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!
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
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.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
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.
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.
"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.
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