I had two people tell me that I came off “selfish” and “self-aggrandizing” in my blog entitled “The Surprising Benefits of Single Motherhood.”  My intention in that blog had been to simply find a fun, positive twist on a situation that is often portrayed and perceived as negative.  Now, fearing those labels again, I begin this blog with the caveat: I am not bragging here.

 

I know my days with my accommodating, polite, friendly toddler are probably numbered.  But I can dream, can’t I?

 

As the days until my daughter’s second birthday dwindle down to a precious few, I am constantly reminded – jokingly and otherwise – of the possible pending 180-degree change in her personality.  My friend Janice, also a single mom, has a daughter six weeks older than mine.  She wincingly apologizes every time her child refuses to share, or has a meltdown in public.  But I think she’s secretly hoping to see mine begin the same behavior, so she can be relieved of the feeling that she’s alone in weathering this storm. 

 

But we all know she’s not alone.  Everyone has experienced “the terrible twos,” either firsthand or via frustrated tales from their mommy friends.  Dr. Alan Greene coined an alternative moniker of “the first adolescence,” as it’s really a time for children to begin trying to assert themselves by making their own decisions.  Problem is, toddlers want to make decisions, but don’t fully have the capacity to do so.  That’s when the meltdowns occur.

 

Pediatrics.about.com offers some good suggestions for avoiding some of the frustrations for both toddler and parent:

• having a regular routine for meals, naps, bedtime, etc. and try to stick to them each day
• offer limited choices only, like 'would you like apples or oranges for your snack' and not just 'what do you want for your snack'. This helps your toddler feel like he is making some decisions and has power over things, but he isn't able to choose unacceptable alternatives.
• learn to set limits about things and don't be surprised when your toddler tries to test those limits to see what he can get away with
• don't give in to tantrums
• begin to use time-out and taking away privileges as discipline techniques
• provide your toddler with a safe environment that is well childproofed to explore and play in. It really isn't fair that your toddler should get in trouble for playing with something he isn't supposed to if you left it within reach.

 

I feel like I am doing most of the list.  I haven’t had to implement time-outs yet, thankfully.  I am not looking forward to the day I have to actively discipline my daughter, beyond verbally.  At this point, I think we’re both saying “No!” with about the same daily frequency.  But overall, she really isn’t acting out too much yet (see caveat).  It’s a pleasure to be with her (see caveat).  She’s sweet, funny, affectionate, kind, accommodating and willing to share (see caveat).  She eats absolutely anything I put in front of her (have I mentioned the caveat?).

 

But I know the day will come when she suddenly does not like broccoli, does not say “OK” when I tell her it’s time for bed, and does not accept “no” for an answer.  And that’s the day I will drop her off at Janice’s house, since she has a six-week head start on dealing with it.  Right, Janice? 

Next time: To Work or Not to Work?

– or, thank you for not asking me if I’m pregnant 

I went to a barn party last weekend.  Yes, dear friends in California, that is how we entertain ourselves here in New England: cow-tipping, apple picking and barn parties.  Go on, scoff.  It was held in a grand, refurbished barn in Bow that’s cleaner and nicer than some places I’ve rented.  There was a great live band, lots of food and tons of people.  It was a damn good time.

 

Mostly.

 

Now, I’d spent a good twenty minutes standing forlornly in my walk-in closet earlier that evening, debating what to wear to this event.  I knew it would be cool outside in October, but it would be hot in the barn with all the dancing bodies.  I decided to go with an empire-waist short-sleeved shirt with a long-sleeved black one underneath, and jeans.  My main concern wasn’t physical comfort, however – it was emotional comfort.  Nothing hanging up promised to alleviate my major hang-up: my post-pregnancy body.  I knew there was no hiding the fact that I do not have six-pack abs.  I have a keg.

 

A man I’d met at a previous barn gathering – let’s call him Dave, because that’s his name – came up to me and we started chatting.  At some point, he looked at me, and a propos of nothing, asked “201?”  I furrowed my brow, not understanding.  He tried again.  “198?  I bet you’re 198.” My brow unfurrowed fast.  “Um… are you guessing my weight, Dave?”  He grinned.  “I’m right, aren’t I?  Do I know my women, or what?”

 

Oh, yes, Dave, you know your women.  There’s nothing women like more in a man than his guessing her weight.  And being accurate.  At least guess something in the 140 range!

 

I mumbled something about needing another Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and hurried off.  I was stunned.  I went outside to find my gorgeous friend Tracy.  She was talking to a young married couple that I did not know.  I walked up and politely waited for a way into the conversation.  The woman, smiling, looked at me and said “Oh!  Are you having a baby, too?” 

 

I winced – for her.  I’m personally used to being asked that question.  In fact, I have created a long list of answers, depending on the situation.  Some are funny, some are bitchy, some are designed to make the asker feel like a total jerk.  But this sweet girl … well, I just smiled back and said “Yes, I’m having a baby – 22 months ago.”

 

She was mortified, of course.  I did my best to assure her that she was not the first, nor sadly, would be the last, to ask me The Question.  Tracy tried to leap in and spin it in some way that my flabby spare tire was somehow a protective talisman that my body was keeping to ward off another bout with cancer.  But we all knew the truth.

 

I spent two and a half mostly blissful years enjoying an experience unique to my previous lifetime: I did not obsess about my weight.  During pregnancy and the 15 months I nursed my baby, I staunchly refused to give a damn.  I ate whatever I wanted, and however much I wanted.  I was creating life!  I was making milk!  I couldn’t be starving myself!  Apparently, not starving myself equaled eating three bowls of Lucky Charms in a sitting, but hey…

 

But now that I’m back in the workforce, interacting with other adults – some of which are half my age, and half my size – I am back on the self-loathing wagon.  Every day I start again, avoiding carbs and cholesterol, keeping up my water intake, and trying not to give in to my sugar addiction.  But please, folks, I leave you with the sage advice of one of my writing idols, humorist Dave Barry: Unless you actually see a baby coming out of a woman, do not ask her if she’s pregnant.

 

Especially if that woman is me.

Next time:  Waiting for the Ax to Fall

– or, how ‘staying up all night’ has radically changed definition for me

 

My baby managed to make it to 18 months relatively illness-free.  She had a couple bouts with a runny nose, but otherwise, perfect health.  You know, except for those pesky head injuries (see “Headbanger’s Bawl”)… But this fall, I signed her up for some enrichment classes to get her out of the house a couple days a week, and to get her some face-time with kids her own age.  And that’s when the mucus really hit the fan.

 

My toddler, like thousands around the country right now, is in the throes of cold season.  And now with the drug companies voluntarily recalling their children’s cough medicines, parents don’t have a heck of a lot left in our meager arsenals that we can pull out and feel like we’re helping.  We all just have to tough it out.  And that makes for some long nights.

 

My daughter has had two colds in the last four weeks, and has excreted her weight in mucus (really, is there a funnier word than ‘mucus’?  I think not.).  This doesn’t really seem to bother her too much during the day; her energy level has been great, and her activity hasn’t waned.  She will come to me when she wants her nose wiped, but otherwise, it’s not really slowing her down.  When it bothers her the most is at night, when she can’t breathe out of her nose, and her pacifier is preventing her from breathing out of her mouth.  May I suggest a blowhole?

 

One night – technically, one morning, as it was around 3 a.m. –  she awoke crying, and I went in to soothe and rock her.  She was burning up.  I checked her temperature; it was elevated, but not to an alarming, seek-medical-help level.  Exhausted myself, I couldn’t face staying in the hard wooden rocking chair and relocated us to the living room, so that I could lay down in the recliner with my legs up.  I placed her hot little body on my chest, and gently rubbed her back as I listened to her labored breathing.  She was soon asleep again, but I stayed awake, on duty.  She soaked through the front of my nightshirt.  As I arranged a light blanket over us anyway, I also tried to envelop her with my love.  I felt so close to her, so maternal, taking care of her and holding her in our cozy little chair-nest while she was sick.  Knowing that my presence was enough to calm her back to sleep was such a wonderful feeling.

 

I am prepared for those times in the future when I won’t be able to soothe or cure my daughter’s ailments, heartbreaks, and disappointments.  But for now, I am her one-stop shop for soothing banged heads, protection from strangers, and quelling the coughing jag that awakens her in the wee hours.  I am Mommy.  And I’m on duty all night.

 Next time:   Baby Fat

 – or, why my wall looks like a toddler Shroud of Turin

 

I am extremely hopeful that my child has a higher-than-normal IQ.  Besides the obvious reasons, I am hopeful for this because of one important fact: my child is undoubtedly smacking IQ points out of her head on a daily basis.

 

It began a few months ago.  She started walking on her first birthday, and initially had been doing rather well at avoiding large, obvious obstacles – like walls.  But lately, my 22-month-old has been careening into any available surface, piece of furniture, or adult within toddling distance.  It seems that we can’t go a day without her incurring yet another mild to moderate head injury.  I try to be a good mother and not roll my eyes every time I hear *BANG!*  “WAAAAAH!!!”  I just sigh, mumble “chalk another one up for Henrietta Head Wound” and go survey the damage.  If she makes it to first grade without poking out an eye, I’ll count it as a successful toddlerhood.

 

I was not always jaded about this, mind you.  The first real time my daughter hurt herself, I freaked out.  It was around 20 months.  She was in the kitchen, tripped over her new, hard shoes, and hit the corner of the wall with her cute little face.  I heard the dreaded BANG!-pause, and waited for the inhalation and subsequent wailing.  To my horror, though, I saw that a huge egg had immediately surfaced on her forehead, and was already turning a non-forehead color.  And she was screaming.  And I freaked.

 

I grabbed a bag of frozen raspberries and tried to place it on her burgeoning unicorn horn, to no avail.  She wasn’t having it.  She kept screaming, and I kept muttering “Oh my God, oh my God” like Rainman.  I decided to take her to the hospital, because I’m a new-ish mom and am still learning to discern between everyday wear-and-tear and actual emergencies – as was politely pointed out to me at the ER.  The doctor took a cursory look at her injury, stated “it didn’t break the skin; she’s fine”, and left without another word.  The baby was indeed fine, but Mommy could have definitely used a Valium.

 

That injury, I could understand.  New shoes, stumbling.  But other times, it’s inexplicable.  Once, I was standing in the kitchen and she was coming to me, and just veered off sideways into the cabinets.  I mean, what the heck was that?  And walking into walls?  That’s just baffling to me.  It’s not like she’s looking in another direction; we’re talking, walking directly into the wall, face on.  Maybe she’s testing her solidity.

 

My little brother was famous for head injuries, too.  As a toddler, he was constantly getting into the pots and pans and banging himself in the head with them.  And those were the days of no Photoshop – our family album would give DCF pause. 

 

I’m not saying I’m the most graceful person in the world, either.  Clearly, she could have received the ‘klutz’ gene from me.  My favorite smooth move is falling *up* the stairs.  And this is after years of being a trained dancer.  Maybe I should wear ballet shoes around the house.

 

As for my sweet little headbanger, all I can do is try not to overreact when she leaves her faceprint on yet another wall, and practice the fine art of distraction when she falls off the couch.  “Touchdown!” I will yell enthusiastically, until her pending tears get waylaid with a smile of confused achievement.  I don’t want a child that’s afraid to take risks, or be easily moved to tears by every bump and bruise.  But I will also strive to not make her feel like she needs to “suck it up” if she’s truly hurt.  It’s a fine line, but I’ll learn to walk it – and hopefully, I won’t walk into any walls along the way.

 

Next time: Saturday Night Fever

As you surely must know from the excellent media campaign, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  I myself am participating in the Nashua Making Strides for Breast Cancer Walk on Sunday, October 14^th.  (If you’re interested in contributing to the cause, please go to my page.  Even five bucks is helpful.  Thank you in advance!)

 

Along with fundraising for breast cancer research, this month is dedicated to prevention and early detection.  To that end, I had my very first mammogram today.

 

You’re waiting for the obligatory sarcastic joke, aren’t you?

 

Well folks, surprise:  I didn’t find the experience as traumatizing as some other people.  After the myriad e-mails we’ve all received, with the comparisons of ‘slamming your breast in a refrigerator door’ and ‘the cold metal plates squishing my breast into a pancake,’ I found that the actual event did not live up to the fear-hype.  It was a lot like listening to all those childbirth horror stories people tell you when you’re pregnant, said Deborah Welch, lead mammography technologist at St. Joseph Hospital Breast Care Center.  She, along with Marla Thornton, the trainer for the new Hologic digital mammography machine, took care of me today.  They were respectful, patient and kind – you know, considering they were putting my breasts in a vise (there -- *one* obligatory sarcastic joke).

 

The whole thing took about twenty minutes.  It wasn’t painful for me.  But then, my breasts have been working in the trenches for awhile now.  They’ve been yanked, pinched, stretched and drained.  I was a nursing mother.

 

Breastfeeding is one of those polarizing topics of conversation.  It used to just be “don’t talk about politics!” and “don’t talk about abortion!”  Now we have “don’t talk about the war!” and “don’t talk about breastfeeding!”  Throw in gun control, and you can really have a nice screaming match at your next party.

 

It amazes me how passionate people are on both sides of “the issue.” I put it in quotes because it seems laughable to me that it is even considered an issue by anyone.  It’s a way to feed a baby.  The end.  If you don’t want to, don’t.  If you don’t like someone doing it in public, don’t look.  Fer cryin’ out loud! 

 

There are many people who find it “disgusting” and “wrong,” especially the in-public debate.  My friend Vinnie (not his real name, but you know who you are, dear!) was quite vocal when I told him I would be writing about it.  But then I remembered that Vinnie has no breasts, so I deleted his e-mail and discarded his opinion from my brain.  HA!  I kid, because I love.  In reality, Vinnie donated a sizable sum to my Making Strides coffers, so clearly, he’s no hooter-hater.

 

But really, where does the anger and indignation come from?  I think we might have to reexamine our sexualization of the act, and of breasts themselves.  Try and think of it as an elbow – that can keep a baby alive.

 

I myself never had any intention of breastfeeding.  It seemed a little weird and a little unnecessary in this day and age, especially in this prosperous country.  But I’m telling you, I was just as shocked as you non-moms when some magic hormone shot off in my head during pregnancy, and I had the thought “well, of COURSE I’ll breastfeed!  My body makes the perfect sustenance for my specific baby!  It’s completely logical!”  Suddenly I was a pregnant Vulcan.

 

The first two weeks were absolute torture.  Those first few days still in the hospital, being awakened every four hours and being handed a tiny squalling person to clamp onto delicate body parts was not a joyous, bonding experience for me.  I had serious doubts that I would be able to continue on my own.  Once at home, I called the breastfeeding consultant at St. Joseph Hospital many times, concerned it wasn’t going well.  She encouraged me to hang on and keep at it.  I did.

 

Fifteen months later…

 

We stopped breastfeeding.  By then, it was no longer my baby’s sole source of nutrition, nor did she need to nurse with such frequency.  But we did nurse first thing every morning, and last thing every night.  As she got older and more sentient, all I would have to say was “do you want some baby-milk?” and she would smile and laugh.  It was adorable, endearing.  And I felt positively maternal providing it for her.  It was our private, quiet time.  Other people could babysit, or buy her stuff.  But only I could nurse her.

 

I cried when I realized she was officially no longer interested.  I was glad that I’d let her wean herself, and didn’t (have to) impose it upon her, for my own reasons or needs.  But it was still sad.  I would miss that time with her every day.

 

We still have our rituals – bathtime, storytime, rocking – but I am so glad I was able to do this for her, too.  For us.  Yes, my bra sits a little lower now, but hey, that mammogram squish-o-matic was nuthin’!  Go, have it done.  Ask for Deborah.

 

Next time:  Headbanger’s Bawl

– and you thought it was all ridicule and condemnation!

Since my daughter has been born – in truth, since I learned I was pregnant – I have been stricken several times with a crippling thought: I am responsible for another human being, for the rest of my life. This is a concept that often stunned me into heart palpitations and paralysis.

 

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New Year’s Eve 2005: I am standing in the boisterous, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd at the Dakota night club in Santa Cruz, Calif. As the countdown rings out, my best friend Christopher hugs me and wishes me a happy new year. Terrell, a tall, dark and gorgeous acquaintance, gives me my official kiss. I clink glasses with Anne, my fellow cancer survivor, vowing we’ll be “staying alive in 2005! We join the loud, sweaty mass of revelers on the dance floor, and stay until the bar closes. 

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Many years ago, on a twelve-hour flight from London back to California, I was seated next to an Indian woman.  She was older, with long gray hair woven into an intricate braid, wearing a flowing sari and many gold bracelets.  We got to chatting; she was on her way to meet her new granddaughter in San Francisco.  Did I have any children?  No, I replied.  Her eyes grew wide.  “Oh, you must have children!  Woman is not woman without being mother.”

 

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