucky. I am lucky to be able to take Owen to the doctor when he as a 102.347 fever. And if this life is really it, then really we are just so damn lucky. And yes, I know this is very prosaic and pedantic in a way, a sophomoric realization of your order in the order of things but hey, you can not process things as a mother until you are one, or not in the same way, so I guess being sophomoric is okay.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, October 7, 2011
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.
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.
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